LIBRARY OF THE University of Californl GIFT OF~ tAccessio 8bv68 Clems k ^:5V^<2->-^ ^ V /t^/, : < '' ^ A/ <^ ; 2- ' > , ^ V , -7' -/--^^zy .7/: ^ I w f/1 ^^-^,^C7^ /t?ifUt^ i^^^^ ^ THE ENGLISH READER: OR, PIECES IN PROSE AND POETRY, SELECTED FROM The best Writers. I Designed to assist young Persons - TO READ WITH PROPRIETY AND EFFECT; TO IMPROVE THEIR LANGUAGE AND SENTIMENTS;' AND TO INCULCATE SOME OF THE MOST IMPOP.TANX PRINCIPLES OF PIETY AND VIRTUE. Willi a few preliminary Observations ON THE PRIyCIPLES OF GOOD HEADING, Br LINBLEY MURRAY, AUTHOR OF " ENGLISH GRAMMAR ADAPTED TO THE DIFFERENT CLASSES OF LEARNERS," &C, FIFTH EDITION, Printed by T. Wilson and R. Spence, Higii Ousfgaf^, TOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME ; DARTON AND HARVEY, LONDON; FOR WiLSON AND SPENCE, YORK: AND FOR CONSTABLE AND CO. EDINBURGfl. 1805. (Price Four Shillings, bound.) ■£, i %■ PREFACE. /^<^^ JVlANY selections of excellent matter have hitely been made for the benefit of young persons. Performances of this kind are ©f so great utility, that fresh productions of them, and new attempts to improve the young mind, will scarcely be deemed superfluous, if the writ'^r make his compilation instructive and interesting, and suf- ficiently distinct from others. The present work, as the title expresses, aims at the attainment of three objects: to improve youth in t|.je art of reading; to meliorate their language and senti- ments; and to inculcate some of the most important principles of piety and virtue. The pieces selected, not only give exercise to a great variety of emotions, and the correspondent tones and variations of voice*", but contain sentences and members of sentences, which are diversified, proportioned, and pointed with accuracy. Exercises 'of this nature are, it is presumed, well calculated to teach youth to read ^vith propriety and effect. A selection of sentences, in which vaciety and proportion, with exact punctuation, have been carefully observed, in all their parts as well as with respect to one another, will probably Jiave a much greater effect, in properly teaching the art of read^ ing, than is commonly imagined. In such constructions, every thing is accommodated to the understanding A2 8Gyfi8 JV PREFACE. and ihe voice; and the common difficulties in learn- ing to read well, are obviated. When the learner has acquired a habit of reading such sentences, with just- ness and facility, he will readily apply that habit, nnd the improvements he has made, to sentences more complicated and irregular, and of a construction entirely ditfefent. The language of the pieces chosen for this collection, has been carefully regarded. Purity, propriety, per- spicuity, and, in many instances, elegance of diction, distins'uish them. They are extracted from the works of the most correct and elegant writers. From the sources whence the sentiments are drawn, the reader may expect to find them connected and regular, suf- ficiently important and.impressive, and divested of every thing that is either trite or eccentric. The frequent perusal of such composition, naturally tends to infuse a taste for this species of excellence; and to produce a habit of thinking, and of composing, with judgment and accuracy*. That tliis collection may also serve the purpose of promoting piety and virtue, the Compiler has intro- . Th. learner. >.. his progress ilnough this volume and the Sequel to it, will u,eetwithBumerousi„s.anc,esofcomposi.ion, in strict conformity to the rule, for protnoting perspicuous and elegant writing, contained in the Append!,, to the Author's English Grammar. By occasionally examining this conformity, he will be confirmed in the utiii.v of those rules; and be enabled to apply them with ease and dexteiity. It is proper further to observe, that theReader and the Sequel, besides teach- ing to read accurately, and inculcating iTiany important sentiments, may be considered as auxiliaries to the author's English Grammarj as praclical illustra- tions of the principles and rules contained in that work. ■pduGeT^nany- extracts, which- place religion in the most a^ilabl- iight ; and which recommend a great variety of moial duties, by the excellence of tlieir nature, "and the happ> ein-cts they produce. These subjects are exhibited in d style and manner, which are calculated to arrest the attention ol youth; and to make strong and durable- impresbious on their minds *. K The Compiler has been careful to avoid every ex- pression and sentiment, that might gratify a corrupt, mind, or, in the least degree, offend the e)e or ear ot innocence. This he conceives to be peculiarly incum^ bent on every person who writes for the benefit of youth. It would, indeed, be a great and happy improvement in education, if no writings were allowed to come undf>r their notice, but such as are perfectly innocent; and if, on all proper occasions, they were encouraged to peruse those which tend to inspire a diie^ rcvcre«ca for virtue, and an abhorrence of vice, as well as to animate them with sentiments of piety and goodness. Such impressions deeply engraven on the^^' minds, and connected with all their attainments, could scarcely fail of attending them through life; and of producing a. solidity of principle and character, that would be able to resist the danger arising from future intercourse with the world. The Author has endeavoured to relieve the grave and serious parts of his collection, by the occasional admis- • In some of the pieces, the Compiler has made a few aUeia'.ion?, ciu;?fl3r verbal, to adapt them the better to the design of his work. A3 VI PREFACE. sion of pieces which amuse as well as instruct. If, how- ever, any of his readers should think it contains too great a proportion of the former, it maybe some apology, to observe that, in the existing publications designed for the perusal of young persons, the preponderance is greatly on the side of gay and amusing productions. Too much attention may be paid to this medium of improvement. When the imagination, of youth especially, is much entertained, the sober dictates of the understanding are regarded with indifference; and the influence of good affections, is either feeble, or transient. A temperate use pfsuch entertainment seems therefore requisite, to afford proper scope for the operations of the understanding and the heart. The reader will perceive, that the Compiler has been solicitous to recommend to young person?, the perusal of the sacred Scriptures, by interspersing through his work, some of the most beautiful and interesting passages of those invaluable writings. To excite an early taste and veneration for this great rule of life, is a point of so high importance, as to warrant the attempt to promote it on every proper occasion. To improve the voting mind, and to afford some as- sistance to tutors, in the arduous and important work of educat'on^ were the motives which led to this pro. duction. If the Author should be so successful as to ac- complish these ends even in a small degree, he will think that his time and pains have been well employed ; and Mill deem himself amply rewarded. INTRODUCriON. OBSERVATIONS ON THE PRINCIPLES OF GOOD READING. JL Oread with propriety is a pleasing and important at- tainment; productive of improvement both to the under- standing and the heart. It is essential to a complete reader that he minutely perceive the idi as, and enter into the feelings of the author, whose sentiments he professes to re- peat: for how is it possible to represent clearly to others, what we have but faint or inaccurate conceptions of ourselves? If there were no other benefits resulting from theart of reading well, than the necessity it lays us under, of precisely ascertaining the meaning of what we read ; and the habit thence acquired, of doing this with fj.- cility, both when reading silently and aloud, they would constitute a sufficient compensation for all the labour we can bestow upon the subject. But the pleasure derived to ourselves and others, from a clear communication of idc:.s and feelings; and the strong and durable impressions mad i thereby on the minds of the reader and the audience, are considerations, which give additional importance to the study of this necessary and useful ait. 'i'iie perfect attain- ts 07;i. For many ©f the observations contained in this pixliuiinary traci- , the Author is indebted to tlie writings of Dr. Blair, and to tw* Kncyclopcedia Britannica, A 4 -^ ^< - jt ^^ ^^o ' Jy^'"^ ' ' VUl INTRODUCTIPN, ment of it doubtless requires great attention and practice, joined to extraordinary natural powers : but as there are many dcg^rees of excellence in the art, the student whose aims fall short of perfection, will find himself amply reward- ed for every exertion he may think proper to make. To give rules for the management of the voice in reading, by which the necessary pauses, emphasis, and tones, may be discovered and put in practice, is not possible. After all the directions that can be offered on these poinls> much will remain to be taught by the living instructer : much will be attainable by no other means, than the force of example influencing the imitative powers of the learner. Some rules and principles on these heads will, however, be found use* ful, to prevent erroneous and vicious modes of utterance ; io give the young reader some taste of the subject ; and to sssist him in acquiring ;i just and accurate mode of delivery. The observations which we have to make, for these pur- j[W>ses, ma.y be comprised under tlije following, heads: PROPER LOUDNESS OF VOICE; DIST I NC T N £SS *, SLOVl'- NESS ; PROPRIETY OF mONL'NCIATlON ; EMPHASIS; tones; pauses ; and iniode of reading ver^Eo SECTION I. Proper loudness rrfvokc. The fust attention of every person who reads io others, doubtless, must be, to make himself be heard by all those to whom lie reads. lie must endeavour to fill with his voice tlie space occupied by the company. This power of voice, itn^ay be thought, is wholly a natural talent. It i?., in a good measure, the gift of nature ; but it may recaive con- siderable assistance from art. Much depends, for this pur- INTRODUCTION^. IX ■P po^, on the proper pitch and management of the voice. Every person has thnse pitches in his voice; the high, tr.e Ml DD LE,and the LOW one. The high, is that which he uses in calling aloud to some person at a distance. The low is, when he approaches to a whisper. The middle is that which he employs in common conversation, a-nd which he should generally use in reading to others. For it is a great mistake, to imagine that one must take the highest pitch^ of his voice, in order to be well heard in a large companj'. 1'his is confounding two things which are ditferent, loud- ness-or strength of sound, with the key or note on which we speak. There is'a variety of sound within the compass of each key. A speaker may therefore render his \oice- louder, wiiiwut altering the key : and we shall always be able to give most body, most persevering force of sound, to that pitch of voice, to which in conversation we are accus- tomed. Whereas, by setting cut on our highest pitch or key, we certainly allow ourselves less compass, and are likely to strain our voice before we jiave done. We shall fatigue ourselves, and read with pain ; and whenever a person speaks with pain to himself, he is always heard wit'i pain by his audience. Let us therefore give the voice full strength and swell of sound ; but always pitch it on our urdioary speaking key. It should be a constant rule, nivcr to utter a greater quantity of voice, than we can afford withjut pain to ourselves, and without any extraordinary effort. As long as we keep within. these bounds, tnt- othn- organs of speech will be at liberty to discharge iheii br-.ca offices with ease; and we shall always have our voice under command. But whenever-jwc transgress these bounds, wc give up the reins, and have no longer any management of it. U is a useful rule too, in order to be well heard, to ca I A.5 X INTRODUCTION. our eye on some of the most distant persons in the company, and lo consider ourselves as reading to them. We naturally and mechanically utter our words wUh such a degree of strength, as to rrake ourselves be heard by the person whom we address, provided he is within the reach of our voice. As this is the case in conversation, it will hold also in read- ing to others. But let us remember, that in reading, as well as in conversation, it is possible to offend by speaking too loud. This extreme hurts the ear, by making the voice come upon It in rumbling indistinct masses. By the habit of reading, when young, in a loud and ve- hement manner, the voice becomes fixed in a strained and unnatural key ; and is rendered incapable of that variety of elevation and depression, which coiistitutes the true har- mony of utterance, and alVords ease to the reader, and plea- sure to the audience. This unnatural pitch of the voice, and disagreeable monotony, arc most observable in persons who were taught to read in large rooms ; who were accus- tomed to stand at too great a distance, when reading to their teachers; v.hose instructers were very imperfect in their bearing; or who were taught^ by persons, that considered loud expression ss the chief requisite in forming a good reader. I'hcse are circumstances which demand tlie serious attention of every one to wliom the education of youth is committed. SECTION 11, Distinctness, In the next place, to being well heard and clearly under- 5tO(.;d, distinct nessofarticulalioii contributes more than mere loudness of sound The quantity of sound necessary to fill cveiva large space, is smaller than is commonly imagined; and, wiih distinct articulation, a person with a weak voice I INTRODUCTIOK, XI will make it reach farther, than the strongest voice can reach without it. To this, therefore, every readier ought to pay great attention. He must give every sound which he utters, its due proportion ; and make every syllable, and even every letter in the word which he pronounces, be lizard distinctly ; without slurring, whispering, or suppressing, any of the proper sounds. An accurate knowledgeof the simple, elementary sounds of the language, and a facility in expressing them, are so necessary to distinctness of expression, that if the learner's attainments are in this respect, imperfect, (and many there are in this situation,) it will be inrcumbent on his teacher, to carry him back to these primary articulations ; and to suspend his progress, till hebccome perfectly master of them. It will be in vain to press him forward, with the hope of forming a good reader, if he cannot completely articulate every elementary sound of the language. SECTION 111. T):i''. d-C'^rcj :j s/:Kr/icss. In- order to e\|)it -s ( nis- I lis, mod<>r..ition is requisite with regard to the speed of proivouncing. Tieci. pilancy of speech confounds all articulation, and all mean- ing. It is scarcely necessary to ooscrvt, that there may be also an extreme On the opposite side, it is obvious that a lifeless drawling manner of reading, which allows the minds of the iicarers to be always outri^ining the speaker, must render every stich performance insipid and fatiguing. But the extreme of reading too fast is much more common ; andrequlics the more to be guarded against, because, when it has grown mto a habit, few errors are more uiificu't to be ciirrected. To pronounce with a proper degree of A (J XU I^3TR0DUCTI0N, slowness, and with full and clear articulation, is necessary to be studied by all, who wish to become good readers ; and it cannot be too much recommended to them. Such a pronunciation gives weight and dignity to the subject. It is a great assistance to the voice, by the pauses and rests , which it allows the reader more easily to make ; and it enables the reader to swell all his sounds, both with more force and more harmony, SKCTION iV-i c Propriety of promincialion. After the fundamental attentions to the pilch and ma- nagement of the voice, to distinct articulation, and to a proper degree of slowness of speech, what the young reader must, in the next place, study, is propriety of pronuncia- ton ; or, giving to every word which he utters, that sound v/hich the best usage of the language appropriates to it; \xi opposition to broad, vulgar, or provincial pronunciation. This is requisite both for reading intelligibly, and for reading with correctness and ease. Inftructions concerning this ar- ticle may best be given by the living teacher. But.there.is one observation, which it may not be improper here to make. In the English language, every word which consists of more syllables than one, has one accented syllable. The accents rest sometimes on the vowel, sometimes on the con- sonant. The genius of the language requires the voice to mark thats) liable by a strongerpercussion, and to pass more slightly over the rest. Now, after we have learned the pro- per seats of these accents, it is an important rule, to give every word just the same accent in reading, as in common lijscourse. ' Many persons err in tliis respect, Wlien they INTRODUCTION. XllI xead fo others, and with solemnity, they pronounce the syllables in a different manner from what they do at other times. They dwell upon them, and protract them ; they multiplv accents on the same word ; from a mistaken no- tion, that it gives gravity and importance to their subject, and adds to tlie energy oftheir delivery. Whereas this is one of the greatest faults that can be committed in pronunci- ation : it makes what is called a pompous or mouthing manner ; and gives an artificial, affected air to reading, which detracts greatly both from its agreeableness, and its. impression, Sheridan and Walker have published dictionaries, far? ascertaining the true and best pronunciation of the words of. our language. By attentively consulting them, particularly *' Walker's Pronouncing Dictionary," the young reader will be much assisted, in his endeavours to attain a correct pro- nunciation of the words belonging to tiie English lan- guage. SECTION r» Emphasis. By Emphasis is meant a stronger and fuller sound of v^ice, by which we distinguish 'some word or words, on which we design to lay particular stress, and to show how they affect the rest, of the sentence. Sometimes the en>- phatic words must be distinguished by a particular tone of voice, as well as by a particular stress. On the right ma- nagement of the emphasis depends the life of pronunciation. If no emphasis be placed on any words, not only is dis- course rendered heavy and lifeless, but the meaning left often ambiguous. If the emphasis be placed wrong, we pervert and confounil the meaning wholly. XIV INTRODUCTION. Emphasis may be divided into the superior and the INFERIOR emphasis. The superior emphasis determines the meaning of a sentence, with reference to something said before, presu[)pose(.l by the author as general know- ledge, or removes an ambiguity, where a passage may have more senses than one. The inferior emphasis enforces graces, and cnlivefis, but does not fix, tlie meaning of any passage. The words to which this latter emphasis is given, are, in general, such as seem the most important in the sentence, or, on othtr accounts, to merit this distinction. The following passage will serve to exemplify the superior emphasis. " Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit ** Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste *' Brought (!( ath into the worUI, and all our wo," &c. " Sing l.eav'i)]}' IVIus^e !'^ Supposing that originally other beings besides men, had disobeyed the commands of tlie Almighty, and that tlie circumstance were well knov,n to us, there would fall an emphasis upon the word via/i's in the first line; and hence it would be read thiU>: " G^ Hi' 'bcdience, and tbo fniii"," ikc. But if it were a notorious truth, that mankind had trans- gressed in a peculiar manner more than once, the emphasis would fall on first ; and the line be read, *^ Of mans /'Vo/ disobcdieiiGC," &c. Again, admitting death (as was really t'he case) to have been an unheard-of and dreadful punishment, brought upon man in cunstquence of his transgiessien ; on that'supposl- ticn the third line would be read, *• Brought death into the w-jrld," &c. INTRODUCTION'. XV But if we were to suppose, that mankind knew there was such an evil as death in other regions, though the place they inhabited had been free from it till their transgression, the line would run thus: '' Brought death into the :cor/r/," skc. , The superior emphasis finds place in the following short sentence, which admits of four distinct meanings, each of which is ascertained by the emphasis only, " Do you ride to town to-day ?" The following examples illustrate the nature and use of the inferior emphasis: *' Many persons mistake the love, for the practice of " virtue." " Shall 1 reward his services \\\i\\ falsehood? Shall I for- '* get him who cannot forget vie?^^ '' If iiis principles diXQfahe, no apology from himself cda '' imke ihem righl: if founded \\\ truth, no censure from *' others can make them ivrong.'* '' 'i hough deep, 3^et clear ^ though gentle, yet not dull; '* Strong, without rage ; without o^erfo-ving,fidl.''* " A yr/>7zf/ exaggerates a man's virtues; Txn enemy, his ** crimes.^'' '■' The wise man is happy, when he gains his own appro- " bation ; the/oo/, when he gains that oi others'' The superior emphasis, in reading as in speaking, must be determined entirely by the sense of the passage, and al- ways made alike: but as to theinferior emphasis, taste alone geeras to have the right of fixing its situation and quantity. Among the number of persons, who liave had {)roper op- portunities of learning to read, in the best manner it is now taught, very few could be selected, who, in a given in- XVI INTRODUCTJOKr stance, would use the inferior emphasis alike, either as^to place or quantity. Some persons, indeed, use scarcely any (degree of it : and others do not scruple to carry it far beyond any thing to be found in common discourse ; and even' sometimes throw it upon words so very trilling in themselves, that it is evidently done with no other view, thaji lo give greater variety to the modulation*. Not- witJistanding this diversity of practice, there are certainly proper boundaries, within which this emphasis must be restrained, in order to make it meet the approbation of sound judgment and correct taste. It will doubtless have different degrees of exertion, according to the greater or less degree of importance of the words upon which it operates ; and there may be very properly some variel y in the use of it: but its application is not arbitrary, depend- ing on the caprice of readers. As emphasis often falls on words in different parts of the same sentence, so it is frequently required to be continued, with a little variation, on two, and sometimes more words together The following sentences exemplify both the parts of this position: *' If you seek to make one rich, study not ♦* lo iiicreasc his siorcs, but to diminish his cleyi/csJ' *' Tiie *• Mexican figures, or picture writing, represent ihi?igs not *' words : they exhibit images to ihe ei/e, not ideas to the ** imdcrslanditig'* * By modulation is meant t!ut pleasing variety of voice, wliich is perceivefTRODUCTlON, XVll Some sentences are SO full and comprehensive, that almost every word is emphatical: as, ** Ye hills and dales, ye '' rivers, woods, and plains!" or as that pathetic expostu- lation in the prophecy of Exekiel, " Why will ye die !" Emphasis, besides its olher offices, is the great regulator of quantity. Though the quantity of our syllables is fixed, in words separately pronounced, yet it is mutable, when these words are ranged in sentences ;.the long being changed into short, \he short into long, according to the importance of the word with regard to meaning. Emphasis also, in particular cases, alters the seat of ihe accent. This is de- monstrable from the following examples. " lie shall " zVcrease, but I shall c^ecrease," *' There is a difTrrcjice " between giving and/c/rgiving." '* In this species of com- ** position, plausVoWiiy is much more essential liiao pro^abi- *' lity." lii these examples, the emphasis requires the ac- cent to be placed on syllablts, ta \shich it does not com- monly belong. In order to acquire the proper management of the em- phasis, the great rule to be given, is, that the reader study to attain a just conception of the force and spirit of the sentiments which he is to pronounce. For to lay the em- phasis with exact propriety, is a constant exercise of good sense and attention. It is far from being an inconsiderable attainment. It is one of the most decisive trials of a true and just taste; and must arise from feeling delicately our- selves, and from judging accurately of v\hat is fittest tostrike the feelings of others. There is one error, against which it is particularly proper to. caution the learner; namely, that of multiplying em- phatical words too much, and using the emphasis indis- criminately. It is only by a prudent reserve and distinc- k XYlll INTRODUCTION. tic.i in the use of them, that we can give them any weight 1 he) I. cur * jo 'often; if a reader attem^^ts to rende evtry thing he expresses of high importance, b) a niulti t: ale ot strong emphases, we soon learn to pay little regan to ' t^m. To crowd every sentence with emphaiical words ih i'ke crowding all the pages of a book with Italic charac tcrs ; whicli, as to t!ie effect, is just the same as to use n( such distinctions at all. SECT I ox VI. Tones* Tones are different both from emphasis and pauses consisting m the notes or variations of sound which we em piny, in the expression of our sentimcn»*s. En)ph3sis affect particular words and pauses, with a degree of tone or in lleciion of voice ; but tones, peculiarly so called, affect sen lences, paragraphs, and sometimes even the whole of a dis course. To show the use and necessity of tones, v/e need onl; observe, that the mind, in communicating its ideas, i in a constant state of activity, emotion, or agitation, fron (he different effects which those ideas produce in thespeaker Now tlie end of such communication being, not merely t< lay open the ideas, but also the different feelings whici they excite in liim who utters them, there must be othe signs than words, to manifest those feelings ; as words iit tered in a monotonous manner, can represent only a simila state of mind, perfectly free from aH activity and emotion As the communication of these internal feelings, was o much more consequence in our social intercourse, than th ^le^e conveyance of ideas, the Author of our being did not INTRODUCTlOy. XIX as in that conveyance, leave the invention of the language of emotion to man ; but impressed it himself upon our na- ture, in the same manner as he has done with regard to the rest of the animal world ; all of which express their various feelings, by various tones. Ours, indeed, from the supe- rior rank that we hold, are in a high degree more compre- hensive ; as there is not an act of the mind, an exertion of the fancy, or an emotion of the heart, which has not its peculiar tone, or note of the voice, by which it is to be ex- pressed ; and which is suited exactly to the degree of inter- nal feeling. It is chiefly in the proper use of these, tones, that the life, spirit, beauty, and harmony of delivery consist. The limits of this introduction, do not admit of exam- ples, to illustrate the variety of tones belonging to the dif- ferent passions and emotions. We shall, however, select one, which is extracted from the beautiful lamentation of David over Saul and Jonathan, and which will, in some degree, elucidate what has been said on this subject. " The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: ho\flr " are the mighty fallen ! Tell it not in Gath ; publisii it <* not in the streets of Askelon : lest ti.e daughters of the " Philistines rejoice; lest the daughters of llu^ uncircumciscd '* triumph. Ye mountains of Gilboa, let there be no dew " nor rain up?)n you, nor fields of offerings: for there the ** shield of the mighty was vilely cast away ; the shield of ** Saul, as though he had not been anointed with oil." The first of these divisions expresses sorrow and lamentation; therefore the note is low. The next contains a spirited command, and should be pronounced much higher. The otIuT sentence, in which he makes a pathetic address to the mountains where his friends had been slain, must be ex- XX IXTRODUCTION-. pressed in a note quite dilferent from the two former; not so low as tJie iirst, nor so high as the second, in a nianly^ firni> and yet plaintive tone. The correct and natural language of the emotions, is not so difficult to be attained, as most readers seem to ima> gine. If we enter into the S})irit of the author's sentiments, as well as into the meaning of his words, we shall not fail t-o deliver the words in properly varied tones. For th^rc are fr:w people, who speak English without a pro/mcial note, tliat have not an accurate use of tones, wht-n iliey litter their sentimtnts in earnest discourse. And the reason that they have not the same use of them, in reading aloud the sentiments of others, may be traced to the very defec- tive and erroneous method, in which the art of reaciiiig is , taught; whereby all the various, naiural, expressive toi2e$ , of speech, are suppressed ; and a tew artificial, unmeaning reading notes, are substituted for them. But when we recommend to readeis, an attention to th€ tone and language of emotions, wemusl be understood to do it with proper limitation. Moderation is necessary in this point, as it is in other things. For when reading becomes strictly imitative, it assumes a theatrical manner, and must be highly improper, as well as give offence to the hearers; because it is inconsistent with that delicacy and mrxlcsty, which are indispensable on such occasions. The speaker who delivers his-own emotions, must be supposed to be more vivid and animated, than would be proper in the per- son who relates them at second hand. We shall conclude this section with the following rule, for the tones that indicate the passions and emotions; *' In reading, let all your tones ,of expression be borrowed from those of common speech, but, in some degree, more n^TRODUCTlON. w ^'Xl faindy diaraclerized. Let those tones wTiich signify any disagreeable passion of the mind, be still more faint than those which indicate agreeable emotions; and on all oc- casions, preserve yourfelves from being so far affected with the subject, as to be able to proceed through it, with that easy and masterly manner, which has its good effects in dhis, as wtII as in every other art." ^^^ffi^ES or 1 SECTION rrr. Pauses, Ses or rests, in speaking or reading, are a total cessa- tion of the voice, during a perceptible, and, in many cases, a measurable space of time. Pauses are equally necessary to the speaker and the hearer. To the speaker, that he may take breath, without which he cannot proceed far in delivery ; and that he may, by these temporary rests, re- lieve the organs of speech, which otherwise would be soon tired by continued action r to the hearer, that the ear also, may be relieved from the fatigue, which it would otherwise endure from a continuity of sound ; and that the under- standing may have sufficient time to mark the distinction of sentences, and their several men^berso There are two kinds of pauses : first, emphatical pauses : and next, such as mark the distinctions of sense. An em- phatical pause is generally made, a/ier something has been said of peculiar moment, and on which we desire to fix the hearer's attention. Sometimes, before such a thing is said, we usher it in with a pause of this nature. Such pauses have the same effect as a strong emphasis; and are subject to tire ^ame rules; especially to the caution, of not repeating them too frequently. For as they excite uncommon attention^ 5tXll INTRODUCTION. and of course raise expectation, if the importance of the matter be not fully answerable to such expectation, they occasion disappointment and disgust. But the most frequent and the principal use of pauses, is, to mark the divisions of the sense, and at the same time to allow the reader to draw his breath ; and the proper and delicate adjustment of such pauses, is one of the most nice and difficult articles of delivery. In all reading, the ma- nagement of the breath requires a good deal of care, so as not to oblige us to divide words from one another, which have so intimate a connexion, that they ought to be pro- nounced with the same breath, and without the least sepa- ration. Many a sentence is miserably mangled, and the force of the emphasis totally lost, by divisions being made in the wrong place. To avoid this, every one, while he is reading, should be very careful to provide a full supply of breath, for what he is to utter. It is a great mistake to imagine, that the breath must be drawn only at the end of a period, when the voice is allowed to fall. It may easily be gatltered at the intervals of the period, when the voice is suspended only for a moment; and, by this ma- nagement, one may always have a sufficient stock for carrying on the longest sentence, without improper inter- ruptions. Pauses in reading must generally be formed upon the manner in which we utter ourselves in ordinary, sensible conversation; and not upon the stiff artificial manner, which is acquired from reading books according to the common punctuation. It will by no means be sufiicient, to attend to the points used in printing; for these are far from marking all the pauses, which ought to be made in reading. A me- chanical attention to these resting places, lias perhaps been INTRODUCTION. <» XXiii one cause of monotony, by leading the reader to a similar tone at every; slop, and a uniform cadence at every period. The primary use of points, is to assist the reader in discerning the grammatical construction ; and it is only as a secondary object, that they regulate his pronunciation. On this head, the following direction may be of use : ** Though, in reading, great attention should be paid to the stops, yet a greater should be given to the sense; and their correspondent fimes occasionally lengthened beyond what is usual in common speech.'' To render pauses pleasing and expressive, they must not only be made in the right place, but also accompanied with a proper tone of voice, by which the nature of these pauses is intimated ; much more than by the length of them, which c£n seldom be exactly measured. Sometimes it is only a slight and simple suspension of voice that is proper; sometimes a degree of cadence in the voice is required ; and sometimes that peculiar tone and cadence which denote the sentence to be finished. In all these cases, we are to regulate ourselves by attt^nding to the manner in which Na- ture teaches us to speak, when engaged in real and earnest discourse with others. The following sentence exemplifies tlie smpeiidirig and the closing pauses: " Hope, the balm of rife, sooths us under every misfortune.'* The first and second pauses are accompanied by an inflection of voice, that gives the hearer an expectation of something further to complete the sense ; the inilexion attending the third pause, signifies that the sense i'S completed. The preceding example is an illustration of the suspend- ing pause, in its simple state: tlie fuliowing instaivce exhi. bits that pause with a degree of cadence in the voice; '* If content cannot remove the disquietudes of mankind^ it will at least alleviate them." KXIV rKTRODUCTloK^ The suspending pause is often, in the same sentence, at- tended with both the rising and the falling inflection of voice; as will be seen in this example : *' Moderate exer- cise\ and habitual temperance', strengthen the constitu- tion*." As the suspending pause may be thus attended with both the rising and the falling inflection, it is the same with regard to the closing pause; it admits of both. The falling inflection generally accompanies it ; but it is not unfre- quentiy connected with the rising inflection. Interroga- tive sentences, for instance, are often terminated in this man- ner : as> " Am I ungrateful/?" " Is he in earnest'?'* But where a sentence is begun by an interrogative pro- noun or adverb, it is commonly terminated by the falling inflection: as, ** What has he gained by hisfoll}V* ^' Who will assist hinv?" '^ Where is the messenger?^' "When did he arrive\^" When two questions are united in one sentence, and connected by the conjunction or, the first takes the rising, the second the falling inflection : as, '/Does his conduct support discipline', or destroy iO?" The rising and falling Inflections must not be confounded with emphasis. Though they may often coincide, they are, in theirnature, perfectly distinct. Emphasis sometimes controls those inflections. The regular application of the rising and falling inflec- tions, confers so much beauty on expression, and is so ne- cessary to be studied by the young reader, that we shall in- sert a few more examples to induce him to pay greater at- ■^ The rising inflection is denoted by the acute; the faliins? by the grave accent. INTRODUCTION. XXV tenlion to the subject, hi these instances, all the inflections are not marked. Such only are distinguished as are most striking, and will best serve to show the reader their utility and importance. '* Manufacturers^ trade^, and agriculture', certainly em" ploy more than nineteen parts in twenty, of the human species." *' He who resigns the world, has no temptation to env\', hatred\ malice\ anger'; but is in constant possession of a serene mind ; he who follows the pleasures of it, wliich are in their very nature disappointing, is in constant se^^rch of care\ solicitude', remorse', and conrusion\" ** To advise the ignorant*, relieve the needy*, comf-ft the afflicted', are duties that fall in our way almost every day of our lives." *' Those evil spirits, who, by long custom, have cni> Iractedin the body habits of lust', and sensualil}^; malic , and reveng£^; an aversion to every thing that is goo \ jufr, and laudable', are naturally seasoned and prepai for pain and misery." ** I am persuaded, that neither death', nor lifO; : jt angels', nor principalities', nor powers^; nor things jie- sent', northings to come^ ; nor height', nor dcpth^; nor ^r)y other creature', shall be able to separate us from the loveofGod\" The reader who would wish to see a minute genious investigation of the nature of these infleci .! , and the rules by which they are governed, may consult '^,Av .> Elements of Elocution. B INTRODUCTION. SECTION Vlll. Manner of reading verse. When we are reading verse, there is a peculiar difficulty in making the pauses justly. The difficulty arises from the melody of verse, which dictates to the ear pauses or rests of its own; and to adjust and compound these properly with the pauses of the sense, so as neither to hurt the ear, nor offend the understanding, is so very nice a matter, that it is no wonder we so seldom meet with good readers of poetry. There are two kinds of pauses that belong to the melody of verse : one is, the pause at the end of the line ; and the other, the csesural pause in or near the middle of it. With re2;ard to the pause at the end of the line, which marks that strain or verse to be finished, rhyme renders this always sensible ; and in some measure compels us to observe it in our pronunciation. In respect to blank verse, we ought also to read it, so as to make every line sensible to the ear: for, what is the use of melody, or for what end has the poet composed in verse, if, in reading his lines, we suppress his numbers, by emitting the final pause; and degrade them, by our pronunciation, into mere prose? At the same time that we attend to this pause, every appearance of sing-song and tone must be carefully guarded against. The close ^f the line where it makes no pause in the meaning, ought not to be marked by such a tone as is used in finishing a sentence ; but, without either fall or elevation of the voice, it should be denoted only by so slight a suspension of sound, as may distinguish the passage from one line to ano ther, without injuring the meaning. The other kind of melodious pause, is that which falls! INTRODUCTION. XXVli somewhere about the middle of the verse, and divides it into two hemistichs: a pause, not so great as that which belongs to the close of the Hue, but still sensible to an or- dinary ear. This, which is called the csesural pause, may fall, in English heroic verse, after the 4th, 5th, 6th, or 7th syllable in the line. Where the verse is so constructed that thiscsesural pause coincides with the slightest pause or division in the sense, the line can be read easily ; as in the two first verses of Pope's Messiah : " Ye nymphs of Solyma !^^ begin the song ; " To heavenly themesO, sublimer strains belong." But if it should happen that words which have so strict and intimate a connexion, as not to bear even a momentary separation, are divided from one another by tliis caesural pause, we then feel a sort of struggle between the sense and the sound, which renders it difficult to read such lines bar- moniously. The rule of proper pronunciation insuch cases, is, to regard only the pause which the sense forms ; and to read the line accordingly. The neglect of ihecassural pause may make the line sound somewhat unharmoniously ; but the effect would be much worse, if the sense were sacrificed to the sound. For instance, in the following line of Milton, ** What in me is dark, *' Illumine J what is low, raise and support.'* the sense clearly dictates the pause after 27///;?2f;?e, at the end of the third syllable, which, in reading, ought to be niade- accordingly ; though, if the melody only were to be re- garded, illumine should be c onn ected with what follows. \K\\n INTRODUCTIO?^. and the pause not made till the fourth or sixth syllable. So in the following line of Pope's Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, *' I sit, with sad civility I read :'' the ear plainly points out the caesural pause as falling after sad, the fourth syllable. But it would be very bad reading to make any pause there, so as to separate ^fldi and civilifi/. 1 he sense admits of no other pause than after the second syllable sit, which therefore must be the only pause made in reading this part of the -sentence. There is another mode of dividing some verses, by intro- ducing what may be called demi-caesuras, which require very slight pauses ; and which the reader should manage with judgment, or hewill be apt to fall into an affected sing-song mode of pronouncing verses of this kind. The following lines exemplify the deml-cassura : ** Warms' in the sun'', refreshes' in the breeze, ** Glows' in the stars", and blossoms' in the trees ; ** Lives' through all life", extends' through all extent, <* Spreads' undivided", operates' unspent." Before the conclusion of this introduction, the Compiler takes the liberty to recommend to teachers, to exercise their pupils in discovering and explaining the emphatic words, and the proper tones and pauses, of every portion assigned them to read, previously to their being called out to the performance. These preparatory lessons^ in which they should be regularly examined, will improve their judgment and taste; prevent the practice of reading without attention to the subject ; and establish a habit of readily discovering the meaning, force, and beauty, of every sentence they peruse. CONTENTS. PART I. Pieces in Prosf. CHAPTER I. SBLECT SENTENCES AND PARAGRAPH-. ... P;>ge i CHAPTER II. NARRATIVE PIECES. Sect, 1. No rank or posse^fsions can make the cruilty mind happy; ^> 2. Change of external condition often adverse to virtue, 26 3. Haman; or the misery of pride, 2S 4. Ortogrul; or the vanity of riche.-*, 30 5. Lady Jane Grey, 33 6. The hill of science, 3Y *T. The journey of a day 3 a picture of human life, ^-^XU CONTENTS, Page Sect. 3. The Apostle Paul's noble defence before Festus and Asnppa, 162 4. Lord Mansfield's speech in the House of Lords, 1770, on the bill for preventing the delays of justice, by claiming: the privilege of parliament, 16j 5. M address to you ivg persons, ., no CHAPTER IX. PROMISCLOLS PIECES. »Slct. 1. Earthquake at Calabria, in the year 1633, 175 2. Letter from Pliny to Geininius, 1^ 3. Letter from Pliny to Marcellinus,on the death of an amiable young woman, 131 4. On Discreti^in, 183 5. On the government of our thoughts, 1S7 6. On the evils which flow from unrestrained passions, 190 7. On the proper state of our temper, with respect to one another, 192 8. Excellence of the Holy Scriptures, .^ 195 9. Keflections occasioned by a review of the blessings, pronounced by Christ on his disciples, in his ser- mon on the mount, 195 10. Schemes of life often illusory, 19S 11. The pleasures of virtuous sensibility, 201 13. Op the true honour of man, 204 13. The influence of devotion on the happiness of life, 205 Ik The planetary and terrestrial worlds comparatively considered, 209 15. On the power of custom, and the uses to which it may be applied, * , 212 CONTENTS* XXXI 11 Pf.ge Sect. 16. The pjeasurcs resulting from a proper use of our faculties, 215 17. Description of candour, 216 18. On tie imperfection of that happiness which rests solely on worldly pleasures, 213 19. What are the real and solid enjoyments of human life, 223 20. Scale of beings, , 225 21. Trust in the care of Providence recommended, 229 22. Piety and gratitude enliven prosperity, ; 232 23. Virtue, when deeply rooted, is not subject to the influence of fortune, 235 24-. The speech of Fabric ius, a Roman ambassador, to king Pyrrhus, who attempted to bribe him to his interests, by the otFer of a great sum of money, 237 25. Character of James I. king of England, 238 26. Charles V. emperor of Germany, resigns his domi- nions, and retires from the world, 239 27. The same subject continued, 244 PART L Pieces in Poetry. CHAPTER f. SELECT SENTENCES AND PARAGRAPHS. Sect. 1. Short and easy sentences, 243 'Verses in which the lines are of difieient length, ... 252 Verses containing exclamations, interrogations, and parentheses, o';4 4. Verses in various forms, 2"^5 5. Verses in wiiich sound corresponds to signification, 2.39 6. Paragi-aphs of greater length, 261 B5 aCXXlV CONTENTS. CHAPTER II. NArvRATIVE PIECES. Page Bect. 1. The bears and the bees, 265 2. The nightingale -and the glow-worm, 266 3. The trials of virtue, 267 4. The j'outb and the philosopheiv • 270 5. Discourse between Adam and Eve, retiring to rest, 272 6. Religion and death, 275 CHAPTER III. DIDACTIC PIECES. Sect. ]. The vanity of wealth, 279 2. Nothing formed in vain, 279 3. On pride, '. 280 4. Cnielty to brutes censured, 281 5. A paraphrase on the latter part of the 6th chapter of Matthew, 283 6. The death of a good man a strong incentive to virtue, 28i 7. Reflections on a future state, from a review of winter, 285 8. Adam's advice to Eve, to avoid temptation, 286 9. On procrastination, 283 10. That philosophy, which stops at secondary causes, reproved, 289 ; I. Indignant sentiments on national prejudices and hatred; and on slavery, .,..•,... 291 CHAPTER IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. $>CT. 1. The morning in summer, ^c'9.5 2. Rural sounds, as well as rural sightS; delightfu', ,.,. 224 CONTENTS. XXXV Page Sect. 3. The rose, ^ 295 4. Care of birds for their young, 295 5. Liberty and slavery contrasted, ^'7 6. Charity. A paraphrase on the 13tli chapter of the First Epistle to the Corinthians, 29S 7. Picture of a good man, 300 8. The pleasures of retirement, 30^ 9. The pleasure and benefit of an improved and well- directed imagination, 30S CHAPTER V. PATHETIC PIECES. <^£CT. 1. The hermit, 306 2. The beggar's petition, 30T 3. Unhappy close of life, 309 4. Elegy to pity, 310 5. Vei-ses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the island of Juaii' Fernandez^ » :J11 6. Gratitude, 313 7. A man perishing in the snow ; from whence reflec- tions are raised on the miseries of life, 315 8. A morning hymn, 3I& CHAPTER VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. Sect. 1. Ode to Content, 320 2. The shepherd and the philosopher, 322 3. The road to happiness open to all men, 324 4. The goodness of Providence, 326 5> The Creator's works attest his greatness, 32.7 B 5 XXX Yl CONTENTS. Page Sect. 6. Address to the Deity, 323 7. The pursuit of happiness often ill directed, ., 330 8. The fire -side, 331 9. Providence vindicated in t^ie present state of man, 534« 10. Selfishness reproved, 336 11. Human frailty, , 337 12. Ode to Peace, 333 J3. Ode to Adversity, 339^ 14. The creation required to praise its Author, 341 15. The universal prayer, 343 16. Conscience, 345 17. On an infant, ^ 34S 18. The cockoo, 346 19. Day. A pastoral in three parts, 347" 20. The order of Nature, 351 21. Hymn composed during sickness, ., 353 *i% Hymn, on a review of the seasons, ^ 354 ^\ B n A fTy- trNrv^Rsfrr THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. PIECES IN PROSE. CHAPTER I. SELECT SENTENCES AND PARAGRAPHS. ; SECTION /. UiLiGENCE, industry,, and proper improvement cf time, are material duties of the young. The acquisition of knowledge is one of the most honourable occupations of youth. NOTE, In the first chapter, the Compiler has exhibited sentences in a gi'eat vai'iety of construction, and in all the diversity of Punctua- tion. If well practised upon, he presumes they vvill fully prepare the young reader for the various pauses, inflections, and modu- lations of voice, which the succeeding pieces require. The Author's " English Exercises,*' under the head of Punctuation, will afford the learner additional scope for improving himself in read* ing sentences and paragraphs variously constructed. 3 2 THE ENGLISH READER. PART f. Whatever useful or engaging endowments we pos- sess^ virtue is requisite, in order to their shining with proper lustre. Virtuous youth gradually brings forward accom- plished and flourishing manhood. Sincerity and truth form the basis of ever}^ virtue. Disappointments and distress are often blessings in disguise. Change and alteration form the very essence of the world. True hap^piness is of a retired nature, and an enemy to pomp and noise. In order to acquire a capacity for happiness, it must be our first study to rectify inward disorders. Whatever purifies, fortifies also the heart. From our eagerness to grasp, we strangle and de» stroy pleasure. A temperate spirit, and moderate expectations, are excellent safeguards of the mind, in this uncertain and changing state. There is nothing, except simplicity of intention,, and purity of principle, that can stand the test of near approach and strict examination. The value of any possession is to be chiefly estimated, by the relief which it caa bring us In the time of our greatest need. No person who has once, yielded up the govern- ment of his mind, and given loose rein to his desires and passions, can tell how far they may carry him. Tranquillity of mitid is always most likely to be attained, when the business of the world is tempered with thoughtful and serious retreat. j CHAP. r. SELECT SENTENCES, &C, S He. who would act like a wise man, and build his house on the rock, and not on the sand, should con- template human life, not only in the sunshine, but in the shade. Let usefulness and beneficence, not ostentation and vanity, direct the train of your pursuits. To maintain a steady and unbroken mind, amidst all the shocks of the world, marks a great and noble spirit. Patience, by preserving composure within, resists the impression which trouble makes from without. Compassionate affections, even when they draw tears from our eyes for human misery, convey satisfaction to the heart. They Avho have nothing to give, can often afford relief to others, by imparting what they feel. Our ignorance of what is to come, and of what is really good or evil, should correct anxiety about worldly success. The veil which covers from our sight the events of succeeding years, is a veil woven by the hand of mercy. The best preparation for all the uncertainties of fu- turity, consists in a well-ordered mind, a good con- science, and a cheerful submission to the will of Heaven, SECTIOry II. The chief misfortunes that beflill us in life, can be traced to some vices or follies which we have com- * THE ENGLISH READER. PART I, Were we to survey the chambers of sickness and distress, we should often find them peopled with the victims of intemperance and sensualit}^ and with the children of vicious indolence and sloth. To be wise in our own eyes, to be wise in the opi« nion of the world, and to be wise in the sight of our Creator, are three things so very different, as rarely to coincide. Man, in his highest earthly glory, is but a reed float- ing on the stream of time, and forced to follow every sew direction of the current. The corrupted temper, and the guilty passions of the bad, frustrate the effect of every advantage which, the world confers on them. The external misfortunes of life, disappointments, poverty, and sickness, are light in comparison of those inward distresses of mind, occasioned by folly, by pas- sion, and by guilt. ' No station is so high, no power so great, no character so unblemished, as to exempt men from the attacks (jf rasshness, malice, or envy. Moral and religious instruction derives its efficacy, not so much fioni \a hat men are taught to know, as fi'om what they are brought to feel. lie who pretends to great sensibility towards men^ and yet has no feeling for the high objects of reli,gion, no heart to adniire and adore the great Father of the universe, has reason to distrust the truth and delicacy of his sensibility. When, upon rational and sober inquiry, we have established our principles, let us not suffer them to be shaken by the scoffs of the licentious, or tlie cavils •)f the sceptical. CllAP. r. SELECT SENTENCES, &C. 5 When we observe any tendency to treat religion or morals with disrespect and levity, let us hold it to be a sure indication of a perverted understanding, or a depraved heart. Every degree of guilt incurred by yielding to temp- tation, tends to debase the mind, and to weaken the generous and benevolent principles of human nature. Luxury, pride, and vanity, have frequently as much influence in corrupting the sentiments of the great, as ignorance, bigotry, and prejudice, have in misleading the opinions of the multitude* Mixed as the present state is, reason aid religion pronounce, that generally, if not always, there is more happiness than misery, more pleasure than pain, in the condition of man. Society, when formed, requires distinctions of pro- perty, diversity of conditions, subordination of ranks, and a multiplicity of occupations, in order to advance the general good. That the tempier, the sentiments, the morahty, and, in general, the whole conduct and character of men, are influenced by the example and disposition of the persons with whom they associate, is a reflection which has long since passed into a proverb, and been ranked among the standing maxims of ^human wisdom, in all ages of the w^orid. '^ SECTION in. The desire of improvement discovers a liberal min J, md is connected with many acconipHshments, arid nany virtues. 6 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I, Innocence confers ease and freedom on the mind; and leaves it open to every pleasing sensation. Moderate and simple pleasures relish high with the temperate : in the midst of his studied refinements, the voluptuary languishes. Gentleness corrects whatever is offensive in our man- ners; and, hy a constant train of humane attentions^ studies to alhwiate the burden of common misery. That gentleness which is the characteristic of a good man, has, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart: and, let me add, nothing except what flows from the heart, can render evwn external manners truly pleasing. Virtue, to become either vigorous cr useful, must be habitually active; not breaking forth occasionally with a transient lustre, like the blaze of the comet ; but re- gular in its returns, like the light of day ; not like the aromatic gale, which sometimes feasts the sense ; but like the ordinary breeze, which purifies the air, and renders it healthful. The happiness of every man depends more upon the state of his own mind, than upon any one external cir- cumstance : nay, more than upon all external things put together. In no station, in no period, let us think ourselves secure ftom the dangers which spring from our paS' sions. Every age, and every station they beset ; from youth to gray hairs, and from the peasant to the prince. Riches and pleasures are the chief temptations to criminal deeds. Yet those riches, wdien obtained, may very possibly overwhelm us with unforeseen miseries*. Those pleasures may cut short our health and life, I CHAP. I. SELECT SENTENCES, &C. 7 He \^ho is accustomed to turn aside from the world, and commune with himself in retirement, will, some- times at least, hear the truths which the multitude do not tell him. A more sound instructer will lift his voice, and awaken within the heart those latent sug- gestions, which the world had overpowered and sup- pressed. Amusement often becomes the business, instead of the relaxation, of young^ persons; it is then highly pernicious. He that waits for an opportunity to do nmch at once, may breathe out his life in idle wi.shes ; and re- gret, in the last hour, his useksi intentions and barren zeal. The spirit of true religion breathes mildness and af- fabiht3\ It gives a native, unaltected ease to the be- haviour. It is social, kind, and cheerful; far removed from that gloomy and illiberal superstition, which clouds the brow, sharpens the temper, dejects the spirit, and teaches men to fit themselves for another world, by neglecting the concerns of this. Reveal none of the secrets of thy friend. Be faith- ful to his interests. Forsake him not in danger. Ab- hor the thought of acquiring any advantage by his pre- judice, Man, always prosperous, would be giddy and inso- lent; always afflicted, would be sullen or despondent. Hopes and fears, joy and sorrow, are, therefore, so blended in his life, as both to give room for worldly pursuits, and to recall, from time to time^ the admoni^^ tions of conscience. THE ENGLISH READER, PART I. SECTION IV, Time once past never returns i the moment which is lost, is lost for ever. There is nothing on earth so stable, as to assure us of undisturbed rest ; nor so powerful, as to aiibrd us constant protection. » The house of feasting too often becomes an avenue to the house of mourning. Short, to the licentious, is the interval between them. It is of great importance to us, to form a proper estimate of human life ; without either loading it with imaginary evils, or expecting from it greater advan- tages than it is able to yield. Among all our corrupt passions, there is a strong and intimate connexion. When any one of them is adopted into our family, it seldom quits us until it has fathered upon us all its kindred. Charity, like the sun, brightens every object on which it shines: a censoiious disposition casts every character into the darkest shade it will bear. Many men mistake the love, for the practice of vir- tue ; and are not so much good men, as the friends of goodness. Genuine virtue has a language that speaks to every heart throughout the world. It is a language which h understood by all. In every region, every clime, the homage paid to it is the same. In no owe sentiment w ere ever mankind more generally agreed. The appearances of our security are frequently de- eeiiful. When our sky seems most settled and serene, in some unobserved quarter gathers the litile black Chap. r. select sentences, &c. 9 cloud, ill which the tempest ferments, and prepares to discharge itself on our head. The man oF true fortitu-de may be compared to the castle built on a rock, which defies the attacks of sur- rounding waters; the man of a feeble and timorous spirit, to a hut placed on the shore, which every wind shakes, and every wave overflows. Nothing is so inconsistent with self-possession as violent anger. It overpowers reason ; confounds our ideas; distorts the appearance, and blackens the colour, of every object. By the storm which it raises within, and by the mischiefs which it occasions with- x^ut, it generally brings on the passionate and revenge- ful man, greater misery than he can bring on the ob- ject of his resentment. The palace of virtue has, in all ages, been repre- sented as placed on the summit of a hill ; in the ascent of w^hich, labour is requisite, and difficulties are to be surmounted; and w^here a conductor is needed, to Mdirect our way, and to aid our steps. In judging of others, let us always think the best, •and employ the spirit of charity and candour. But in judging of ourselves, we ought to be exact and severe. Let him that desifes to see others happy, make haste •to give while his gift can be enjoyed; and remember, that every moment of delay, takes away something from the value of his benefaction. And let him who proposes his own happiness reflect, that while he forms 'his purpose, the day rolls on, and ** the night cometh, when no man can work.'* To sensual persons, hardly any thing is what it appears to be: and what flatters most, is always farthest from reality. There are voices v.liich sing around 10 THE ENGLISH READER. PART S, them ; but whose strains allure to ruin. There is a banquet spread, where poison is in every dish. . There is a couch which invites them to repose ; but to slumber upon it is death. If we would judge whether a man is really happy, it is not solely to his houses and lands, to his equipage and his retinue, we are to look. Unless we could see farther, and discern what joy, or what bitterness, his heart feels, we can pronounce little concerning him. The book is w^ell written ; and I have perused it with pleasure and profit. It shows, first, that true de- votion is rational and well-founded ; next, that it is of the highest importance to €very other part of religion and virtue ; and, lastly, that it is most conducive to o\ir happiness. There is certainly no greater felicity, than to be able to look back on a life usefully and virtuously employed; to trace our own progress in existence, by such tokens as excite neither shame nor sorrow. It ought therefore to be the care of those who wish to pass the last hours with comfort, to lay up such a treasure of pleasing ideas, as shall support the expenses of that time, which is to depend wholly upon the fund already acquiied. SECTION r. What avails the show of external liberty, to one who has lost the government of himself? He that cannot live well to-day, (says Martial,) will be less qualified to live w^ell to-morrow. Can we esteem that man prosperous, who is raised CHAP. r. SELECT*SEKTENCES, &C. H to a situation which flatters his passions, but which corrupts his principles, disorders his temper, and finally, oversets his virtue ? What misery dots the vicious man secretly endure! Adversity ! how blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver, in comparison with those of guilt ! When we have no pleasure in goodness, we may with certainty conclude the reason to be, that our pleasure is all derived from an opposite quarter. How strangely are the opinions of men altered, by a change in their condition ! How many have had reason to be thankful, for being disappointed in designs which they earnestly pursued, but which, if successfully accomplished, they have af- terwards seen, would have occasioned their ruin? W^hat are the actions which afford in the remem- 1 brance a rational satisfaction ? Are they the pursuits ; of sensual pleasure, the riots of jolj^ty, or the displays of show and vanity ? No : I appeal to your hearts, my friends, if what you recollect with most pleasure, are not the innocent, the virtuous, the honourable parts of your past life. The present employment of time shouid frequently be an object of thought. About what are we now busied? What is the ultimate scope of our present pursuits and cares? Can we justify them to ourselves? Are they likely to produce any thing that will survive the moment, and bring forth some fruit for futurity ? Is it not strange, (says an ingenious writer,) that some persons should be so delicate as not to bear a dis- agreeable picture in the house, and yet, by their be- haviour, fv.ce every face they see about them, to wear the i^^loom of uneasiness and discontent ? 12 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. If we are now in health, peace, and safety ; without any particular or uncommon evils to afflict our con- dition; what more can w^e reasonably look for in this vain and uncertain world ? How little can the greatest prosperity add to such a state ! Will any future situation ever make us happy, if now, with so few causes of grief, wc imagine ourselves miserable? The evil lies, in the state of our mind, not in our condition of for- tune ; and by no alteration of circumstances is likely to be remedied. When the love of unwarrantable pleasures, and of vicious companions, is allowed to amuse young persons, to ingross their time, and to stir up their passions; the day of ruin, — let them take heed, and beware! — the day of irrecoverable ruin, begins to draw nigh. For- tune is squandered ; health is broken ; friends are of- fended, affronted, estranged ; aged parents, perhaps, sent afflicted and mourning, to the dust. On whom does time hang so heavily, as on the sloth- ful and lazy? To whom are the hours so lingering? Who are so often devoured with spleen, and obliged to fly to every expedient, which can help them to get rid of themselves ? Instead of producing tranquiiiity, indo- lence produces a fretful restlessness of mind ; gives rise to cravings which are never satisfied ; nourishes a sickly effeminate delicacy, which sours and corrupts every pleasure. SECTION Vt. We have seen the husbandman scattt ring his saail upon the furrowed ground! It springs up, is g;^thered CHAP. I. SELECT SENTENCES, 8zC, 13 into his barns, and crowns his labours with joy and plenty. — Thus the man wiio distributes his fortune with generosity and prudence, is amply repaid by the gra- titude of those whom he obliges; by the aj)probati(>a of his own mind ; and by the favour of Heaven. Temperance, by fortifying the mind and bodj^ leads to happiness : intemperance, by enervating them, ends, generally in misery. Title and ancestry render a good man more illus- trious; but an ill one, more contemptible. Vice is in- famous, though in a prince; and virtue honourable, though in a peasant. An elevated genius, employed in little things, ap- pears (to use the simile of Longinus) like the sun in his evening declination : he remits his splendour, but re- tains his magnitude; and pleases more, though he dazzles less. If envious people w^ere to ask themselves, whether they would exchange -their entire situations with tiie persons envied, (I mean their minds, passions, notions, as well as their persons, fortunes, and dignities,) I presume the self-love common to human nature, would generally make them prefer their own condition. We have obliged some persons :— very well .' — what would we have more > Is not the consciousness of doin^r good, a sufficient reward ? Do not hurt yourselves or others, by the pursuit of pleasure. Consult your whole nature. Consider yourselves not only as sensitive, but as rational beings; liot only as rational, but social ; not only as social, but immortal. C u THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. ■ ' Art thou poor ?— Show thyself active and industrious, peaceable and contented. Art thou wealthy ?— Show thyself beneficent and charitable, condescending and humane. Though religion removes not all the evils of life, though it promises no continuance of undisturbed pros- perity, (which indeed it were not salutary for man al- ways to enjoy,) yet, if it mitigates the evils which ne- cessarily belong to our state, it may justly be said to give " rest to them who labour and are heavy laden." What a smiling aspect does the love of parents and children, of brothers and sisters, of friends aiul rela- tions, give to every surrounding object, and every re- turning day ! With what a lustre does it gild even the small habitation, where this placid intercourse dwells! where such scenes of heartfelt satistact.on succeed uninterruptedly to one another ! How many clear marks of benevolent intention ap- pear every where around us! What a profusion of Lutvand ornament is poured forth on the face of natur; ! What a magnificent spectacle presented to the view of man! What supply contrived for h.s wants. What a variety of objects set before him, to grat.fy bs .ense., to employ his understanding, to entertam h.s imagination, to cheer and gladden Ins heart ! The hope of future happiness is a perpetual source of consolation to good men. Under trouble, it sooths their minds; amidst temptation, it supports ihe.r vir- tue; and. in their dyn.g moments enables then . I ,ay " O death i where is thy sting? O grave ! wh«e is thy victory ':" CHAP. I. SELECT SENTENCES, &C. 15 SECTI0J7 VII, Agesilaus, king of Sparta, being asked, " What things he thought most proper for boys to lejirn,'* an- swered ; " Those which they ought to practise when they come to be men/^ A wiser than Agesilaus has inculcated the same sentiment: " Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it/' An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, '' that time was his estate." An estate, indeed, which will produce nothinjj without cultivation; but which will always abundantly repay the labours of industry, and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no part of it be suffered to lie waste by negligence; to lr»e overrun with noxious plants ; or laid out f©r show, rather than use. When Aristotle was asked, " What a man could gain by telling a falsehood," he replied, '* Kot to be cre- dited when he speaks the truth." L'Estrange, in his Fables, tells us, that a number of frollcksomc boys were one day watching frogs at the side of a pond ; and that, as any of them put their heads . above the water, they pelted them down again with stones. One of the frogs, appealing to the humanity of the boys, made thfe striking observation: ''Child- ren, you do not consider, that though this may be sport to you, it is death to us." Sully, the great statesman of France, always retained at his table, in his most prosperous days, the same fru- gality to which he had been accustomed in early life. He was frequently reproached, by the courtiers, for this simplicity ; but he used to reply to them, in the words C2 16 THE ENGLISH READER. PART t. of an ancient philosoplicr: ''^ If the guests are men of sense^ there is sufficient for thein : if they are not^ I can very well dispense- with their company /^ Socrates, though primarily attentive to the culture of his mind, was not negligent of his external appear- ance. His cleanliness resulted frem those ideas of or- der and decency, which governed all his actions; and the care which he took of his health, from his desire to preserve his mind free and tranquil. Eminently pleasing and honourable was the friend- ship between David and Jonathan. '^ I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan,^' said the plaintive and surviving David ; '' very pleasant hast thou been to^ me: thy love for me was wonderful; passing th(^ love of women." Sir Philip Sidney, at tlie battle near Zutphen, was wounded by a musket-ball, which broke the bone of his thigh. He was carried about a mile and a half, to the camp ; and being faint with the loss of blood, and probably parched with thirst through the heat of the weather, he called for drink. It was immediately brought to him : but, as he was putting the vessel to his mouth, a poor wounded soldier, who happened at that instant to be carried by him, looked up to it with wishful eyes. The gallant and generous Sidney took the bottle from his mouth, and dehvered it to the soldier, saying, "Thy necessity is yet greater tliaa , mine.'^ ! Alexander the Great demanded of a pirate whom he had taken, by what right he infested the seas? '' By the same right/*' replied he, '' that Alexander enslaves j the world. But I am called a robber, because I have | only one small vessel ; and he is styled a conqueior, be- CHAP. I. SELECT SENTENCES, &C. 17 cause he commands great fleets and armies/* We too often judge of men by the splendour, and not by the merit of their actionj:. Antoninus Pius, the Roman emperor, was an ami- able and good man. When any of his courtiers at- tempted to inflame him with a passion for military glory, he used to answer : ** That he niore desired the preservation of one subject, than the destruction of a thousand enemies.*' Men are too often ingenious in making themselves miserable, by aggravating to their own fancy, beyond bounds, all the evils which they endure. They com- pare themselves with none but those whom they ima- gine to be more happy ; and complain, that upon them alone has fallen the whole load of human sorrows. Would they look with a more impartial eye on the world, they w^ould see themselves surrounded with suf- ferers ; and find that they are only drinking out of that mixed cup, which Providence has prepared for all. — " I will restore thy daughter again to life,'* said the eastern «age, to a prince who grieved immoderately for the loss of a beloved child, "" provided thou art able to engrave on her tomb, the names of three persons who have never mourned.'* The prince made inquiry after such persons; but fouHd the inquiry vuin, and was silent. SECTION nil. He that hath no rule over his own spirif, is like a city that is broken down, and without walls. A soft answer turneth away wrath; but grievous words stir up anger. C3 »0 THE ENGLISH READER. PART X. Fetter is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith. Pride goeth before destruction; and a haughty spirit before a fall. Hear counsel, and receive instruction, that thou may St be truly wise. Faithful are the wounds of a friend ; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful. Open rebuke is better than secret love. Setst thou a man wise in his own conceit? There is more hope 'of a fool than of him. He that is slow to anger, is better than the might}^; and he tliat ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city. He that hath pity on the poor, lendeth to the Lord ; that vvhicti he hath given, will he pay him again. If thine enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat; and if he be thirsty, give him water to drink. He that planted the ear, shall he not hear? He that formed the eye, shall he not see ? i have been young, and now I am old; yet have I never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread. _. It is better to be a door-keeper in the house of the Lord, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness. I have seen the wicked in great power; and spread- ing himself like a green bay-tree. Yet he passed away : I sought him, but he could not be found. Happy is the man that fmdeth wisdom. Length of days is in her right-hand ; and in her left-hand, riches and honour. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. How good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity ! It is like precious ointment — SELECT SENTENCES^ &C. 19 Like the dew of Hermon, and the dew that descended upon the mountains of Zion. The sluggard will not plough by reason of the cold-; he shall therefore beg in harvest, and have. nothing. ' . I went by the field of the slothful, and by the vine- yard of the man void of understanding: and lo ! it was all grown over with thorns; nettles had covered its face; and the stone- wall was broken down. Then I saw, and considered it well : I k)oked upon it, and re« ceived instruction. Honourable age is not that which standeth in length of time ; nor that which is measured by number of years: — But wisdom is the gray hair to man; and an unspotted life is old age. Solomon, my son, know thou the God of thy fathers; and serve him with a perfect heart, and with a willing mind.— If thou seek him, he will be found of theej but if thou forsake him, he will cast thee oil for ever. SECTION TX. That every day has its pains and sorrows, is univer- sally experienced, and almost universally confessed. — But let us not attend only to mournful truths: if we look impartially about us, we shall find, that every day has likewise its pleasures^^pd its joys. We should cherish sentiments of charity towards all men. The Author of all good nourishes much piety and virtue in hearts that' are unknown to us; and be- holds repentance ready to spring up among many, whom we consider as reprobates. C 4 '20 TUB ENGLISH READER. PARt 1. No one ought to consider himself as insignificant in the sight of his Creator, In our several stations, we are all sent forth to be labourers in the vineyard of our heavenly Father. Every man has his work allotted,^ his talent committed to him ; by the due improvement of which he may, hi one way or other, serve God, pro- mote virtue, and be useful in the world. The love of praise should be preserved under proper subordination to the principle of duty. In itself, it is a useful motive to action ; but when allowed to extend its influence too far, it corrupts the whole character; and produces guilty tlisgrace, and misery. To be en- tirely destitute of it, is a defect. To be governed by it, is depravity. The proper adjustment of the several principles of action in human nature, is a matter that litserves our highest attention. For when any one of tht^m becomes either too weak or too strong, it en- duiigt rs both our virtue and our happiness. T!'** ^^^'^i »■**!? ?.*k! p^i^'.^'O'-iS cf a vkious man, havings once obtained an unlimited sway, trample him under their feet. They make him ftel that he is subject to various, contradictory, and imperious masters, who often pull him different ways. His soul is rendered the receptacle of many repugnant and jarring dispositions; and resembles some barbarous country, cantoned out into different principalities, which are continually waging war on one another. Diseases, poverty, disappointment, and shame, are far from beiiig, in every instance, the unavoidable doom of man. They are much more frequently the offspring of his own misguided choice. Intemperance en- genders disease, sloth produces poverty, pride creates disappointments, and dishonesty exposes to shasiie. CHAP. r. S8LECT SENTENCES, SzC. *2 1 The ungoverned passions of men betray them into a thousand follies; their follies into crimes; and their crimes into misfortunes. When we reflect on the many distresses which abound in human life; on the scanty proportion of happiness w^iich any man is here allowed to enjoy ; on the small difference which the diverijity of fortune makes on that scanty proportion; it is surprising, that envy should ever have been a prevalent passion among men, much more that it shi>uld have prevailed among Christians. \¥here so much is suffered in common, little room is left for envy. There is more occasion for pity and sym- pathy, and inclination to assist each other. At our first setting out in life, when yet unacquainted with the world and its snares, when every pleasure enchants with its smile, and every object shines with the gloss of novelty; let us beware of the seducing^ appearances which surround us; and recollect what others have suffered from the power of headstrong de- sire. If we allow any passion, even though it be esteemed innocent, to acquire an absolute ascendant, our inward peace will be impaired. But if any which has the taint of gxiilt, take early possession of our mind,, we may date, from that moment, the ruin of our tran- quilhty. Every man has some darling passion, which generally affords the first introduction to vice. The irregular gratifications into which it occasionally seduces him, appear under the form of venial weaknesses; and are indulged, in the beginning, with scrupulousness and reserve. But, by longer practice^ these restraints weaken, and the power of habit grows. One vic^ brings in- another to its aid. By a sort of natural - Co 22 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. affinity they connect and intwine themselves together; till their roots come to be spread wide and deep over all the soul. SECTION X. Whence arises the misery of this present world? It is not owing to our cloudy atmosphere, our changing seasons, and inclement skies. It is not owing to the debility of our bodies, or to the unequal distribution of the goods of fortune. Amidst all disadvantages of this kind, a pure, a steadfast, and enlightened mind, pos- sessed of strong virtue, could enjoy itself in peace, and smile at tl)e impotent assaults of fortune and the ,ele- jnents^ It is within ourselves that misery has fixed its seat. Our disordered hearts, our guilty passions, our violent prejudices, and misplaced desires, are the in- struments of the trouble which we endure. These .^liarpcn the darts which adversity would otherwise point in vain against us. While the vain and the licentious are revelling in the midst of extravagance and riot, how little do they think of those scenes of sore distress which are passing at that moment throughout the world ! multitudes struggling for • a poor subsistence, to support the wife and children \^ horn they love, and who look up to them with eager eyes for that bread which they can hardly procure; multitudes groaning under sickness in desolate cot- tages, untended and unmourned ; many, apparently in a better situation of life, pining away in secret with : conceafed griefs ; families weeping over the beloved friends whom they have lost, ot;, in all the bitterness wKh' CHAP. I. SELECT SENTENCES, &C. 23 of anguishj bidding those who are just expiring the last jadieu. K TSi'vcr adventure on too near an approach to what is esil. Familiarize not yourselves with it, in the slightest instances, without fear. Listen with reve- rence to every reprehension of conscience; and pre- serve the most quick and accurate sensibility to right d wrong. If ever your moral impressions begin to cay, and your naiural abhorrence of guilt to lesjsen, you have ground to dread that the ruin of virtue is fast approaching. By disappointments and trials the violence of our passions is tamed, and our minds are formed to sobriety and leflection. In the varieties of life, occasioned by the ricissiiudes of worldly fortune, we are inured to liabits both of the active and the suffering virtues. How much soever we complain of the vaiiity of the world, facts plainly show, tha-t if its vanity were less, it could not answer the purpose of salutary discipline. Unsa- tisfactory as it is, its pleasures are still too apt to cor- rupt our hearts. How fatal then must the consequences have been, had it yielded us more complete enjoy- ment? Jf, with all its troubles, we are in danger of being too much attached to it, how entirely would it have seduced our affections, if no troubles had beea. mingled with its pleasures? In seasons of distress or difficulty, to abandon our- selves to dejection-, carries no mark of a great or a wor- thy mind. li>stead of sinking under trouble, and de- claring '' that his soul is weary of life,'^ k becomes a wise and a good man, in the evil da}^, with firmness to maintain his post; to bear up against the storm; to have recourse to those advantages which, in the wor^t C6 24f THE ENGLISH READER. PART. I. of times^ are always left to integrity and virtue; and never to give up the hope that better days may yet arise. How many young persons have at first set out in the world with excellent dispositions of heart; generous, charitable, and humane ; kind to their friends, and amiable among all with whom they had intercourse ! And yet, how often have wc seen all those fair appear- ances unhappily blasted in the progress of life, merely through the influence of loose and corrupting plea- sures; and those very persons, who promised once to be blessings to the world, sunk down, in the end, to be the burden and nuisance of society ! The most common propensity of mankind, is, to store futurity with whatever is agreeable to them ; especi- ally in those periods of life, when imagination is lively, and hope is ardent. Looking forward to the year now beginning, they are ready to promise themselves much, from the foundations of prosperity which they have laid ; from the friendships and connexions which they have secured; and from the plans of conduct which they have formed. Alas ! how deceitful do all these dreams of happiness often prove ! While many are saying in secret to their hearts, " To-morrow shall be SIS this day, and more abundantly/' we are obliged in return to say to them; *' Boast not yourselves of to- morrow ; for you know not what a day may bring forth 1" i ( "25 -^ CHAPTER IL NARRATIVE PIECES. SECTION I, No rank or possessions can make the i^uilty mind happy* IjiONYSius, the tyrant of Sicily, was far from being happy, though he possessed great riches, and all the pleasures which wealth and power could procure. Damocles, one of his flatterers, deceived by these spe- cious appearances of happiness, took occasion to com- pliment him on the extent of his power, his treasures, and royal magnificence ; and declared that no monarch had ever been greater or happier than Dionysius. " Hast thou a mind, Damocles,'^ says the king, " to taste this happiness ? and to know, by experience, what the enjoyments are, of which thou hast so high an idea ?^^ Damocles, with joy, accepted the offer. The King ordered that a royal banquet should be prepared, and a gilded sofa, covered with rich embroidery, placed for his favourite. Side-boards, loaded with gold and silver plate of immense value, were arranged in the apart- ment. Pages of extraordinary beauty were ordered to attend his table, and to obey his commands with the utmost readiness, and the most profound submission. Fragrant ointments, chaplets of flowers, and rich per- fumes, were added to the entertainment. The table was loaded with the most exquisite delicacies of every kind, Damocles, intoxicated with pleasure, fancied 2$ THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. himself amongst superior beings. But in the midst of all this happiness, as he lay indulging himself in state, he sees let down from the ceiling, exactly over his head, a glittering sword hung by a single hair. The sight of impending destruction put a speedy end to his joy and revelling. The pomp of his attendance, the glitter of the carved plate, and the delicacy of the Tiands, cease to afford him any pleasure. He dreads to stretch forth his hand to the table. He throws off the garland of roses. He hastens to remove from his dangerous situation; and earnestly entreats the king to restore him to his former humble condition, having no desire to enjoy any longer a happiness so terrible. By this device, Dionysius intimated to Damocks, how miserable he was in the midst of all his treasures ; and in possession of all the honours and enjoyments which royalty could bestow. cicero, SECTION II. Change of exfcrnal condition often adverse to virtue. In the days of Joram, king of Israel, flourished ihe prophet Elisha. His character was so eminent, and his flime so \\ i(]( ]y spread, that l^cnhadad the king of Syria, though an idolater, sent to consult him, concern- ing the issue of a distemper which threatened his life. The messenger emplo3'ed on tins occasion was Hazael, who appears to have been one of the princes, or chief men of the Syrian court. Charged with rich gifts from the king, he presents himself before the prophet; and accosts him in terms of the highest respect. During the conference wliich they held together, Elisha fixed his eye CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 27 Steadfastly on the countenance of Hazael; and discerninof^ by a prophetic spirit, his future tyranny and cruelty, he could not contain himself from bursting into a flood of tears. When Hazael, in surprise, inquired into the cause of this sudden emotion, the prophet plainly in- formed him of the crimes and barbarities, which he fore- saw that he would afterwards commit. The soul of Ha- zael abhorred, at this time, the thoughts of cruelty. Uncorrupted, as yet, by ambition or greatness, his in- dignation rose at being thought capable of the savage ac- tions which the prophet had mentioned ; and, with much warmth, he replies ; ** But what ? is thy servant a dog, that he should do this great thing?'' Elisha makes no return, but to point out a remarkable change, which was to take place in his condition : " The Lord hath shown me, that thou shalt be king over Syria.'-* In course of time, all that had been predicted came to pass. Hazael ascended the throne, and ambition took possession of his heart. " He smote the children of Is- rael in all their coasts. He oppressed them during all the days of king Jehoahaz :" and, from what is left on record of his actions, he plainly appears to have proved, what the prophet foresaw him to be, a man of vio- lence, cruelty, and blood. Ill this passage of history, an object is presented, which deserves our serious attention. We behold a man who, in one state of life, could not look upon certain crimes without surprise and horror; who knew so little of himself as to believe it impossible for him ever to be coucerned in committing them ; that same 'man, by a change of condition, and an unguarded state of mind, transformed in all his sentiments; and as he rosw in greatness rismg also in guilt ; till at last he com- 28 THE ENGLISH READER. PART !• pleted that whole character of iniquity, which he once detested, blair. SECTION III, Haman ; or, the misery of pride, Ahasuerus, who is supposed to Ue the prince known among the Greek historians by the name of Artaxerxes, had advanced to the chief dignity in his kingdom, Haman, an Avnalekite, who inherited ail the ancient enmitjr of his race to the Jewish nation, j He appears, from what is recorded of him, to have been a very w icked minister. Raised to greatness without merit, he employed his power solely for the gratification of his passions. As the honours which he possessed were next to royal, his pride was every day fed with that servile homage, which is peculiar to Asiatic courts ; and all the servants of the king pro- strated themselves before him. In the midst of this general adulation, one person only stooped not to Ha- man. This was Mordecai the Jew; w^ho, knowing this Amalekite to be an enemy to the people of God, and, with virtuous indignation, despising that inso-^ lence of prosperity with which he saw him lifted up, ** bowed not, nor did him reverence.^^ On this ap- pearance of disrespect from Mordecai, Haman " wj full of wrath: but he thought scorn to lay hands oi! Mordecai alone/* Personal revenge was not suffi cient to satisfy him. So violent and black were his pas- sions, that he resolved to exterminate the whole nation to w^hich Mordecai belonged. Abusing, for his cruel purpose, the favour of his credulous sovereign, he ob- tained a decree to be sent forth, that, against a certain CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 29 day, all the Jews throughout the Persian dominiona should be put to the sword. ■ Meanwhile, confident of success, and blind to approaching ruin, he continued exulting in his prosperity. Invited by Ahasuerus to a royal banquet, which Esther the queen had prepared, ^' he went forth that day joyful, and with a glad heart.^' But behold how slight an incident was suiBcient to poi« fion his joy ! As he went forth, he saw Mordecai in the king's gate; and observed, that he still refused to do Jiim homage: "He stood not up, nor was moved for him;" although he well knew the formidable dcsign.<»> 'which IJanian was preparing to execute. One private man, who despised his greatness, and disdained sub^^ mission, while a whole kingdom trembled before bim; one spirit, which the utmost stretch of his power could neither subdue nor humble, blasted his triun)j)hs. His whole soul was shaken with a storm of passion. V/rath, pride, and desire of revenge, rose into fury. With [difficulty he restrained himself in public; but as soon (as he came to his own house, he was forced to disclose fthe agony of his mind. He gathered together his ! friends and family, with Zeresh iiis wife. ** He told them of the glory of his riches, and the multitude lof his children, and of all the things wherein the king had promoted him ; and how he had advanced him above the princes^ and servants of the king. He said, moreover, " Yea, Esther the queen suflercd no man to come in with the king, to the banquet that she had prepared, but myself; and to-morrow alto am I invited to her with the king/' After all this pre- amble, what is the conclusion ? — " Yet all this avaiU eth me nothing, so long as 1 see Mordecai the Jew i^itting at the king's gate."' so THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1* The sequel of Hainan's history I shall not now pur- sue. It might aflbrd matter for much instruction, by the conspicuous justice of God in his fall and punish- jnent. But contemplating only the singular situation, in which the expressions just quoted ])resent him, and the violent agitation ef his mind which they display,, the following reflections naturally arise ; How miserable is vice, when one guilty passion creates so much tor- ment ! how unavailing is prosperity, when, in the height of it, a single disappointment can destroy the relish of all its pleasures ! how weak is human nature, which, in the absence of real, is thus prone to form to itself imaginary woes! blair. SECTION IV. Ortogrul; or, the vanity of riches. As Ortogrul of Basra was one day wandering along the streets of Bagdat, musing on the varieties of mer- chandise which the shops offered t© his view; and ob- serving the different occupations which busied the mul- titudes on every side, he was awakened from the tran- quillity of meditation, by a crowd that obstructed his passage. He raised his eyes, and saw the chief vizier, who, having returned from the divan, was entering his palace. j Ortpgrul mingled with the attendants; and being sup- posed to have some petition for the vizier, was permitted to enter. He surveyed the spaciousness of the apart- ments, admired the walls hung with golden tapestry, and the floors covered with silken carpets; and de- spised the simple neatness of his own little habitation.; CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 3l " Surely/' said he to himself, " this place is the seat of happiness; where pleasure succeeds to pleasure, and discontent and sorrow can have no admission. Whatever nature has provided for the delight of sense, is here spread forth to be enjoyed. What can mortals hope or imagine, which the master of this palace has not obtained ? The dishes of luxury cover his table; the voice of harmony lulls him in his bo\^ers; he breathes the fragrance of the groves of Java, and sleeps upon the down of the cygnets of Ganges. He speaks, and his mawdate is obeyed ; he wishes, and his wish is gratified : all whom he sees obey him, and all whom he hears flatter him. How different, O Ortogrul, is thy condition, who art doomed to the perpetual torments of unsatisfied desire; and who hast no amusement in thy power, that can withhold thee from thy own re« flections? They tell thee that thou art wise; but what does wisdom avail with poverty ? None will flatter the poor; and the wise have very little power of flattering themselves. That man is surely the most wretched of the sons of wretchedness, who lives with his own faults land follies always before him; and who has none to re- concile him to himself by praise and veneration. I have long sought content, and have not found it; I will from this moment endeavour to be rich." Full of his new resolution, he shut himself in his chamber for six months, to deliberate how he should grow rich. He sometimes proposed to oiler himself as a counsellor to one of the kings in India ; and some- times resolved to dig for diamonds in the mines of Gol- « conda. One day, after some hours passed in violent I fluctuation of opinion, sleep insensibly seized him in his chair. He dreamed that he was ranging a desert 32 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1. country, in search of some one that might teach him to grow rich ; and as he stood on the top of a hill, shaded with cypress, in doubt whither to direct his steps, his father appeare3 on a sudden standing before him. " Ortogrul,^' said the old man, "I know thy perplexity; listen to thy father; turn thine eye on the opposite moantain/' Ortogrul looked, and saw a tor- rent tumbling down the rocks, roaring with the noise of thunder, and scattering its foam on the impending woods ** Now/' said his father, "behold the Viilley that lies between the hills/' Ortogrul looked, and espied a little well, out of which issued a small rivulet, " Tell me now,*' said his fither, " dost thou wish for sudden alBuence, that may pour upon thee like the mountain-torrent; or for a slow and gradual increase, resembling the rill gliding from the well?" " Let me be quickly rich," said Ortogrul; " let the golden stream be quick and violent." " Look round thee,*-' said his father, " once again," Ortogrul looked, and per- ceived the channel of the torrent dry and dusty; but following the rivulet from the well, he traced it to a wide lake, which the supply, slow and constant, kept always full. He awoke, and determined to grow rich by silent profit, and persevering industry. Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in merchan- dise ; and in twenty years purchased lands, on which he raised a house, equal in sumptuousness to that of the vizier, to which he invited all the ministers of plea- sure, expecting to enjoy all the felicity which he had imagined riches able to ailbrd. Leisure soon made him weary of himself, and he longed to be persuaded that he was great and happy. He was courteous and liberal : he gave all that approached him hopes ctf plea- CHAP. ri. NARRATIVE PIECES. 33 sing hin», and all who should please him, hopes of beings rewarded. Every art of praise was tried, and every source of adulatory fiction was exhausted. Ortogrul heard his flatterers without delight, because he found j himself unable to believe them. His own heart told him its frailties; his own understanding reproached him with his faults. '"How long/' said he, with a deep sigh, " have I beeu labouring in vain to amass wealth, which at last is useless I Let no man hereafter wish t© |be rich, who is already too wise to be flattered." DR. JOHNSON. section v. Lady Jane Grey. 'his excellent personage was descended from the royal line of England by both her parents. She was carefully educated in the principles of the 'Reformation : and her wisdom and virtue rendered her a shining example to her sex. But it was her lot fo continue only a short period on this stage of being; for, in early life, she fell a sacrifice to the wild ambition of \ the duke of Northumberland; who promoted a mar- riage between her and his son. Lord Guilford Dudley ; and raised her to the throne of England, in oppositica to the rights of Mary and Elizabeth. At the time of iheir marriage, she was only about eighteen years of age^ I and her husband w^as also very young : a season of life I very unequal to oppose the interested vie%vs of artful and aspiring men ; who, instead of exposing them to I danger, should have been the protectors of their inno- ' cence and youth. 34f THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. This extraordinary young person, besides the solid endowments of piety and virtue, possessed the most engaging disposition, the most accomplished parts; and being of an equal age with king Edward VI. she had received all her education with him, and seemed even to possess a greater facility in acquiring every part of manly and classical literature. She had attained a knowledge of the Roman and Greek languages, as w^ell as of several modern tongues ; had passed most of her time in an application to learning; and expressed a great indiflerence for other occupations and amuse- ments usual with her sex and station. Roger Ascham, tutor to the lady Elizabeth, having at one time paid her a visit, found her employed in reading Plato, while the rest of the family were engaged in a party of hunt- ing in the park; and upon his admiring the singularity of her choice, she told him, that she " received more pleasure from that author, than others could reap from all their sport and gaiet)^^^ — Her heart, replete With this love of literature and serious studies, and with tenderness towards lier husband, who was deserv- ing of her affection, had never opened itself to the flattering allurements of ambition ; and the informa- tion of her advancement to the throne was by no means agreeable to her. She even refused to accept of the crown ; pleaded the preferable right of the two prin- cesses; expressed her dread of the consequences at- tending an enterprise so dangerous, not to say so criminal ; and desired to remain in that private station in which she was born. Overcome at last with the entreaties, rather than reasons, of her father and father-in-law, and, above all, of her husband, she sub- mitted to their will, and was prevailed on to relinquish] HAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 55 her own judgment. But her elevation was of very short continuance. The nation declared for queen Mary ; and the lady Jane, after wearing the vain pageantry of a crown during ten days, returned to a private life, with much more satisfaction than she felt when royalty was tendered to her. Queen Mary, who appears to have been incapable of generosity or clemency, determined to remove every person, from whom the least danger could be ap- , prehended. Warning was, therefore, given to lady Jane to prepare for death; a doom which she had ex- pected, and which the innocence of her life, as well as the misfortunes to which she had been exposed, ren- dered no unwelcome news to her. The queen's bigoted zeal, under colour of tender mercy to the prisoner's soul, induced her to send priests, who molested her with perpetual disputation ; and even a reprieve of three days was granted her, in hopes that she would be persuaded, during that time, to pay, by a timely conversion to popery, some regard to her eternal welfare. Lady Jane had presence of mind, in those melancholy circumstances, not only to defendJier re- ligion by solid arguments, but also to write a letter to her sister, in the Greek language; in which, besides sending her a copy of the Scriptures in that tongue, she exhorted her to maintain, in every fortune, a like steady perseverance. On the day of her execution, her husband, lord Guilford, desired permission to see her ; but she refused her consent, and sent him word, that the tenderness of their parting would overcome the fortitude of both ; and would too much unbend their minds from that constancy, which theirapproaching end required of them. — Their separation, she said, would be 4 36 THE ENCLrSH READER. PART I. only for a moment ; and they would soon re-join each other in a scene, where their affections would be for ever united ; and where death, disappcintment, and jiiisfor tunes, could no longer have access to them, or disturb their eternal felicity. It had been intended to execute the lady Jane and lord Guilford together on the same scaflbld, at Tower-hill ; but the council, dreading the compassion of the people for their youth, beauty, innocence, and noble birth, changeil their orders, and gave directions that she should be beheaded within the verge of the Tower. She saw her husband led to execution, and having given him from the w^indow sortie token of her remembrance, she waited with tranquillity till her own appointed hour should bring her to a like fate. She even saw^ his headless body carried back in a cart; and found herself more confirmed by the reports, which she heard of the constancy of his end, than shaken by so tender and melancholy a spectacle. Sir John Gage, constable of the TowiT, when he led her to execution, desired her to bestow on him some small present, which he might keep as a perpetual mem,onal of Jier. Shci gave him her table-book, in which she had just written three sentences, on seeing her husband's dead body; one in Greek, another in Latin, a third in English. The purport of them was, " that human justice was against his body, but the Divine Mercy would be favourable to his soul: and that if her fault deserved punishment, her youth, at least, and her imprudence^ were worthy of excuse ; and that God and posterity, she trusted, would show her favour.'* On the scaffold, she made a speech to the bj'-standors, in which the mildness of her disposition led her to take the blame CHAP. If. NARJiATIVE PIECES. 3Y entirely on herself, withoul. uttering one complair.t against the seventy with which she had been treated. She said, that her oflence was, not having laid her hand upon the crown, but not rejecting it with suf- ficient coastancy ; that she had less erred through am- bition than through reverence to her parents, whom she had been tauglit to respect and obey : that she willingly received death, as the only satisfaction which she could now make to the injured state; and though her infringement of the laws had been constrained, she vrould show, by her vohintary submission to their sentence, that she was desirous to atone for that dis- obedience, into Avhich too much filial piety had be- trayed her: that she had justly deserved this puni.sh men f, for being made the instrument, though the unwilling instrument, of the ambition of others: and that the story of her life, she hoped, might at least be useful, by proving that innocence excuses not great misdeeds, if they tend any way to the destruction of the common- wealth. After uttering these words, she caused herself to be disrobed by her women, and with a steady, serene countenance, submitted herself to the executionor. uvyiM, SECTION ri. The hill of Science, In that season of the year, wlien the serenity of the sky, the various fruits w hich cover t^he grouiaj, the dis- coloured foliage of the trees, and all the swecf, hut fading graces of inspiring autnmn, r>pen the mind fo 5S THE ENGLISH READER. PART f, benevolence, and dispose it foj\ contemplation, I was wandering in a beautiful and romantic country, till curiosity began to give way to weariness ; and I s^t down on the fragment of a rock overgrown with moss; where the rustling of the falling leaves, the dashing of waters, and the hum of the distant city, soothed my mind into the most perfect tranquillity; and sleep in- sensibly stole upon me, as I was indulging the agree- able reveries, which the objects around me naturally inspired, I immediately found myself in a vast extended plain, in.tlie middle of which arose a mountain higher than I had before any conception of It was covered with a multitude of people, chiefly youth ; many of whom pressed forwards with the liveliest expression of ardour in their countenance, though the way w^as in many places steep and difficult. I observed, that those who had but just begun to climb the hill, thought themselves not far from the top ; but as they proceeded, new hills were continually rising to their view; and the summit cf the highest they could before discern seemed but. the foot of another, till the mountain at length appc^ared to lose itself in the clouds. As I was gazing on these things with astonishment, a friendly instructer suddenly appeared : " The mountain before thee," said he, *' \s the Hill of Science. On the top is the temple of Truth, whose head is above the clouds, and a veil of pure light covers her face. Observe the progress of her vo- taries : be silent and attentive.'^ After I had noticed a variety of objects, I turned my eye towards the multitudes who were climbing the steep ascent; and observed amongst them a youth of a I lively look, a piercing eye, and something fiery and CHAP. It. NARRATIVE PIECES. 39 irregular in all his motions. Ills name was Genius. He darted like an eagle up the mountain ; and left his companions gazing after him with envy and admira- tion : but his progress was' uneqwal, and interrupted by a thousand caprices. When Pleasure warbled in the valley, he mingled in her train. When Pride beckoned towards the precipice^ he ventured to the tottering edge. He delighted in devious and untried paths; and made so many excursion* from the road, that his feebler companions often outstripj)ed him. I observed that the muses beheld him with partiality ; but Truth often frowned, and turned aside h-er face. While Genius was thus wasting his strength in eccen- tric flights, I saw a person of a very diiferent appear- ance, named Application. He crept along with a slow and unremitting pace, his eyes fixed on tbs top of the mountain, patiently removing every stone that ob- structed his way, till he saw most of those below him, who had at first derided his slow^ and toilsome progress. Indeed, there were few who ascended the hill with equal, and uninterrupted steadiness; for, beside the difficulties of the way, they were continually solicited to turn aside, by a numerous crowd of appetites, passions, and pleasures, whose importHnity, when once complied with, they became less and less able to resist : and though they often returned to the path, the asperities of the road were more severely felt; the hill appeared more steep and rugged ; the fruits which were wholesome and refreshing, seemed hai-sh and ill- tasted ; their sight grew dim; and their feet tript at every little obstruction. I saw, with some surprise, that the muses, whose |busine:?s was to cheer and encourage liiose who were 1)2 49 THE ENGLISH READER, PART I. toiling up the ascent, would often sing in the bowers of Pleas^jre, and accompany those who are enticed away at the call of the Passions. They accompanied them, however, hut a little way ; and always forsook them when they lost sight of the hilL The tyrants then do)3bled their chains upon the unhappy captives ; and led them away, without resistance, to the cells of rgnorance, or the mansions of Misery. Amongst the innumerable seducers, wlio were endeavouring to dravv away the votaries of Truth fro»ii the path of Science, there Avas one, so little formidable in her appearance, and so gentle and langmM in her attempts, that I :-.l'';uld scarcely have taken h ' ce of lier, but for the nunibers she had imperce]?;!;>iy loaded with her rhains. Indolence, (for "so ?he was called,) far from proceeding to open hostilitu .s, did not attempt to turn their i'eet out of the path, but contented herself with retarding their progress; and the purpose she could not f(;rce them to abandon, she persuaded them to delay. Her touch iiad a power like that of the torpedo, which withered the strength of those who came within its in- fluence. Her unhappy captives still turned their faces towards the temple, and always hoped to arrive there; Lui the ground seemed to slide from beneath their feet, and they f jund themselves at the bottom, before they suspected they had changed their place. The placid c, "o v. \\liich at first appeared in their countenance, \)\' degrees into a melancholy languor, which V j.s :iti,ire(i with deeper and deeper cloom, as they glided o \-r. th(! stream of Insignificance; a dark and sluggish A\ u-r, v/i]i( h is curled by no breeze, and enlivened by ; inininur, till it falls into a dead sea, where startled^ r !s.s''ii'4--r> are awakened by the shock, and the ne^jtj 2;je side of clemency and itiercy. The almighty Ruler of the world, though for ages offended by the unrighte- ousness, and insulted by the impiety of men, is 'Mong- sufFering and slow to anger." His Son, when he ap- peared in our nature, exhibited, both in his life and his death, the most illustrious example of forgiveness which the world ever beheld. If w^e look into the history of mankind, we shall find that, in every age, they who have been respected as w^orthy, or admired as great, have been distinguished for this virtue. Revenge dwells in little minds. A noble and magnanimous spirit is always superior to it. It suffers not from the injuries of men those severe shocks which others feel. Collected within itself, it stands unmoved by their im- potent assaults ; and with generous pit}-, rather than with anger^ looks down on their unworthy conduct. — It has been truly said, that the greatest man on earth can no sooner commit an injury, than a good man can make himself greater, by forgiving it. blair. SECTION IV, Motives to the practice of gentleness. To promote the virtue of gentleness, we ought to view our character with an impartial e}'^ ; and to learn, from our own failings, to give that indulgence 52 THE ENGLISH READER. PAKT T. which in our turn \vc claiiHi It is pride which fills the world \^'ith so much harshness and severity. Jn the fulness of self-estimation, we forget vhat we are. We claim attentions to which we are not entitled. We are rigorous to offences, as if we had never cifended ; unfeeling to distress, as if we knew not what ir was to suffer. From those airy regions of pride and folly, let us descend to our proper level. Let us sur- vey the natural equality on whicli Providence has placed man with man, and reHcct on the infirmities common to ail. }f the reflection on natural equality and mutual oflences, be insufficient to prompt humanity, let us at least remember what we are in the sight of our Creator. Have we none of that forbearance to give one another, which we all so earnestl}^ intreat frora heaven r Can we look for clemency or gentleness from our Judge, when we are so backward to show it to our own brethren ? Let us also accustom ourselves, . to reflect on the small moment of those things, which are the usual in- centives to violence and contention. In the ruffled and angry hour, we view every appearance through a false medium. The most inconsiderable point of in« terest, or honour, swells into a momentous object ; and the slightest attack seem^ to threateji immediate ruin. But after passion or pride has subsided, we look around in vain for the mighty mischiefs we dreaded. The fabric, which our disturbed imagination had reared, totally disappears. But though the cause of conten- tion has dwindled away, its consequences remain. We have alienated a friend ; we have embittered an enemy ; we have sowai the seeds of future suspicion, malevolence, or disgust, — Let us suspend our violence CHAP. in. DIDACTIC PIECES. 53 for 'A moment, when causes of discord occur. Let as anticipate that period of coolness, which, of itself, will soon arrive. Let us reflect how little we have any prospect of gaining by fierhe very (lifFerent situa- tion of the rest of mankind ; and not endeavour to de- prive them of what habit, at least, if they will not al- lovv it to be nature, has made necessary to their mo- rals^ and to their happiness, tt might be expected, tliat humanity wou](i prevent ihem from breaking into the last retreat of thq unfortunate, v, ho can no longer be objects of their envy or resentment; and tearing from them their only remaining comfort. The at- tempt to ridicule religion maybe agreeable to^some^ by relieving them from restraint upon their plea>ures; and may r -nder others very miserable, by making them doubt those truths, in which they were most deeply in- terested ; but it can conve\' real good and hnppiness to no one idividual. GrxEGOKy. SECTION VU, Drffidcnce of our abilities, a mark cf i'd>>do77i. It Is a sure indication of good sense, to be diffident of it. We then, and not till then, are growing wi^o, when we begin to discern how weak and unwise we are. An absolute perfection of understanding, is impos- sible: he makes the nearest approaches to it, who has the sense to discern, and the humility to acknowledge, its imperfections. Modesty always sits gracefully upon youth ; it covers a multitude of faults, and doubles the lustre of every virtue which it seems to | hide: the perfections of men being like those fiowersl which appear more beautiful, when their leaves are a1 little contracted and folded up, than when they are| CHAP. HI. DIDACTIC PIECES. 57 fall blown, and display themselves, without any reserve, to the view. We are some of us very fond of knowledge, and apt vahjc ourselves upon any proficiency in the sciences; one science, however, there is, worth niore tL?in all the rest, and that is, the science of living well ; w^hich shall remain, when '* tongues :>hall cease/' and ''know- ledge shall vanish away." As to new notions, and new doctrines, of which this age is very fruitful, the time \vill come, when we shall h'l^e no pleasure in them; nay, the fime shall come, when they shall l^e exploded, and would have been fo-gotim^, i*' tln^y had not been preserved in those excellent books, w!;ii.ii contain a confutation of them ; like insects preserved for ages in amber, which otherwise ^^ould soon have returned to the common mass of things. But a lirrn belief of Christianity, and a practice suitable to it, will suj)port and invigorate the mind to the last; and most of all, at last, at that important hour, which must decide our hopes and apprehensions: and the wisdom, which, like our Saviour, cometh from above, will, through his me- rits, bring us thither. All our other studies and pur- sui^-;, however ditferent, ought to be subservient to, and Centre in, this grand point, the pursuit of eternal ha[)[)iness, by being good in ourselves, and useful to the world. seed. SECTION vin, On the impcrUmce of order in the dlatrlhiuioii of our time. Time we ought to coi;.sider as a sncred trust com- mitted to us by God 3 of which we are now the de- 53 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. positaries, and , are to render an account at the last. That portion of it which he has allotted to us, is intended partly for the concerns of this world, partly for those of the next. Let each of these occupy, in the distribution of our tinie^ that space which properly belongs to it. Let not the hours of hospitality and pleasure interfere with the discharge of our necessary affairs; and let not what we call necessary affairs, encroach upon the time which is due to devotion. To every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heaven. If we delay till to-morrow what ought to be done to- day, we overcharge the morrow with a burden which belongs not to it. We load the wheels of time, and prevent them from carrying us along smoothly. He who every morning plans the transactions of the day, and follows out that plan, carries on a thread which will guide him though the labyrinth of the most busy life. The orderly arrangement of his time is like a ray of light, which darts itself through all his afiairs. But, where no plan is laid, where the disposal of time is surrendered merely to the chance of incidents, all things lie huddled together in one chaos, which admits neither of distribution nor review. The first requisite for introducing order into the management of time, is to be impressed with a just sense of its value. Let us consider well how much de- pends upon it, and how fast it flies away. The bulk of men are in nothing more capricious and inconsistent, than in their appreciation of time. When they think of it, as the measure of their continuance on earth, they highly prize it, and with the greatest anxiety stick to lengthen it out. But when they view it in separate parcels, they appear to hold it in contempt, and squan- CHAP. lir. DIDACTIC PIECES. 59 der It with inconsiderate profusion. While they com- plain that life is short, they are often wishing its dif- ferent periods at an end. Covetous of every other possession, of time only they are prodigal. They allow every idle man to be master of this property, and make every frivolous occupation welcome that can help them to consume it. Among those who are so careless of time, it is not to be expected that order should be observed in its distribution. But, by this fatal neglect, how many materials of severe and lasting regret are they laying up in store for themselves ! The time which they suf!er to pass away ia the midst of confu- sion, bitter repentance seeks afterwards in vain to re- call. What was omitted to be done at its proper moment, arises to be the torment of some future sea- son. Manhood is disgraced by the consequences of neglected youth. Old age, oppressed by cares that belonged to a former period, labours under a burden not its own. At the close of life, the dying man be- holds with anguish that his days are finishing, when his preparation for eternity is hardly commenced. Such are the effects of a disorderly waste of time, through not attending to its value. Every thing in the life of such persons is misplaced. Nothing is performed aright, from not being performed in due season. But he who is orderly in the distribution of his time, takes the proper method of escaping those manifold evils. He is justly said to redeem the time. By pro- per management, he prolongs it. He lives much in liltle space; more in a few years than others do in many. He can live to God and his own soul, and at the same time attend to all the lawful interests of the present world. He looks back on the past, and p;o- 2 f)0 THE ENGLISH READER. PAK% I, vides for the future. He catches and arrests the hours as tiicy fly. They are marked down for useful pur- poses, and their memory remains. Whereas those hours fleet by the man of confusion hke a shadow. His days and years are either blanks, of which he has no remembrance, or they are filled up with so confused and irregular a succession of unfinished transactions, that though he remembers he has been busy, yet he can give no account of the business which has em- ployed him. BLAIR. SECTION IX, The dignitj/ of virtue ainidst corrvpt examples. The most excellent and honourable character which can adorn a man and a Christian, is acquired by re- sisting the torrent of vice, and adhering to the cause of God and virtue against a corrapted multitude. It will be found to hold in general, that they, who in imy of the great lines of life, have distinguished themselves for thinking profoundly, and acting nobly, have de- spised popular prejudices; and departed, in several things, from the common ways of the world. On no occasion is this more requisite for true honour, than where religion and morality are concerned. In times of prevailing licentiousness, to maintain unblemished virtue, and. uncorrupted integrity; in a public or a private cause, to stand firm by what is fair and just, amidst discouragements and opposition ; despising groundless censure and reproach ; disdaining all com- pliance with public manners, when they aje vicious and unlawful; and never ashamed of the puiictuai 5 CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 61 dis^arge of every duty towards God and man ; — this is what sliows true greatness of spirit, and will force approbation even from the degenerate multitude them- selves. *' This is the man/* (their conscience will oblige thent to acknowledge,) " whom we are unable to bepd to mean condescensions. We see it in vaiti either to flatter or to threaten him ; he rests on a prin- ciple within, which we cannot shake. To this man we may, on any occasion, safely commit our cause.'. He is incapable of betraying his trust, or deserting his friend, or denying his faith." It is, accordingly, this steady inflexible virtue, this regard to principle, superior to all custom and opi- nion, which peculiarly marked the characters of those in any age, who have shone with distinguished lustre; and has consecrated their memory to all posterity. It was this that obtained to ancient Enoch the most sin^ gular testimony of honour from heaven. He continued to '' walk w^ith God," when the world apostatized from him. He pleased God, and was beloved of him ; so that living among sinners, he was translated to heaven without seeing death ; " Yea, speedily was he taken away, lest wickedness 'should have altered his under- standing, or deceit beguiled his soul.^' When Sodom could not furnish ten righteous men to save it, Lwt re- mained' unspotted amidst the contagion. He lived like an angel aniong spirits of darkness; and the destroying flame was not permitted to go forth, till the good man w-as' called away by a heavenly messenger from his devoted city. When '' all flesh had corrupted their w^ay upon the earth," then lived Noah, a righteous man, and a preacher of righteonsncis. He stood alone, and V. as scofled by the profane crew. Biit they by I I'CrNI^EReiTTj 62 THE ENGLISH READER. PARTI. the deluge, were swept away; while on him^ Provi- dence conferred the immortal honour^ of being the re- storer of a better race, and the father of a new world. Such examples as these, 'and such lionours conferred by God on them who withstood the multitude of evil doers, should often be present to our minds. Let us oppose them to the numbers of Jovv and corrupt ex- amples, which we behold around us; and when we are in hazard of being swayed by such, let us fortify our virtue, by thinking of those who, in former times, shone like stars in the midst of surrounding darkness, and are now shining in the kingdom of heaven, as the brightness of the firmament, for ever and ever. BLAIR. SECTION X. Hie mortifications of vice greater tJian tTiose of virtue. Though no condition of human life is ix^ot from uneasiness, \et it must be allowed, that the uneasiness j belonging to a sinful course, is far greater, than what J attends a course of well-doing. If we are weary of the labours of virtue, we may be assured, that the world, whenever %ve try the exchange, will lay ijpon ■us a much heavier load. It k the outside only, of a licentious life, which is gay and smiling. Within, it conceals toil, and trouble, and dcadh^ sorrow. For vice poisons human happiness in the spring, by intro- ducing disorder into the heart. Those passions which it seems to indulge, it only feeds with imperfect grati- fications; and thereby strengthens them for preying^ in the end, on thek unhappy victims. CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 63 It is a great mistake to imagine, that the pain of self-denial is confined to virtue. He who follows the world, as much as he who follows Christ, must *' take up his cross ;'' and to him assuredly, it will prove a more oppressive burden. Vice allows all our passions to range uncontrolled ; and where each claims to be superior, it is impossible to gratify all. The pre- dominant desire can only be indulged at the expense of its rival. No mortifications which virtue exacts, are more severe than those, which ambition imposes upon the love of ease, pride upon interest, and covet- ousness upon vanity. Self-denial, therefore, belongs, in common, to vice and virtue; but with this remark- able difference, that the passions which virtue requires us to mortify, it tends to weaken; whereas, those which vice obliges us to deny, it, at the same time, strengthens. The one diminishes the pain of self-denial, by moderating th« demand of passion ; the other in- creases it, by rendering those demands imperious and violent. What distresses that occur in the calm life of virtue, can be compared to those tortures, which re- morse of conscience inflicts on the ^yicked ; to those severe humihations, arising from guilt combined with misfortunes, which sink them to the dust; to those violent agitations of shame and disappointment, w^hich sometimes drive them to the most fatal extremities, and make them abhor their existence ! How often, in the midst of those disastrous situations, into which their crimes have brought them, have they execrated the seductions of vice; and, with bitter regret, looked back to the day on which they first forsook the path of innocence ! blair. E2 Qi THE ENGLISH READER. PART I, SECTION XI, On contentment. Contentment produces, in some measure, all those ellbcts which the alchymist usually ascribes to what he calls the philosopher's stone; and if it does not bring riches, it does the same thing, by banisiiing the desire oT them. If it cannot remove the disquietudes arising from a man's mind, body, or fortune, it makes hhu easy -under them. It has indeed a kindly influence on the soul of man, iu respect of ^very being to whom he stands related. It extinguishes alLmurmur, repining, and ingratitude, towards that being who has allotted him his part to act in this world. It destroys all in- ordinate ambition, and every tendency to corruption, with regard to the cjommunity wherein he is placed. 'It gives sweetness to his conversation, and a perpetual serenity to all his thoughts. Among the many methods which might be made use of for acquiring this virtue, I shall mention only the two following. First of all, a man should always con- sider how much he has more than he wants; and secondly, Kow much more unhappy. he might be than lie really is. First, a man should always cori.sider how mueh.i he has more than he wants. I am wonderfully pleased w^ith tne repiy Vv'hich Aristippus made to one, who con- 1 doled with him upon the loss of a farm : '' Why," said he, " I have three farms still, and you have but one; so that I or.ght rather to be aitlicted for you^ than you fc me.'' On the contrary, foolish men are more apt ( consider what they have lost, than what they possess CHAP. Iir. DIDACTIC PrECES. &^ and to fix their e3'es upon those who are richer than' themselves, rather than on those who are under greater difficulties. All the real pleasures and conveniences of life lie in a narrow compass ; but it is ike humour of mx-vnk'id to be always looking forward ; and straining after < ne who has got the start of them in wealth and honour, lor this reason, as none can be properly called rich, who have not more than they warrt, there are feW rich men in any of the politer nations, but among the middle sort of people, who keep their wishes wTthin their fortunes, and have more wealth - than the}^ know how to enjoy. Persons of a higher rank live in a kind of splendid povcity; and are per- petually wanting, because, instead of acquiescing in the solid pleasures of life, they endeavour to outvi3 one anotlier in shadovv's and appearances. Men of sense have at all times beheld, with a gieaj; deal oF^ mirth, this silly gamo that is playing over their heads; and, !)\- contracting their desires, enjoy all that secret .satisfaction which others are always in quest of. The truth is, this ridiculous chase after imaginary pleasures, cannot be sufficiently exposed, as it is the great source of those evils which generally undo a nation. Let a man^s estate be what it may, he is a poor man, if he does not live within it; and naturally sets himself to sale to any one that can give him his price. When Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who had left him a g(d(id estate, was offered a great sum of- money by >he king of Lydia, he thanked him for his kindness; but told him, he had already more by half than he knew what to do with. In short, content is equivalent to wealth, and luxury to poverty ; or, to give the thought a. more 'agreeable turn, '' Content is natural wealth/^ E3 66 THE ENGLISH READER, PART I. says Socrates; to which I shall add, luxury is artificial poverty. J shall therefore recommend to the con- sideration of those, who are always aiming at super- fluous and imaginary enjoyments, and who will not be at the trouble of contracting their desires, an excellent saying of Bion the philosopher, namely, *' That no man has so much care, as he who endeayours after the most happiness.'^ In the second place, every one ought to reflect how much more unhappy he might be, than he really is. — The former consideration took in all fliose, who are sufficiently provided with the means to make them- selves easy; this regards such as actually lie under some pressure or misfortune. These may receive great alleviation, from such a comparison as the unhappy person may make between himself and others ; or be- tween the misfortune which he suffers, and greater misfortunes which might have befallen him. I like the story of the honest Dutchman, w^ho, upon breaking his leg by a fall from the main-mast, told the standers by, it was a great mercy that it was not his vneck. To which, since I am got into quotations, give me leave to add the saying of an old philosopher, who, after having invited some of his friends to dine with him, was ruffled by a person that came into the room in a passion, and threw down the table that stood be- fore them : '' Every one," says he, '' has his calamity; and he is a happy man that has no greater than this.'* We find an instance to the same purpose, in the life of tloctor Hammond, written by bishop Fell. As this good man was troubled with a complication of dis- tempers, when he had the gout upon him, he used to thank God that it was not the stone; and when he had CKAP III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 67 the stone, that he had not both these dlstcmpei^ on him at the same time. I cannot conclude this essay without observing, that there never was any system besides that of Christianity,, which could eliectualiy produce in the mind of man the virtue I have beea hitherto speaking of. In order to make us contented with our condition, many of the present philosophers tell us, that our discontent only hurts ourselves, without being able to make any altera- tion in our circumstances ,• otiiers, that whatever evil befalls us is derived to us by a fatal necessity, to which superior beings themselves are subject ; while others^ very gravely, tell the man who is miserable, that it is necessary he should be so, to keep up the harmony of the universe • and that the scheme of Providence would. be troubled and perverted, were he otherv^ ise. These, and the like considerations, rather silence than satisfy a man. They may show him that his discontent is unrea-- sonable, but they are by no means sufficient to relieve it. They rather give despair than consolation. In a word, a man might repl}- to one of these comforters, as Augustus did to his friend, who advised him not to grieve for the cleath of a person whom he loved, be- cause his grief could not fetch him again ; *' It is for that ver}' reason, ^' said the emperor, '^ that I grieve/^ On the contrary, religion bears a more tender re- gard to human nature. It prescribes to every miser- able man the means of bettering his condition : nay^, it shows him, that bearing his afflictions as he ought to do, will naturcilly end in the removal of them. It makes him easy here, because it can make him happy hereafter. addison, E4 6S ' THE ENGLISH READER. PARTI* SECTION XII, Rank and riches afford no ground for envxj. Of all the grounds of envy among men, superiority in rank and fortune is the most general. Hence, the malignity which the poor comn-fuly bear to the rich, as engrossing to themselves all the comforts of life. Hence the evil eye with which persons of inferior sta- tion scrutinize those who are above them in rank; and inbey approach to that rank, their envy is generally strongest agaiost such as are just one step higher than tLems-Jves. — Alas! my friends, all this envious dis- quietude^, which agitates the world, arises from a deceit- ful figure which imposes on the public vio\v. False co- lours are hung out: tiie rcbl state of men is not what it seems to be. The order of society requires a distinc- tion of ranks to take place : but in point of happiness, all men come much nearer to equality tl^an is commonly imagined; and the circumstances, which form any ma- terial difference of happiness among them, are not of that nature which renders them grounds of envy. The poor man possesses not, it Is true, some of the conveni- ences and pleasures of the rich ; but, in return, he is ^\^q. from many embarassments to which they are subject. By the simplicity and uniformity of his life, he is deli- vered from that variety of cares, which perplex those v>'ho have great affairs to manage, intricate plans to, pursue, many enemies, perhaps, to encounter in tjie pursuit. \x\ the tranquillity of his small habitation, and private family, he enjoys a peace which is often un- known at courts. , The gratifications of nature, which are always the most satisfoctory, are possessed by him CHAP. fir. DIDACTIC PIECES. 6-9^ to their full extent; and if he be a stranger to the re- fined pleasures of the wealthy, he is unacquainted also with the desire of them, and by consequence, feels no want. His plain meal satisfies his appetite, with a re- lish, probably higher than that of the rich man, who sits down to his luxurious banquet. His sleep is more sound; his health more firm; lie knows not what spleen, languor, and list lessness are. His accustomed employments or labours are not more oppressive to liim, than the labour of attendance on courts and the great, the labours of dress, the fatigue of amusements^ the very weight of idleness, frequently are to the rich. In the mean time, all the beauty of the face of nature, all the enjoyments of domestic society, all tl^e gaiety and cheerfulness of an easy mind, are as open'^tb hini as to those of the highest rank. The splendour of re- tinue, the sound of titles, the appearances of high re- spect, are indeed soothing, for a short time, to the great. But, become familiar, they are soon forgotten. Custom efiaces their impression. They sink into the rank of tliose ordinary thing?, which daily recur, without raising any sensation of joy. — Let us cease, therefore, from looking up with discontent and envy to tlio^Cj whom birth or fortune has placed above us. Let. us adjust the balance of happiness fairly. When we think of the cf.joyments we^want, w^e should think" ako of iha troubles from which we are free. If we ;illow their just value to the comforts we possess, we shall find reason to rest satisfied, with a very moderate, though not an opulent and splendid, condition of fortune. Olten, did we know the w^hoie, we should be inclined to pity the state of those whom w^e now cuyv. BLAIR, E5 ^0 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I* SECTION XIII. Patience under provocations our interest as ivell as dutj/. The wide circle of human society is diversified by an endless variety of characters^ dispositions, and pas* sions. Uniformity is, in no respect, the genius of the world. Every man is marked by some pecuharity which distinguishes him from another : and no where tan two individuals be found, who are exactly and in all respects, alike. Where so much diversity obtains^ it cannot but happen, that, in the intercourse which men are obliged to maintain, their tempers will often be ill adjusted to that intercourse; will jar, and inter- fere with each other. Plence, in every station, the highest as well as the lowest, and in every condition of hfOj public, private, and domestic, occasions of irri- tation frequently arise. We are provoked, sometimes, by the folly and levity of those with whom we are con- nected ; sometimes, by their indifTereuce or neglect; by the incivility of a friend, the haughtiness of a supe- rior, or the insolent behaviour of one in lower station. Hardly a day passes, without somevvhat or other oc- curring, which serves to ruffle the man of impatient spirit. Of course, such a man lives in a continual storm. He knows not what it is to enjoy a train of good humour. Servants, neighbours, friends^ spouse, and children, all, through the unrestrained violence of his temper, become sources of disturbance and vexation to him. In vain is affluence ; in vain are health and prosperity. The least trifle is sufficient to discompose his mind, and poison his pleasures. His very amuse- ments arc mixed with turbulence and passion. CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 7T I would beseech this man to consider, of what small moment the provocations which he receives, or at least imagines himself to receive, are really in themselves; but of what great moment h^ makes them, by suffering them to deprive him of the possession of himself. I would beseech him, to consider, how many hours of happiness he throws away, which a little more pa- tience would allow him to enjoy : and how much he puts it in the power of the most insignificant persons to render him miserable. " But who can expect/* we hear him exclaim, '' that he is to possess the insensibi- lity of a stone ? How is it possible for human nature to endure so many repeated provocations? or to bear calmly with so unreasonable behaviour?'' — My bro- ther ! if thou canst bear with no instances of unreason- able behaviour, withdraw thyself from the world. Thou art no longer fit to live in it. Leave the intercourse of men. Retreat to the mountain,, and the desert; or' shut thyself up in a cell. For here, in. the midst of so- ciety, offences inust come. We might as well expect, when we behold a calai atmosphere^ and a -clear sky^ that no clouds were ever to rise, and no winds to blow^ as that our life were long to proceed, without receiving provocations from human frailty. Tiie careless and' the imprudent, the gidd5^ and the fickle, the ungrate-- ful and the interested, every w^here meet us. They are the briers and thorns, w-itli which the paths of hu- man life arc beset. He only, who can hold his course among them with patience and equanimity, lie who is prepared to bear what he must expect to happen, is \>oithy of the name of a man. If we preserved ourselves composed but for a mo- ment, we .should perceive the insignificancy ol'most of E() '72 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. those provocations which wc magnify so highly.- When a few suns more have rolled over our heads, the storm will, of itsejf, have subsided ; the cause of our present impatience and disturbance will be utterly forgotten. Can we not then, anticipate this hour of calmness to ourselves; and begin to enjoy the peace which it will certainly bring? If others have behaved improper!}', let us leave them to their own folly, without becoming the victim of their caprice, and punishing ourselvei- on their account. — Patience, in this exercise of it, cannot be too much studied by all who wish their life to flow in a smooth stream. It is the reason of a man, in op- position to the passion of a child. It is the enjoymen'6 of peace, in opposition to uproar and confusion. SECTION xir. Moderation in our tvishes recommended. The active mind of man seldom or never rests satis- fled with its present condition, how prosperous soever. Originally formed for a wider rani^^-e of objects, for a higher sphere of enjoyments, it finds itself, in every situation of fortune, straitened and confined. Sensible of deficiency in its state, it is ever sending forth the fond desire, the aspiring wish, after something beyond what is enjoyed at present. Hence, that restlessness which prevails so generally among mankind. Hence,, that disgust of pleasures which they have tried ; that passion for novelty ; that ambition of rising to some degree of eminence or felicity, of which they have fcrniedta themselves an indistinct idea. All v/hich CHAP. III. DJ DACTIC PIECfiS. 73 may be considered as indications of a certain native, original greatness in the human soul, s^velling beycvnd the hniits of its present condition ; and pointing to the higher objects for which it was made. Happy,, if these latent remains of our primitive state, served to direct our wishes towards their proper destination, and to lead us into the path of true bliss ! But in this dark aud bewildered state, the aspiring tendency of our nature unfortunately takes an oppo- site direction, and feeds a very misplaced ambition. The flattering appearances which here preseat them- selves to sense; the distinctions which fortune confers; the advantages and pleasures which we imagine the world to be capable of bestowing, fill up the ultimate wish of most men. These are the objects which en- gross their solitary musings, and stimulate their active labours ; which warm the breasts of the young, animate the industry of the middle aged, and often keep alive the passions of the old, until'the very close of life. Assuredly, there is notliing unlawful in our wisiiing to be freed from whatever \s disagreeable, and to ob- tain a fuller enjoyment of the comforts of life. But when these wishes are not tempered by reason, they are in danger of precipitating us into much extrava- gance and folly. Desires and wishes are the first springs of action. When they become exorbitant, the whole character is likely to be tainted. If we sufler our fancy to create to itself worlds of ideal happiness, we shall discompose the peace and order of our minds, and foment many hurtful passions. Here, then, let moderation begin its reign ; by bringiag within rea- sonable bounds the wisiies that we form. As soon as they become extravagant, let us check them, by pro* 74* THE ENGLISH READER. PART U per reflections on the fallacious nature of those objects, which the world hangs out to allure desire. You have strayed, my friends, from the road which conducts to felicity ; you have dishonoured the native disunity of your souls, in allowing your wishes to ter- minate on nothing higher than worldly ideas of great- ness or happiness. Your imagination roves in a land oT shadows. Unreal forms deceive you. It is no more than a phantom, an illusion of happiness, which attracts your fond admiration ; nay, an illusion of happiness, which often conceals jnuch real misery. Do you imagine, that all are happy, «dio have at- tained to those summits of distinction, towards which your v^ ishes aspire r Alas ! how frequently has experi* ence shown, that where roses were supposed to bloomy nothing but briers and thorns grew ! Reputations- beauty, riches, grandeur, nay, royalty itself,., would^ many a time, have been gladly exchanged by the pes* sessors, for that more quiet and hum.ble station, with^ which you are now dissatisfied. With all that is splen* did and shining in the world, it is decreed that there should mix many deep shades of wo. On the eleva- ted situations of fortune, the great calamities of life chiefly fall. There, the storm spends its violence, and there, the thunder breaks; while, safe and unhurt,-the inhabitants of the vale remain below. — Retreat, then, from those vain and pernicious excursions of extrava- gant desire. Satisfy yourselves with what is rational and attainable. Train your minds to moderate views of human I'fe, and human happiness. Remember, and admire, the wisdom of Agur^s petition : '^ Remove far from me vanity and lies. Give me neither poverty Dor riche>s. Feed me with food convenient for mc ; CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES, 15 Jest I be full, and deny thee ; and say, who is the Lord ? or lest I be poor, and steal ^ and take the name of my God in vain/* blair^ SECTION xr. Omniscience and omnipresence of the Deity, the source of consolation to good men, I WAS yesterday, about sun set, walking in the open fields, till the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first amused myself with all the richness and variety of co- lours, which appeared in the western parts of heaven. In proportion as they faded away and went out, seve- ral stars and planets appeared one after another, till the whole firmament was in a glow. The blueuess of the ether was exceedingly heightened and enlivened, by the season of the year, and the rays of all those lu- minaries that passed through it. The galaxy appeared in its most beautiful white. To complete the scene, the full-moon rose, at length, in that clouded majesty, which Milton takes notice of; and opened to the eye a new picture of nature, which was more finely shaded, and disposed among softer lights than that which the sun had before discovered to us. As I was surveying the moon walking in her bright- ness, arid taking her progress among the constellations, a thought arose in mo, which I believe very often per- plexes and disturbs men of serious and contemplative natures. David himself fell into it in that reflection; ^' When I consider the heavens, the w^prk of thy fingers; the moon and the starb which thou hast or- dained ; w hat is man tliat thou art miudful of him, and 3 76 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I, the son of man that thou regardest him l'^ In the same manner, Avhen I considered that infinite host of stars, or, to speak more philosophically, of suns, which were then shining upon me ; with those innumerable i3'ets of planets or worlds, which were moving round their re- spective suns; when I still enlarged the idea, and sup- posed another heaven of suns and worlds, rising still ^ above this which we discovered ; and these still enlight- ened by a superior firmament of luminaries, which are planted at so great a distance, that they may appear to the inhabitants of the former, as the stars do to us,- m short, while 1 pursued this thought, I could not but re- flect on that little insignificant figure, w^hich I myself bore amidst the immensity of God's works. Were the sun, wliich enlightens this part of the creation, with all the host of planetary worlds that move about him, utterly extinguished and annihilated,, they would not be missed, more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The space they possess is so ex- ceedingly little in comparison of the whole, it would scarcely make a blank in the creation. The chasm would be imperceptible to an eye, that could take in the whole compass of nature, and pass from one end of the creation to the other ; as it is possible there may be such a sense in ourselves hereafter, or in creatures which are at present more exalted than ourselves. By the help of glasses, we see many stars, which we do not discover with our naked eyes; and the finer our telescopes are, the more still are our discoveries. — Huygenius carries this thought so fiir, that he does not think it impossible there may be stars, whose light has not y-et travelled down to us, since their first creation. There is no question that the universe has certai:Si 1 CHAP. HI. DIDACTIC PIECES. 77 bounds set to it; but when we consider that it is the work of Infinite Power^ prompted by Infinite Goodness, with an infinite space to exert itself in, how can our imaginations set any bounds to it ? To return, tfierefore, to my first thought, I could not but look upon myself with secret horror, as a being tliat was not worth tht^ .-rnailit regard of one who had so great a work under his care and superintendency. I was afraid of being overlooked amidst the immensity of nature; and lost among that infinite variety of crea- tures, which, in all probability, swarm through all these immeasurable regions of matter. In order to recover myselffrom this mortifying thotight, I considered that it took its rise from those narrow conceptions, which we are apt to entertain of the Divine Nature. We ourselves cannot attend to many diflerent objects at th^ same time. If we are caj*eful to inspect some things, we must of course neglect others. This imperfection which we observe in our- selves, is an imperfection that cleaves, in some degree, to creatures of the highest capacities, as they are creatures, that is, beings of finite and limited natures. The presence of every cre?.ted being is "^confined to a certain measure of space; and consequently his obser-' vatioa is stinted to a certain number of objects. The sphere in which we move, and act, and understand, is of a wider circumference to one creature, than another, according as we rise one above another in the scale of existence. But the widest of these our spheres has its circumference. When, therefore, we reflect on the Divine Nature, we are so used and accustomed to this imperfection in ourselves, that we cannot forbear, in some measure, ascribing it to him, in whom there is no 78 THET ENGLISH READER. PARTI* shadow of imperfection. Our reason indeed assures us, that his attributes are infinite; but the poorness of our conceptions is such, that it cannot forbear setting bounds to every thing it contemplates, till our reason comes again to our succour, and throws down all those little prejudices, which rise in us unawares, and are natural lo the mind of man • We shall tlierefore utterly exlinguisli this melancholy thought, of our being overlooked by our Maker, in the multiphcity of his works, and the infinity of those ob- jects among which beseems to be incessantly employed^ if we consider, in the first place, that he is omnipresent j and in the second, that he is omniscient. If we consider him in his omnipresence, his being, passes through, actuates, and supports, the whole frame of nature. His creation, in every part of it, is full of him. There is nothing he has made, which is either so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, that he does not essentially reside in it. His substance is within the substance of every being, whether material or imma- terial, and as intimately present to it, as that being is to itself. It would be an imperfection in him, were he able to move out of one place into another ; or to withdraw himself from any thing he has created, or from any part of that space which he diffused and spread abroad to infinity. In short, to speak of him in the language of the old philosophers, he is a being whose centre is every where, and his circumference no w^here. In the second place, he is omniscient as well as om- nipresent His omniscience, indeed, necessarily and nuturally flows from his omnipresence. He cannot but be conscious of every motion that arises in the whole \ CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 79 material world, which he thus essentially pervades ; and of every thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, to every part of which he is thus intimately united. Were the soul separated from the body, and should it with one glance of thought start beyond the bounds of the creation; should it for milHons of years, continue its progress through infinite space, with the same activity, it would still find itself within the em- brace of its Creator, and encompassed by the immensity of the Godhead. In this consideration of the Almighty's omnipresence and omniscience, every uncomfortable thought va- nishes. He cannot but regard every thing that has' being, especially such of his creatures who fear they are not regarded by him. He is privy to all their thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart in particular, which is apt to trouble them on this occasion ; for, as it is impossible he should overlook any of his creatures, 80 we may be confident that he regards with an eye of mercy, those who endeavour to recommend them- selves to his notice; and in unfeigned humility of heart, think themselves unworthy that he should be mindful of them. addison. { 80 ) CHAPTER IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. SECTION 7. Happiness is founded in rcctitiide of cordiict. All men pursue good, and would be happy, if thejr- kne\N 'iow : not: liappy for minutes, and miserable for hour? ; but liappy, if possible, through every part of th' ;r existence. Either, therefore, there is a g^'-^^(\ of th. -^ ady, durable kind, or t.here is not. If not, th(ii all good must be transient and tmcertain ; and if so, an object of the lowest value, which can little deserve our attention or inquiry. But if there be a better good, such a good as we are seeking; like every other thing, it must be derived from some cause ; and that cause must either be e'xternal, internal, or mixed ; in as much as, except these three, there is no other possible. Now a steady, durable good, cannot be derived from an external cause; since all derived from externals nmst fluctuate as they fluctuate. By t-he same rule, it cannot be derived from a mixture of the two; because the part which is external, vvill proportionably destroy its essence. What then remains but the cause inter- nal ? the very cause which we have supposed, when we place the sovereign good in mind, — in rectitude of conduct, HARRl i CilAe. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 81 SECTION II, Virtue ?nan^s highest interest, . IiFiND myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded ^ every way by an immense unknown expansion. — tWhereamP What sort of place do I inhabit? Js it .exactly accommodated in every instance 4;o my con- venience? Is there no excess of' cold, none of heat, >to offend me ? Am I never annoyed by animals, either of my own, or a diflerent kind? Js every thing subservient to me, > as though I had ordered all myself? •No — nothing lik^} it — the farthest from it possible. The world appears not, then, originally made for the /private convenience of me alone? — It does not. But is it not possible '^o to accommodate it, by my own -particular industry ? If to accommodate man and beast, •heaven and earth, if tiiis be beyond m€, it is not V possible. What consequence then follows; or an '^ there be any other than this — If I seek an interest vof my own detaef their success to their own diligence, rather than to his blessing; and in their adversity, they impute their distresses to his providence, not to their own misbehaviour. Whereas, ' the truth is the very reverse of this. ''Every good and every perfect gift comet h from above;** and of evjl and misery, man is the autiior to himself. Wiien, from the condition of individuals, Ave look abroad to the public state of the world, we meet with more proofs oi' the truth of this assertion. We see ^ great societies of men torn in pieces by intestine dis- sensions, tumults, and civil commotions. We see mighty armies going forth, in formidable array, against each other, to cover the earth with blood, and to fill the air with the cries of widows and orphans. Sad evils these are, to which this miserable world is exposed,-^— But I are these evils, I beseech you, to be imputed to God ? Was it he who sent forth slaughtering aniiics into the field, or who fdled the peaceful city vviih massacres and blood ^ Are these miseries any other than the bit- ter fruit of men's violent and disorderly passions? -Are they not clearly to be traced to the ambition and vices of princes, to the quarrels of the grc^t, and to the iur- bulence of the people? — Let us lay them entirely owt of the account, in thinking: of Providence; and let us ;[ think only of the '*'fouli::^hncssof man.'* Did raanrontrol THE ENGLISH READER. his passions, and form his conduct according to the dic- tates of wisdom, humanity, and virtue,- the earth would no longer be desolated by cruelt}^; and human societies would hve in order, harmony, and peace, in those scenan and a mere inanimate clod ? Away then with those austere philosophers, who represent virtue as harden- ing the soul against all the softer impressions of huma- nity! The fact, certainly, is much otherwise. A truly good man is^ upon many occasions^ extremely sus- CHAP. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 91 ceptible of tender sentiments ; and his- heart expands with joy, or shrinks with sorrow, as good or ill fortune accompanies his friend. Upon tiie whole, then, it may fairly be concluded, that, as in the case of virtue, so in that of friendship, those painful sensations, which may sometimes be produced by the one, as well as by the other, are equally insufficient grounds for excluding either of them from taking possession of our bosoms. The}^ who insist that *' utility is the first and prevail- ing motive, which induces mankind to enter into par- ticular friendships,^^ appear to me to divest the associa- tion of its most amiable ii.ijd engaging principle. For to a mind rightly disposed^ it is not so much thg bene- fits received, as the affectioriate zeal from which they flow, that gives them their best and most valuable re- commendation. It is so far indeed from being verified by ikct, that a sense of our wants is the original cause of forming these amicable alliances; that, on the con- trary, it is obseivable, that none have been more dis tinguished in their friendships than those, whose power and opulence, but, above all, whose superior virtue, {a much firmer support,) have raised them above every necessit}^ of having recourse to the assistance of others. The true distinction then, in this question, is, that "although friendship is certainly productive of utility, yet utility is not the primary motive of friendship.'' Those selfish sensualists, therefore, who, lulled in the lap of luxury, presume to maintain the reverse, have surely no claim to attention; as they are neither quah- fied by reflection, nor experience, to be competent judges of the subject. Is there a man upon the face of the earth, who woujd deliberately accept of all the wealth, and all the afflu- F4 92 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. ence this world can bestow, if ofTered to him upon the severe terms of his bein^ unconnected with a single mortal whom he could love, or by whom he should be beloved? This would be to lead the wretched life of a detested tyrant, who, amidst perpetual suspicions and alarms, passes his miserable days a stranger to every tender sentiment ; and utterly precluded from the heart'felt satisfactions of friendship. Mdmoth's translation of Cicero's Lcclius. SECTION VI, On the immortalitj/ of the soul, 1 WAS yesterday walking alone, in one of my friend^s . woods; and lost myself in it very agreeably, as I was running over, in my mind, the several arguments that establish tiiis great point; which is the basis of morality, and the source of all the pleasing hopes, and secret joys, that can arise in the heart of a reasonable creature. I considered those several proofs drawn. First, from the nature of the soul itself, and particu- larly its immateriality; which, though not absolutely necessary to the eternity of its duration, has, I thinks been evinced to almost a demonstration. Secondly, from its passions and sentiments; as, parti- cularly, from its love of existence; its horror of an.- nihilation; and its hopes of immortality ; with that se^ cret satisfaction which it finds in the practice of virtue;" and that uneasiness which follows upon the commissi')n of vice. CHAP. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. yj Thirdly, from the nature of the Supreme Being, whose justice, goodness, wisdom, and veracity, are all concerned in this point. But among these, and other excellent arguments for the immortality of the soul, there is one drawn from the perpetual progress of the soul to its perfection^ without a possibility of ever arriving at it; which is a hint that I do not remember to have seen opened and improved by others, who have written on this subject, though it seems to me to carry a very great weight with it. How can it enter iuto the thoughts of man, that the souf, which is capable of immense perfection-^, and of receiving new improvements io all eternity, shall fall away into nothing, almost as soon as it is created ? Are such abilities made for no purpose ? A brute arrives at a point of perfection, that he can never pass : In a few years he has all the endowments he is capable of ; and were he to live ten thousand more, would be the same thing he Is at present. Were a hu- man soul thus at a stand in her accomplishments; were her faculties to be full blown, and incapable of farther enlargements ; .1 could imagine she might fall away in- sensibly, and drop at once iiito a state of annihilation. But can we- believe a thinking being that is in a per- petual progress of improvements, and • travelling on from perfection to perfection, after having just looked abroad into the w-orks of her Creator, and n^ade a few discoveries of his infinite goodness, wisdom, and power, must perish at her first setting out, and in the very be- ginning of her Inquiries. Man, considered only in his present state, seems sent into the w^orld merely to propagate his kind. He provides himself with a successor; and immediately quits 9% THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. his post to make room for him. He does not seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver it down to others. This is not surprising to consider in animals, which are formed for our use, and which can finish their business in a short life. The si}k-worm,-after having spun her task, lays her eggs apd dies. But n man cannot take in his full mea- sure of knowledge, has not time to subdue his passions, establish his soul in virtue, and come up to the perfec- tion of his nature, before he is hurried off the stage. Would an infinitely wise Being make such glorious creatures for so mean a purpose? Can he delight in the production of such abortive intelligences, such short- lived reasonable beings? Would he give us talents that are not to be exerted? capacities that are never to be gratified ? How can we find that wisdom which shines through all his works, in the formation of man, without looking on this world as only a nursery for the next ; and without believing that the several generations of rational creatures, which rise up and -disappear in such quick successions, are only to receive their first rudi- ments of existence here, and afterwards to be trans- planted into a more friendly c>lmate, where they may spread and flourish to all eternity ? There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and triumphant consideration in religion, than this of the perpetual progress, which the soul m^kes towards the perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at a pe- riod in it. To look upon the soul as going on from strength to strength ; to consider that she is to shine for ever with new accessions of glory, and brighten to all eternity ; that she will be still adding virtue to virtue, and knowledge to knowledge; carries in it something wonderfully agreeable to that ambition, which is natural CHAP. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 05 to the mind of man. Nay, it must be a prospect pleasing to God himself, to see his creation for ever beautifymg in his eyes ; and drawing nearer to him^ by greater degrees of resemblance. Methinks this single consideratioT?, of the progress of a finite spirit to perfection, will be gnffjcient to ex- tinguish all envy in inferior natures, and all contempt in superior. That cherub, which now appears as a god to a buman soul, knows very well that the period will come about in eternity, when the human soul shall be, as perfect as he himself now is: nay, w^hen^she shall look down upon that degree of perfection as much as she pow falls short of it. It is true, the higlier nature still advances, and by that means preserves his distance and superiority in the scale of being; but he knows that, how high soever the station is of which he stands possessed at present, the inferior ^nature will, at length, mount up to it; and shine forth in the same degree of glory. With what astonishment and veneration, may w^e look into our own souls, where there are such hidden stores of virtue and knowledge, such inexhausted sources of perfection ! We know not yet what we shall be; nor will it ever enter into the heart of man, to conceive the glory that will be always in reserve for him. The soul, considered wdth its Creator^ is like one of those mathematical lines, that may draw nearer to another for all eternity, without b^ possibility of touching it : and can there be a thought so transport- ing, as to consider ourselves in these perpetual ap- proaches to him, who is the standard not only of per-- fection, but of happiness?- ' addison. ( 96 ) CHAPTER V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. SECTION I. The Seaso7is. -A.MONG the great blessings and wonders of the creation, may be classed the regularities of times and seasons. Immediately after the flood, the sacred pro- mise was made to man, that seed-time and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, should continue to the very end of all things. Accord- ingly, in obedience to that promise, the rotation is constantly presenting us with some useful and agree- able alteration; and all the pleasmg novelty of life arises from these natural changes : nor are we less in- debted to them for many of its solid comforts. It has been frequently the task of the n^oralist and poet, to mark, in polished periods, the particular charms and conveniences of every change ;^and, indeed, such dis- criminate observations upon natural variety, cannot be undelightful ; since the blessing which every month brings aloug with it, is a fresh instance of the wisdom and bounty of that Providence, which regulates fche glories of the year. We glow as we contemplate ; we feel a propensity to adore, whilst we enjoy. In the time of seed-sowing, it is the season of confidence: the grain which the husbandman trusts to the bosom of the CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 97 earth shall^ haply, yield its seven-fold rewards. Spring presents us with a scene of lively expectation. That which was before sown, begins now to discover signs of successful vegetation. The labourer observes the change, and anticipates the harvest; he watches the progress of nature, and smiles at her influence : while the man of contemplation walks forth with the even- ing,, amidst the fragrance of flowers, and promises of plenty ; nor returns to his cottage till darkness closes the scene upon his eye. Then comtth the harvest, when the large wish is satisfied, and the granaries of nature are loaded with the means of life, even to a luxury of abundance. The powers of language are unequal to the description of this happy season. It is the carnival of nature : sun and shade, coolness and quietude, cheerfulness and melody, love and gratitude, unite to render every scene of summer delightful. — The division of light and darkness is one of the kindest efforts of Omnipotent Wisdom. Day and night yield us contrary blessings; and, at the same time, assist each other, by giving fresh lustre to the delights of both. Amidst the glare of day, and bustle of life, how could we sleep ? Amidst the gloom of darkness, how could we labour ? How wise, how benignant, then, is the proper divi- sion ! The hours of light are adapted to activity; and those of darkness, to rest. Ere the day is passed, ex- ercise and nature prepare us for the pillow ; and by the time that the morning returns, we are again able to meet it vvith a smile. Thus, every season has a charm peculiar to itself; and every moment aflbrds r^S THE ENGLISH READER. PART. 1. SECTION II, The cataract of Niagara, in Canada, North America, This amazing fall of water is marie by the river St. Lawrence, in its passage from lake Erie into the lake Ontario. The St. Lawrence is one of the largest rivers in the world ; and yet the whole of its waters is discharged in this place, b\' a fall of a hundred and fifty feet perpendicular. It is not easy to bring the imagi- nation to correspond to the greatness of the scene. A river extremely deep and rapid, and that serves to drain the waters of almost all North America into tbe Atlantic Ocean, is here poured precipitately down a ledge of rocks, that rises, like a v. all, across the whole bed of its stream. The river, a little above, is near three quarters of a mile broad ; and the rocks, where it grows narrower, are four hundred yards over. Their direction is not straight across, but hollowing inwards like a horse-shoe: so that the cataract^ Which bends to the slmpe of the obstacle, rounding inwards, pre- sents a kind of theatre the most tremendous in nature. Just in the middle of this circular wall of waters, a little island, that has braved the fury of the current^ pre- sents one of its points, and divides the stream at top into two parts; but they unite again long before they reach the bottom. The noise of the fall is heard at the dis- tance of several leagues ; and the fury of the waters; at the termination of their fall, is inconceivable. The dash- ing produces a mist that rises to the very clouds; and which forms a most beautiful rainbow, when the sun shines. It will be readily supposed, that such a cata- ract entirely destroys the navigation of the stream 9 CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 99 and yet some Indians in their canoes, as it is said, have ventured do\v4i it with safety. goldsmith. SECT 1 027 III, The grotto of Antiparos, Of all the subterraneous caverns now known, the grotto of Antiparos is the most remarkable, as welJ for its extent, as for the beauty of its sparry incrusta- tions. This celebrated cavern w-as first explored by one Ma^ni, an Italian traveller, about a hundred years ago, at Antiparos, an inconsiderable island of the Ar- chipelago. " Having been informed,^' says he, ** by the natives of Pares, that, in the little island of Anti- paros, which lies about two miles from the former, a gigantic statue was to be seen at the mouth of a cavern in that place, it was resolved that we (the French consul and himself) should pay It a visit. In pursuance of this resolution, after we had landed on the island, and walked about four miles through the midst of beautiful plains, and sloping woodlands, w^e at length came to a little hill, on the side of which yawned a most horrid cavern, that, by its gloom, at first struck us with terror, and almost repressed curio- sity. Kecovering the first surprise, however, we en- tered boldly ; and had not proceeded above twenty paces, when the supposed statue of the giant presented itself to our view. We quickly perceived, that what the ignorant natives had been terrified at as a giant, was nothing more than a sparry concretion, formed by the water dropping from the roof of the cave, and by degrees hardening into a figure, which their fears bad 100 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. formed into a monster. Incited by this extraordinary appearance, we were induced to proceed still further, in quest of new adventures in this subterranean abode. As we proceeded, new wonders oflered themselves ; the spars, formed into trees and shrubs, presented a kind of petrified grove; some white, some green; and all receding in due persr-^ective. They struck us with the more amazement, as we knew them to be mer« productions of nature, who, hitherto in solitude, . had> in her playful moments, dressed the scene, as if for her own amusement/^ *' We had as yet seen but a few of the wonders of the place; and we were introduced only into the portico of this amazing temple. In one corner of this half illuminated recess, there appeared an opening of about three feet wide, which seemed to lead to a place to- tally dark, and which one of the natives assured us contained nothing more than a reservoir of water. Upon this information, we made an experiment^ by throw^ing down some stones, which rumbling along the sides of the descent for some time, the sound seemed at last quashed in abed of water. In order, however, to be more certain, we sent in a Levantine mariner, who, by the promise of a good reward, ventured, with a flambeth^ of the cavern, he does not think fit to inform xxs.V This account of so beau- tiful and striking a scene, may serve to give us som« idea of the subterraneous wonders of nature. .GOLDSMITH. SECTION v. Ha 7'th q uake a t Ca ta ma . One of the earthquakes most particularly described in history, is that which happened in the year 1693; the damages of which were chie%^ felt in Sicily, but its motion was perceived in Germany, France, and England. It extended to a circumference of two thousand six hundred leagues; chiefly affecting the CHAP. V. DESCRimVE PIBCES. 103 sea coasts, and great rivers ; more perceivable also upon the mountains than in the valleys^ Its motions were so rapid, that persons who lay at their length, were tossed from side to side, as. upon a rolling billow. The walls Were dashed from their foundations; and no fewer than fifty-four cities, witii an incredible number of villages, were either destroyed or greatly damaged. Tlie city of Catanea, in particular, was utterly over- thrown. A traveller who was on his way thither, per- ceived, at the distance of some rr^iles, a black cloild, like niglu, hanging over the place. The sea, all of a €udden, began to roar; mount iEtna to send forth great spires of flame; and sooa after a shock ensued, with a noise as if all the artillery in the world had been at once discharged. Our traveller being obliged to alight instantly, felt himself raised a foot from the ground; 'and turning his eyes to the city, he with amazement saw nothing but a thick cloud of dust in the air. The birds flew about astonished ; the sun was darkened ; the beasts ran howling from the hills; and although the shock did not continue above three minutes, ye6 near nineteen thousand of the inhabitants of Sicily pe- rished in the ruins. Catanea, to which city the describer was travelling, seemed the principal scene of ruin ; its place onl}'- was to be found ; and not a footstep of its former magnificence was to be seen remaining. GOLDSMITH. lO^ TH£ ENGLISH READER. PART f, SECTION VI. Creation. In the progress of the Divine works and govern- ment, there arrived a period, in which this earth was to be called into existence. When the signal moment,, predestiwed from all eternity, was come, the Deity arose in his might; and with a word created the world.— What an illustrious moment was that, when, from non-- existence, there sprang at once into being, this niighty globe, on which so many millions of creatures now dwell! — No preparatory measures were required. No long circuit of means was employed. ** He spake ; and it was done: he commanded;, and it stood fast. The earth was at first without form, and void ;. and dark- ness was on the fa*^^;:; of the deep." The Almighty sur- veyed the dark abyss; and fixed bounds to the several divisions of nature. He sard, *' Let there be light; and there was light." Then appeared the sea, and the dry land. The mountains rose ; and the rivers flowed. The sun and moon began their course in the skies. Herbs and plants clothed the ground. The air, the earth, and the waters, were stored with their respective inhabitants. At last, man was made after the image of God. He appeared, walking with coun- tenance erect ; and received his Creator's benediction, as the Lord of this new world. The Almighty beheld his work when it was finished; and pronounced it GOOD. Superior beings saw with wonder this new accession to existence. '* The morning stars sang to- gether; and all the sons of God shouted for joy. BLAir.. C«AP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 105 SECTION VII, CJiarity, Charity is the «ame ^vith benevolence or love; and is the term uniformly employed in the New Testa- ment, to denote all the good affections which we ought to bear towards one another. It consists not in speculative ideas of general benevolence, floating in the head, and leaving the heart, as speculations too often do, untouched and cold. Neither is it confined to that indolent good nature, which makes us rest isati.*fied with being free from inveterate malice, or ill-wlli to our fellow-creatures, without prompting us to be of> service to any. True charity is an active |;rprinciple. It is not properly a single virtue; but a i disposition residing in the heart, as a fountain whence all the virtues of benignity, caiidour, forbearance, ge- Rerosity, compassion, and liberality, flow, as so many native streams. From general good-will to all, it ex- "tends its influence particularly to those wnth whom we stand in nearest connexion, and ^ho are directly within the sphere of our good ofFiccs. From the country or community to which we belong, it de- scends to the smaller associations of neighbourhood, re- llations, and friends; and spreads itself over the whole circle of social and domestic life. I mean not that it imports a promiscuous undistinguished aflection, wdiich gives every man an eijual title to our love. Charity, if we should endeavour to carry it so far, would be ren- dered an impracticable virtue ; and would resolve it- self into mere words, without affecting the heart. True charity attemts not to shut our eyes to the 106 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. distinction between good and bad men ; nor to warm our hearts equally to those who befriend^ and those who injure us. It reserves our esteem for good men, and our complacency for our friends. Towards our enemies it inspires forgiveness, humanity^ and a soHci* tude for their welftire. It breathes universal candour, and Hberahty of sentiment. It forms gentleness of temper, and dictates affability of manners. It prompts corresponding S3^mpathies with them who rejoice, and them who weep. It teaches us to slight and despise 110 man. Charity is the comforter of the afflicted, the protector of the oppressed, the reconciler of dif- ferences, the intercessor for offenders. It is faithful- ness in the friend, public spirit in the magistrate, equity and patience in the judge, moderation in the sovereign, and loyalty in the subject. In parents, it is care and attention ; in children, it is reverence and submission. In a word, it is the soul of social life. It is the sun that enlivens and cheers the abodes of men. It is '* like the dew of Hermon,^^ says the Psalmist, '*"and the dew that descended on the moun- tains of Zion, where the Lord commanded the bless- ing, even life for evermore.^' blair. SECTION VIII. Prosperiiy is redoubled io a good ?nan. None but the temperate, the regular, and thel virtuous, know how to enjoy prosperity. They bringJ to its comforts the manly relish of a sound uncorruptedl mind. The}^ stop at the proper point, before enjoy- ment degenerates into di'^gusf, and. pleasure is con* CfTAP. V. DESC« IPTIVE PIECES. 1 07 verted into pain. They are strangers to those com- plaints which flow from spleen, caprice, and all the fantastical distresses of a vitiated mind. While riotous indulgence enervates both the body and the mind, -purity and virtue heighten all the powers of humaa fruition. ^ Feeble are all pleasures in which the heart has no share. The selfish, gratifications of the bad, are both narrow in their circle, and short in their duration. But prosperity is redoubled to a good man, by his ge- nerous use"~6f it. It is reflected back upon him from every one whom he makes happy. In the intercourse of domestic aflection, in the attachment of friends, the gratitude of dependents, the esteem and good-will of all who know him, he sees blessings multiplied round him, on every side. " When the ear heard mq, then it blessed me ; and when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me : because I delivered the poor that cried, the fatherless,, and him that had- none to help I him. The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me, and I caused the widow's heart to sing with joy. I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame: \ was a father to the poor; and the cause which I knew not I searched out/' — Thus, while the righteous man flourishes like a tree planted by the rivers of water, he brings forth also his fruit in its season: and that fruit he brings forth, not for him- self alone. He flourishes, not like a tree in some soli- tary desert, which scatters its blossoms to the wind, and communicates neither fruit nor shade to any living thing: but like a tree in the midst of an inhabited country, which to some aflbids friendly shelter, to others fruit; which is tiot only admired by all for its 108 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. beauty ; but blessed by the traveller for the shade, and by the hungry for the sustenance, it hath given. BLAIR. SECTION /A'. On the beauties of the Psalms. Greatness confers no exemption from the caresi and sorrows of life: its shares of them frequently beai^. a melancholy propdrtion to its exaltation. This the monarch of Israel experienced. He sought in piety> that peace which he could not fmd in enpire; and aU leviated the disquietudes of state, with the exercises of devotion. His invaluable Psalms convey those com* forts to others, which they afforded to himself. Com- posed upon particular occasions, yet designed for ge- neral use ; delivered out as services fur Israelites under the Law, yet no less adapted to the circumstances of Christians under the Gospel ; they present religion to us in the most engaging dress; communicating truths which philosophy could never investigate, in a style which poetry can never equal; while history is made the vehicle of prophecy, and creation >knds all its charms to paint the glories of redemption. Calculated alike to profit and to please, they inform the under* standing, elevate the affections, and entertain the ima- gination. Indited under the influence of him, to whom ail hearts are known, and all events foreknown, they suit mankind in all situations; grateful as the manna which descended from above, and conformed itself to every palate. The fairost productions of human wit, after a ftjwi CHAP. V. DflSCRIPTIVE PIECES. 109 perusals^ like gathered flowers, wither in our hands, and lose their fra^rancy : but these unfading plants of paradise become, as we are accustomed to them, still more and more beautiful ; their bloom appears to be daily heightened ; fresh odours are emitted, and' new sweets extracted from them. He who has once tasted their excellences, will desire to taste them again ; and he who tastes them oftenest, will relish them best. And now, could the author flatter himself, that any one would take half the pleasure in reading his work, : which he has taken in writing it, he would not fear [ the loss of his labour. The employment detached him j from the bustle and hurry of life, the din of politics, and the noise of folly. Vanity and vexation fiew away for a season ; care and disquietude came not near his dwelling. He arose, fresh as the morning, to his task ; the silence of the night invited him to pursue it ; and he can truly say, that food and rest were not preferred before it. Evev}^ psalm improved infinitely upon his accjuaintance with it, and no one griwe him uneasiness but the last : for then he grieved that his work was done. Happier hours than those which have been spent in these meditations on the songs of Sioii, he never expects to see in this world. Very pleasantly did they pass; they moved smoothly and swiftly along: for when thus engaged, he counted no time. They are gone, but^they have left a relish and a fragrance upon the mind ; and the rememljrance of them is I fWeet. HOHNE. G M9 THE ENGLISH READER. PARTI. SECTION X. Character of Alfred, king of England. The merit of this prince, both in private and pub- lic life, may, with advantage, beset in opposition to that of any monarch or citizen, Avhich the annals of an}' age, or any nation, can present to us. »He seems, indeed, to be the complete model of that perfect cha- racter, which, under the denomination of a sage or wise man, the philosophers have been fond of deli* neating, rather as a fiction of their imagination, than in hopes of ever seeing it reduced to practice: so hap- pily were all his virtues tempered together; so justly were they blended 9 and so powerfully did each pre- vent the other from exceeding its proper bounds. He knew how to conciliate the most enterprising spirit with the coolest moderation ; the most obstinate |>erseverance, with the easiest flexibility,; the most se- vere justice, with the greatest lenity; the greatest ri- gour in command, with the greatest affability of de- portment; the highest capacity and inclination for science, with the most shining talents for action. Nature also, as if desirous that so bright a produc- tion of her skill should be set in the fiir^st light, bad bestowed on him all bodily accomplishments ; vigour of limbs, dignity of shape and air, and a pleasant, en- gaging, and open countenance. By living in that barbarous age, he was deprived of historians worthy to transmit his fame to posterity ; and we wish to -see him delineated in more lively colours, and withfiiore par- ticular strokes, that we might at least perceive some of J CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE Pieces. Ill those small specks and blemishes, from which, as a man, it is in^ossible he could be entirc'ly exempted. HUME. SECTION XI, Character of queen Elizabitn. There are few personages in history, who have been more exposed to the calumny of enemies^ and the adulation of friends, than queen Elizabeth ; and yet there scarcely is any, whose reputation has been more certainly determined by the unanimous consent of po- sterity. The unusual length of her administration, and the strong features of her charactf^r, were able to over- |<;(>m^ a^U prejudices ; and, obliging her detractors to \ abate much of their infectives, and her admirers some- i what of their panegyrics, have, at last, in spite of po- litical factions, and w4iatis n^ore, of religious animosities^ produced a uaiform judgment with regard to her con- duct. Her vigour, her constancy^ her magnanimity, her penetration, vigilance, and address, are allowed to merit the highest praises; and appear not to have bciin surpassed by any person who ever filled a throne : a conduct less rigorous, less imperious, more sincere, ir^ore indulgent to her people, would have been requi- ^te to form a perfect character. Ey the force of her mind, she controlled all her more active, and s^oiJger j<^uaUties ; and prevented them from running ii\to ex- tcess. Her heroism w^as exempted from all temerity ; h^r frugality from avarice ; her friendship from par- tiaility ; her enterprise from turbulency and a vain ma- 3ition. She guarded not herself, with equal citie, or G 2 112 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. equal success, from loss infirmities; the rivalship of beauty, the desire of admiration, the jealousy of love, and the salHes of anger. Her singular talents for governmen-, were founded equally on her temper and on her capacity. Endowed with a great command over herself, she soon obtained an uncontrolled ascendant over the people. Few sove- reigns of England succeeded to the throne in more diffi- Gult circumstances ; and none ever conducted the go- vernment with so uniform success and felicity. — Though unacquainted with the practice of toleration, the true secret for managing religious factions, she pre- served her people, by her superior prudence, from those confusions in which theological controversy had in- volved all the neighbouring nations; and though her enemies were the most powerful princes of Europe, the most active, the most enterprising, the least scru- pulous, she was able, by her vigour, to make deep im- pressions on their state ; her own greatness meanwhile remaining untouched and unimpaired. The wise ministers and brave men who flourished during her reign, share the praise of her success ; but, instead of lessening the applause due to her, they make great addition to it. They owed, all of them, thei advancement to her choice; they were supported b^ her constancy ; and, \^ ith ail their ability, they we never able to acquire an undue ascendant over her. Ii her family, in her court, in her kingdom, slie remained ec|ually mistress. The force of thr tender passions was great over her, but the force of her mind was slijl su-| perior : and the combat which her victory visibly costl her, serves only to display the firmness of lier resolu- tion, and the loftiness of her ambitious sentiments. -^ 4 CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 113 The dime of this princess, thoiTgh it has surmounted the prejudices both of sanction and of bigotry, yet lies still exposed to another y)rejudice, which is more durable, because more natural ; and which, according; to the diilerent vi6\vs ia which we survey her, is ca- pab'e either of exalting- beyond measure, or diminish- ing, the lustre of her character. This prc^jndice is founded on the consideration of h(jr sax. \\'hen. we contemplate her as a wuiiian, we are apt to be struck with' the higl>est admiratiow-'of Iier ({luilities and ex- tensive capacity ; but we are also apt to require some more softness of disposition, some greater lenity of leni.- per, some of those ariiiable weaknesses by which her sex is distinguished. Eut the true luelhoiJ of estimating her merit, is, to lay aside all these coiisieing, placed in authority, and intrusted with the government of man- kind'. IlL.Mfi. sr.CTioy? ,xrT, The slaver ij of vice. The slavery produced by vice appears in the de- pendence under which it brings the sinner, to circuni- t stances of external fortune. One of the favourite cha- / racters of liberty, is the intlependence it bestows. Ha who is truly a freeman is above all servile compliances, and: abject sul-jjection. lie is able to rest upon himself; and while he regards his superiors with proper defe- rence, neither debases himself by cringing to them, noc is tempted to purchase their favour by dishonoural)Ie ©xeans. Dut the sinner has forfeited every privilege of ^ - G 3 11-^ ' THE ENGLISH READER. PARTI. this Tiature. His passions and habits render hinj an abso- lute dependent on the world, and the world's favour; on the uTicertain goods of fortune, and the fickle humours of men. For it is by these he subsists, and among these his happiness is sought; according as his passions de- termine him to pursue pleasures, riches, or preferments. Having no fund within himself whence to draw enjoy- ment, his only resource is in tilings without. His hopes and fears all hang upon the world. He partakes ih all its vicissitudes; and is moved and shaken by every wind of fortune. This is to be, in the strictest s^ nse, a si av e t o t h e w o r kl . Religion and virtue, on the other hand, confer o» file mind principles of noble independence. " The upright man is satisfied from himself, ^"^ He despises not the advantages of fortune, but he centres not his fcappiness in them. With a moderate share of them he xari be contented; and contentment is felicity. Happy in his own integ'iity, conscious of the esteem of good intfi^ reposing firm trust in the providence, and the promises of God, he is exempted from servile depend- ence on other things. He can wrap himself up in a good conscience, and look forward, without terror, to the change of the world. Let all things shift around him as they please, he believes that, by the Divine ordination, they shall be made to work together in the issue for his good: and therefore, having much to hope fiom God, and little to fear from the world, he can be easy in every state. One who possesses within himself such an establishment of mind, is truly free. But shall I call that man free, who has nothing that is his own, no property assured ; whose very heart is not his own, but rendered the appendage of external things, and CHAP. V, DESCRIPTIVE PFECES. 1]5 the sport of fortune ? Is that man free, let his outward coQclition be ever so splendid, whom his imperious passions detain at their call, whom they send forth at their pleasure, to drudge and toil, and to beg his only enjoyment from the casualties of the world ? Is he free, who must flatter and lie to compass his ends; who must bea-r with tbis man's caprice, and that man's scorn ; must profess friendship where he hates, and respect where he contemns ; who is not at liberty to appear in his own colours, jaor to speak his own sen- timents ; who dares not be honest, lest he should be poor ! Believe it, no chains bind so hard, no fet- ters are so heavy, as those which fasten the corrupted heart to this treacherous w^orldj no dependence is more contemptible than that under which the volup- tuous,. the covetous, or the ambitious man, lies to tha means of pleasure, gain, or power. Yet this is the boasted liberty, which vice promises, a* the recom- pense of setting us free from tlie salutary restraints of virtue. BiAXR. SECTIO}f xiir. The man ofintegriti/. It will not take much time to delineate the charac- ter of the man of integvit}^ as by its nature it is a plain one, and easily understood. He is one, who makes it his constant rule to follow the road of duty, according as the word of God, and the voice of his conscience, point it out to him. He is not guided merely by aflections, which may sometimes give the G4 116 THE ENGLISH READER. PARTI. colour of virtue to a loose and unstable character. The upright man is guided by a fixed principle of mind^ which determines him to esteem nothing but what is honourable; and to abhor whatever is base and unworthy, in moral condtict. Hence we find hitu ever the same ; at all times, the trusty friend, the af- fectionate relation, the conscientious man of business, the pious worsliipper, the public spirited citizen, lie assumes no borrowed appear;ince. He seeks no mask to cover hiHi ; for lie acts no studied part; but he is indetxd what he appears to be, full of truth, candour, cmd humanity. In all his pursuits, he knows no path but the fair and direct one ; and would much rather fatl of Access, than attain it by reproachful means. He never shows us a smiling countenance, while he medi- tates evil against us in his heart. He never praises us among our friends; and then joins in traducing us among our enemies. We shall never find one part of his character at variimce with another. In his mmt- uers,' he is simple and unaffected ; in all his proceed- ings, open and consistent. blair. ShCTTON XIV. Geriiicnt'..ss. 1 begin with distinguishing true gentleness from passive tameness of spirit, and from unlimited coni- pliance with the manners of others. TJiat passiv^e ■ tameness, which submits, without opposition, to every encroachment of the violent and assuming, forms no part of Christian duty; but, on the contrary, is de- structive of general happiness and order. That unli» I CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 117 mited complaisance, which, on every occasion, falls in W'ith the opinions and manners of others, is so far from being a virtue, that it is itself a vice, and the parent many vices. It overthrows all steadiness of prin- iple ; and produces that sinful conformity with the world, -which taints thtj whole character. In the pre- sent corrupted state of human manners^ always to as- sent and to comply, is the very worst maxim we catv adopt. It is inipossible to support the purity and dig- ity of Christian morals, without opposing the world n various occasions, even, though we should stand; alone. That gentleness therefore which, bciongs la- virtue, is to be carefully distinguished from, the mean 8[)irit of cowards, and the lawning assent ofsycophants. It renounces no just riglit from fear. It gives up no important truth from flattery. It is indeed not only consistent with a firm mind, but it necessarily requii'es a uianly spirit, and a fixed piinciple, in orde: to give any real value. Upon this. solid ground only, the pohsh of gentleness can with advantage be superin- duced. It stands opposed, not to the most determined regard for virtue and truth, but to harshness and severity, to pride and arror.'?cnce, to violence and 0}n)ression. It iS properly, that part of the greut virtue of charity, which makes us anwilling to give pain to any of our bcet[:»'eo. Compassion prompts us to relieve their- wants. Forbearance preveot.s us from retaliating their injuries.. Meekness restraius oar angry passions; candour, cur severe judgments. Gentleness correcl^. whatever is odensivc in car manners ; and, hy a con- stant train of humane attentions, studTes to alleviure^ the burden of comman misery. Its office, therefore, is. r H^ THE ENGLISH READER. PART Iv extensive. It is not^ like some othei' virtues, called forth only on peculiar emergences; but it is con- tinually in action, when we are engaged in intercourse With men. It ought to form our address, to regulate our speech, and to difluse itself over our whole beha* viour. We must not, however, confound this gentle " wis- dom which is fro^n above,^' with that artificial courtesy, tliat studied smoothness of manners, which is learned in the school of the world. Such accomplishments, the most frivolous and empty may possess. Too often they ar^ employed by the artful, as a snare; too often affected by the hard and unfeeling, as a cover to the baseness of their minds. We cannot, at the same time, avoid observing the homage, which, even in such in- stances, the world is constrained lo pay to virtue. In order to render society agreeable, it is found ne- cessary to assume somewhat, that may at least carry its appearance. Virtue is the universal charm. Even its shadow is courted, when the substance is wanting. The imitation of its form has been reduced into an art ; and, in the commerce of life, the first study of all who would either gain the esteem, or win the hearts of others, is to learn the speech, and to adopt the man- ners, of candour, gentleness, and humanity. But that gentleness which is the characteri;stic of a good man, lias, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart; and let me add, nothing except what flows from the heart, can render even external manners truly pleasing. For no assuming behaviour can at all times hide the real character. In that unaifected civility which springs from a p^entle mind, there is a charm infinitely more powerful, than in all the studied manners of the raost finished courtier. CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 1*19 True gentleness is founded on a sense of what we owe to HIM who made us, and to the common nature of which we all share. It arises from reflection on our own failings and wants; and from just views of the condition, and the duty of man. It is native feeling, heightened and improved by principle. It is the heart which easily relents; which feels for every thing that is human ; and is backward and slow to inflict the least w^ound. It is aflable in its address, and mild in its de- meanour ; ever ready to oblige, and willing to be ob- liged by others ; breathing habitual kindness towards friends, courtesy to strangers, long-suflering to enemies. It exercises authority with moderation ; administers reproof with tenderness ; confers favours with ease and modesty. It is unassuming in opinion, and temperate in zeal. It contends not eagerly about trifles ; slow to contradict, and still slower to blame; but prompt to allay in a long and eloquent speech, delivered without pre- Tuedltation, confuted all the accusations of his enemies, he thus drew to a conclusiofi. ** But, my lords, I have troubled you too long ; longer than 1 should hare done, but for the sake of these dear pledges, which a saint in heaven has left me." — Upon tnis he paused; dropped a tear; looked upon his children ; and pro- ceeded. '* What I forfeit for myself is a trifle : ttiat my indiscretions should reach my posterity, wounds me to the heart. Pardon my infirmity. — Something I should have added, but I am not able ; and therefore 1 let it pass. And nov^', my lords, for myself, I iiare long been taught, that the afflictions of this life are overpaid by that eternal weight of glory, which awaits the innocent. And so, mv lords, even .^o, ^\\\h the CHAP. VI. PATHETJC PIECES. 121 Utmost tranquillity, I submit myself to your judgment, whether that judgmeut be life or death : not my will;, but thine, O God, be done!" His eloquence and innocence induced those judges to pity, who were the most zealous to condemn him. The king himself went to the house of lords, and spoke for some time in his defence; but the spirit of vengeance, which had been chained for eleven years, was now roused; and nothing but his blood could give the people satisfaction. He was condemned by both houses of parliament; and nothing remained but for the king to give his consent to the bill of attainder. But in the present commotions, the consent of the king would very easily be dispensed with; and immi- nent danger might attend his refusal. Charles, how- ever, who loved Straflbrd tenderly, hesitated, and seemed reluctant; trying every expedient to put off so dreadful an office, as that of signing the warrant for his execution. While he continued in this agita- tion of mind, and state of suspense, his doubts were at last silenced by an act of great magnanimity in the con- demned lord. He received a letter from that unfo-r- ^tunate nobleman, desiring that his life might be made a sacrifice to obtain reconciliation between the kino* and his people: adding, that he was prepared to die; and that to a willing mind there could be no injury. This instance of noble generosity was but ill repaid by his master, who complied with his request. He con-. seuted to sl-;n the fataJ bill by commission; and Straf- ford was beheaded on Tower-hill; behaving with all that comjjosed dignity of resolution, which was ex- pected from his character. GOLDSMITH. 122 THE ENGLISH READER. ^ART !« SECTION II, An eminent instance of true fortitude. All who have been distinrui.^^idd as servants of God, or benefactors of men ; all who, in perilous situ- ations, have acted their part with such honour as to reader tlieir names illustrious through succeeding ages, have been eminent for fortitude of mind. Of this we have one conspicuous example in the apostle Paul, whom it will be mstructivc for us to view in a remarkable occurrence of his life. After having long acted as the apostle of the Gentiles, his mission called him to go to Jerusalem, where he knew that he was to encounter the utmost violence of his enemies* Just before he set sail, he called together the elders of his favourite church at Epliesus; and, in a pathetic speech, which does great honour to his character, gave them his last farewell. Deeply affected by their knowledge of the CG-rtain dangers to which he was exposing him- self, all the assembly were filled with distress, and melted into tears. The circumstances were such, as might have conveyed dejection eyen into a resolute mind ; and would have totally overwhelmed the feeble. '" They all wept sore, and fell on PauPs neck, and kissed him; sorrowing most of all for the words which he spoke, that they should see his face no more.^' — What were then the sentiments, what was the lan- guage, of this ^reat and good man? Hear the words which spoke his firm and undaunted mind. ** Behold, I go bound in the spirit, to Jerusalem, not knowing tho tilings tliat shall befall me there; save that the CHAP. Vr. PATHETIC PIECES. 123 Holy Spirit witnesseth in every city, saying, that bonds and afflictions abide me. But none of these things move me ; neither count I my life dear to mv.self, so that I might fmish my course with joy, and the ministry which I have received of the Lord Jesus, to testify the gospel of the grace of God." There w^as uttered the voice, there breathed the spirit, of a brave and a vir- tuous man. Such a man knows not what it is to shrink from danger, when conscience points out his patli. ! In that path he is determined to walk ; let the con- i sequences be what they may. This was the magnanimous behaviour of that great apostle, when he had persecution and distress full in view. Attend now to the sentiments of the same ex- I cellent man, when the time of his last suflfering ap- \ proached ; and remark the majesty, and the ease, with I which he looked on death. '' I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand. I I have fought the good fight. I have finished my course. II I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for Ime a crown of righteousness.*' How many years of I life does such a dying moment overbalance ? Who would not choose, in this manner, to go off the sfagv, M^ith such a song of triumph in his mouth, rather than prolong his existence through a wretched old age, 1 stained with sin and shame? blair. SECTION IJU ^ The good man's comfort in affliction, a The religion of Christ not onl}^ arms us with forti- tude against the approach of evil j but;, supposing evils 124 THE ENGLISH READIER. PART I, to fall Upon us with their heaviest pressure, it lightens the load 'by many consolations to which others are strangers* While bad men trace, in the calamities with which they are visited, the hand of an oilended sovereign. Christians are taught to view them as the well-intended chastisements of a merciful Father. They hear amidst them, that stiti voice which a good conscience brings to their ear : '' Fear not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God." They apply to themselves the comfortable promises with w^hich the gospel abounds. They discover in these the happy issue decreed to their troubles; and wait with patience till Providence shall have accom- plished its great and good designs. In the mean time. Devotion opens to them its blessed and holy sanctuary: that sanctuary in which the wounded heart is healed, and the weary mind is at rest; where the cares of the world are forgotten, where its tumults are hushed, and its miseries disappear; whtre greater objects open to our view than any which the world presents; where a more serene sky shines, and a sweeter and calmer light beams on the afHicted heart. In those moments of devotion,, a pious man, pouring out his wants and sorrows to an Almighty Supporter, feels that he is not left solitary and forsaken in a vale of wo. God is with him; Christ and the holy Spirit are with him; and though he should be bereaved of every friend on earth, he can look up in heaven to a» Friend that will never desert him. CHAP, VI. PATHETIC PIECES. 125 uiily JE-H.il • : SECTION jf. ^^^■••••fc-M***"'' 1 he close of life. When we contemplate the close of life; the ternii- natioii of man's designs and hopes; the sih'nce that now reigns dmong I hose who, a httle while ago, were 1 so busy, or- so gay; who can avoid being touched with sensations at onee awful and tender? What heart I but then warms with the glow of humanity? In whose I t»ye does not the tear gather, on revolving the fate of \ passing and short-lived man? Behold the poor man who lays down at last the braden of his wearisome life. No more shall he groan under tiie load of poverty and toil. No more shall he hear the insolent culls of the master, from whom he jrei'eivcd his scanty wa'ifes. No more shaU he be ^■sed from needful srumiwu' on his bet! of straw, liOr be hurried away from his homely meal, to undergo the repeated labours of the day. While his iiumble grave Is preparing, and a few poor and decayed neighbours are carrying him thither, it is good for us ( to think, that this niati too was our brother; that for him the' aged and destitute wife, and the needy child- ren, now weep; that, neglected as he was by the world, he possessed, perhaps, both a sound understand- ing, and a worthy heart; and is now carried by angels I to rest in Abraham's bosom. — At no great distance from him^ the grave is opened to receive the rich and I proud man. For, as it is said with emphasis in the parable, " the rich man also died, and was buried.'* ; He also died. His riches prevented not his sharing 126 THE EN«iISH READER. PART I. the same fate with the poor man ; perhaps, through luxury, they accelerated his doom. Then, indeed, *' the mourners go about the streets;" and, while, in all the pomp and magnificence of wo, his funeral is preparing, his heirs, injpatient to examine his will, are looking on one another with jealous eyes, and already beginning to dispute about the division of his- substance. — One day, we see carried along, the coffin ©f the smiling infant; the flower just nipped as it began to blossom in ihe parentis view : and the next day, we behold the young man, or young woman, of blooming form and promising hopes, laid in an wn» timely grave. While the funeral is attended by a numerous unconcerned company, who are discoursing to one another about the news of the day, or the ordi- nary affairs of life, let our thoughts rather follow to the house of mourning, and represent to themselves what is passing there. There we should see a dis- coasOlsi^ fa,T.:!y, sitting ia silent ^rief^ thinking of the sad breach that is made m their little society; ancP^ with tears in their eyes, looking to the chamber that is now left vacant, and to every memorial that pre- sents itself af their departed friend. By such attention to the woes of others, the selfish hardness of our hearts will be gradually softened, and melted down into hu- manity. « Another day, we follow to the grave, one who, in™ old age, and after a long career of life, has in full maturity ,sunk at last into rest. As we are going along to the mansion of the dead, it is natural for us to think, and to discourse, of all the changes which such a per- 6on has seen during the course of his life. He has passed, it is likely, through varieties of fortune. He i CHAP. VI. PATHETIC PIECES. 127 has experienced prosperity^ and adversity. He has seen foniilies and kindreds rise and fall. He has seen peace and war succeeding in their turns ; the face of his country undergoing many alterations; and th« very city in which he dwelt, rising, in a manner, new around him. After all he has beheld, his eyes are jaow closed for ever. He was becoming a stranger in tbe midst of a new succession of men. A race who knew him not, had arisen to fill the earth. — Thoa passes the world away. Throughout all ranks and conditions, " one generation passetb, and another generation cometh j and this great inn is by turns eva- I cuated and replenished, by troops of succeeding pilr ■ grims.'' O vain and inconstant world ! O fleeting and transient life ! When will the sons of men learn to I think of thee as they ought? When will they learn i humanity from the afflictions of their brethren ; or moderation and wisdom, from the sense of their owq fugitive stJtte f ^l^A'R' ^^ SECTION r. Exalted society, and the renewal of virtuous connexions, two sources of future felicit\f. Besides the felicity which springs from perfect love, there are two circumstances which particularly enhance the blessedness of that '* multitude who stand before the throne ;*' these are, access to the most ex- alted society, and renewal of the most tender con- nexions. The former is pointed out in the Scripture, by ''joining the innumerable company of angels, and the general assembly and church of the first-born; by 128 THE ENGLISH READER. PART J^ sitting down with Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, in the kingdom of heaven ;•" a promise which opens tl»e ijubh'mest prospects to the human mind. It allows good men to entertain the hope, that, separated from all the dregs of the human mass, from that mixed and polluted crowd in the midst of which they now dwell, they shall be pernjitted to mingle with prophet^?, patriarclis, and apostles, with all those great and illustrious spirits, who have shone in former ages as the servants of God, or the benefactoi s of men ; whose deeds we are accus^ tomed to celebrate; whose steps \\e now follow at a distance; and whose names we pronounce with ve- neration. United to this high assenjbly, the blessed, at the same time, renew those ancient connexions with virtuous* friends, which had been dissolved by death. The pro* spect of this awakens in the heart, the most pleasing and tender sentiment that perhaps can fill it,, in this nier^?.! state. For of ail the sorrows which we are here doomed to endure, none is so bitter as that occa- sioned by the fatal stroke which separates us, in ap- pearance, fur ever, from those to whom either nature or friendship had intimately joined our hearts. Me- mor}^, from time to time, renews the anguish ; opens the wound which seemed once to have been closed ; and, by recalling joys that are past and gone, touches every spring of painful sen,sibility. In these agonizing moments, how relieving the thought, that the separa- tion is only temporary, not eternal; that there is time to come of re-union with those with whom our happiest days \'\ere spent: whose joys and sorrows once wei*e ours ; whose piety and virtue cheered andl encouraged us; and fjom whom after we shall have| landed on the peaceful shore where they dwell, no re* ifHAP- VI. PATHETIC PIECES.. 129 A'olutions of nature shall ever be able to part us more ! Such is the society of the blessed abov.e. Of such are the multitude composed, who '' stand before the 4;hroue." blair. SECTION ri. The clemency and amiable character of the patriarch JosEPm No human character exhibited in the records of "IScripture, is more remarkable and instructive than that of the patriarch Joseph. He is one whom we behold tried in all the vicissitudes of fortune ; from the con- -dition of a slave, rising to be ruler of the land of Egypt ; and in every station acquiring, by his virtue and wis- dom, favour with God and man. When overseer of Poti pharos house, his fidelity was proved by strong •temptations, which he honourably resisted. When thrown into pri*»on by fche artifice of a false w^oman, his antegrily and prudence soon rendered him conspicuous, even in that dark mansion. When called into 4he presence of Pharoah, the wise and extensive plan which he formed for saving the kmgdom from the miseries of ^impending ftmiine, justly raised him to a high statioUj, wherein his abilities were eminently displayed in the public -service. But in his whole history, there is no circumstance so striking and interesting, as his beha- viour to his brethren who had sold him into slavery. The moment in which he made himself known to ■them^ was the most critical one of his life, and the rmost decisive of his character. It is such as rarely oc- curs in the course of human events ; and is calculated 130 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. to draw the highest attention of all who are endowed \^'ith any degree of sensibility of heart. From the whole tenour of th-e narration it appeam, that though Joseph, upon the arrival of his brethren in Egypt, made himself strange to them, yet from the be- ginning he intended to discover himself j and studied so to conduct the discovery, as might render the surprise of joy complete. For this end, by affected severity, he took measures for bringing down into Egypt all his father's children. They were now arrived there ; and Benjamin among the rest, who was his younger brother by the same mother, and was particularly beloved by Jt>9eph* Him he threatened to detain; and seemed willing to allow the rest to depart This incident re^ newed their distress. They all knew their father's ex- treme anxiety about the safety of Benjamin, and with what difficulty he had yielded to his undertaking this journey. Should he be prevented from returning, they dreaded that grief would overpower the old man's spirits, and prove fatal to his hfe. Judah, therefore, who had particularly urged the necessity of Benjamjii's accompanying his brothers, and had solemnly pledged himself to their father for his safe return, craved, upon this occasioB, an audience of the governor; and gnve him a full account of the circumstances of Jacobus family. Nothing can be more interesting and pathetic than this discourse of Judah. Little knowing to whom he spoke, he paints m all the colours of simple and natural ^. eloquence, the distressed situation of the aged patri- arch, hastening to the close of life; long afflicted for the loss of a favourite son, whom he supposed to have been torn in pieces by a beast of prey ; labouring now CHAP. VI. PATHETIC PIECES. 13! •ii&*d«r anxious concern about his youngest son, the child of his old age, who alone was left ali^e of his »M)ther, and whom nothing but tiie calamities of se- yere famine could have moved a tender feth-er to send Ihmi home, and expose to the dangers of a foreign tttod. '' If we bring him not back with ns, we shall feeing down the gray hairs of thy servant, our father, with sorrow, te the grave. I pray thee tht.*refore let [thy servant abide, insteadof the young maw, aboudman to our lord. For how shall I go crp to my father, and iBenjamin not with me? lest I see the evil that shall come on my father." ^ Upon this relation Joseph could no longer restrain lliimself. The tender ideas of his father, and his father's house, of his ancient home, his country, and his kin- dred, of the distress of his family, and his own exalta- tion, all rushed too strongly upon his mind to bear any farther concealment. " He cried. Cause every man t(y go out from me; and he wept aloud." The tears which he shed were not the tears of grief. They were tljre burst of affection. They were the effusions of a beart overflowing with all the tender sensibilities of aature. Formerly he had been moved in the same ininner, when he first saw his brethren before him* f rHis bowels yearned upon them ; he sought for a 3lace where to weep. He went into his chamber; find then washed his face and returned to them.'^ At 'hat period his generous plans were not completed. But now, when there was no farther occasion for con- itraining himself, he gave free vent to the strong emo- ■lons of his heart. The first minister to the king of ^gypt was not ashamed to show, that he felt as a man 1S2 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. and a brother. '' He wept aloud ; and the Egyptians, and the house of Pharoah, heard hin^.'^ The first words which his swelling heart allowed him to pronounce, are the most suitable to such an af- fecting situation that were ever uttered ; — *' I am Joseph; doth my father yet live?" — What could he, what ought he, in that impassioned moment, to have said more ? This is tfie voice of nature herself, speaking her own language; and it penetrates the heart: no pomp of expression; no parade of kindness; but strong affection hastening to utter what it strongly felt. ** His brethren could not answer him ; for they were troubled at his presence." Their silence is as express- ive of those emotions of repentance and shame, which, on this amazing discovery, filled their breasts, and stop- ped their utterance, as the few words which Joseph speaks, are expressive of the generous agitations which struggled for vent within him. No painter could seize a more striking moment for displaying the character- istical features of the liuman heart, than what is here presented. Never was there a situation of more ten- der and virtuous joy, on the one hand; nor, on the other, of more overwhelming confusion and conscioiisj guilt. In the simple narration of the sacred historian,! it is set before us with greater energy and higher ef-j feet, than if it had been wrought up with all the co louring of the most admired modern eloquence. BLAH CHAP. VI. PATHETIC PIECES. 133 SECTI0}7 VII, ALTAMONT. The folloxvi'fg aceount of an affecting, mournful exit, is relaied%^ Dr. Young, who was present at the melancholy scene. The sad evening before the death of the noble youth, whose last heurs suggested the most solemn and awful reflections, I was with him. No one was present, but his physician, and an intimate whom he loved, and whom he had ruined. At my coming in, he said, *' You and the physician are come too late. 1 have neither life nor hope. You both aim at miracles. You would raise the dead V Heaven, I said, was j merciful — '' Or,^\ exclaimed he, — *' I could not have been thus guilty. What has it not done to bless, and to save me I— I have been too strong for Omnipotence ! I have plucked down ruin." 1 said, the blessed Redeemer, — '' Hold! hold! you w^ound me!— Thit is the rock on which I split : — I denied his namei'* . Refusing to hear any thing from me, or take any thing from the physician, he lay silent, as far as sud* den d^rts of pain would permit, till the clock struck ; Then with vehemence he exclaimed ; '' Oh ! time ! ^tjme ! it is fit thou shouldst thus strike thy murderer to the heart ! — How^ arf thou fled for ever? — A month ! — Ob, for a single week ! 1 ask not for years I though an age were too little for the much I have to do." On my saying, w^e could not do too much : that heaven was a blessed place — —'' So much the wx)rse. — Tis lost ! 'tis lost !— Heaven is to me the severest part of hell!" Soon after, I proposed prayer, — ''Pray you that can. I. never prayed. I cannot pray — nor need 1. I^ H 134 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. not Heaven on my side already ? It closes with my conscience. Its severest strokes but second my own.'^ Observing that his friend was much touched at this, even to tears — (who could forbear? I could not) — with a most afFectionate look, he said, *' Keep those tears for thy- self. I have undone thee.— Dost thou weep for me ? that is cruel. What can pain me more?" Here his friend, too much affected, would have left him. ** No, stay — thou still mayst hope ; there- fore hear me. How madly have 1 talked ! How midly hast thou listened, and beliieved ! but look on my pre- ' sent state, as a full answer to thee, and to myself. This body is all weakness and pain ; but my soul, as if stung up by torment to greater strength and spirit, is full powerful to reason; full mighty to sufler. And thmt, which thus triumphs w^ithin the jaws of immor- tality, is doubtless, immortal — And, as for a Deity, no- thing less than an Almighty could inflict what I feel.'* I was about to congratulate this passive, involuntary confessor, on his asserting the two prime articles of his creed, extorted by the rack of nature, when he thu.% very passionately exclaimed : — " No, no ! let me speak on. I have not long to speak.-— My much injured friend ! my soul, as my body, lies in ruins ; in scattered ftag- ments of broken thought— Remorse for the past, throws my thought on the future. Worse dread of the future, strikes it back on the past. I turn, and turn, and find no ray. Didst thou feel half the moun- tain that is on me, thou wouldst struggle with the] martyr for his stake; and bless Heaven for the flames ! ^ — that is not an everlasting flame; that is not an un» quenchable fiire.^' How were w^e struck ! yet, soon after, still more| With what an eye of distraction, what a face of de-| CHAP Vf. PATHETIC PIECES. 135 spair, he cried out! ''My principles have poisoned my friend; my extravagance has beggared my boy! my unkindness has murdered my wife ! — And is there another hell? Oh! thou blasphemed, yet indulgent LORD GOD ! Hell itself is a refuge, if it hide me from thy frown !'' Soon after, his understanding failed. His terrified imagination uttered horrors not to be repeated, or ever forgotten. And ere the sun (wiiich, 1 hope, has seen few like him) arose, the gay, yovmg, noble, ingenious, accomplished, and most wretched Altamont, expired ! If tliis is a man of pleasure, w hat is a man of pain ? Hew quick, how total, is the transit of such persons! In what a dismal gloom they set forever ! How«hort, alas I the day of their rejoicing ! — For a moment they glitter — they dazzle ! In a moment, where are they ? Ob- livk)n covers their memories. Ah ! would it did ! In* famy snatclu's them from oblivion. In the long living annals of infamy their triumphs are recorded. Thy sufferings, poor Altamont ! still bleed in the bosom of the heart-stricken friend — for Altamont had a friend. He might have had many. His transient morning might have been the dawn of an immortaJ day. His name might have been gloriously enrolled in the re- cords of eternity. His memory might have left a 9weet fragrance behind it, grateful to the surviving friend, salutary to the succeeding generation. With whajfc capacity was he endowed ! with what advan- tages, for being greatly good ! But with the talents of an angel, a man may be a fool. If he judges amiss in the supreme point, judging right in all else, but aggravates his folly ; as it shows him wrong, though I blessed with tl^e best capacity of being right. H 2 OB. youNG. ( 136 ) CHAPTER VIT. DIALOGUES. SECTION /. DEMOCKITUS AND HERx\CLITUS *. The vices and follies of 7nen should excite compassion rather than ridicule. DEMOCRTTUS. \l find it impossible to reconcile myself to a melan- choly philosophy. HERACLITUS. And I am equally unable to approve of that vain philosophy, w^hich teaches men to despise and ridicule one another. To a wise and feeling mind, the world appears in a wretched and painful light. DEMOCRITUS. Thou art too much affected with the state of things; and this is a source of misery to thee. HERACLITUS. And I think thou art too little moved by it. Thy mirth and ridicule bespeak the buffoon, rather than tfie philosopher. Does it not excite thy compassion, to see mankind so frail, so blind, so far departed from the rules of virtue? ^ Democrilus and Ileraclitus were two av.cicnt pbho'.ophers, the former of \ %Yhom laughed, and the latter wept, at the rriois ;iiid folhes of mankind. CHAP. VII. BIALOGUES. 137 DEMOCRITUS. I am excited to laughter, when I see so much im- pertinence and folly. HERACLITUS. And yet, after all, they, who are the objects of thy ridicule, include, not only mankind in general, but the persons with whom thou liv^st, thy friends, thy family, nay even thyself, DEMOcmrus. I care very little for all the silly persons I meet with; and think I am justifiable in diverting myself with their folly. HERACLITUS. If they are weak and foolish, it marks neither wis- dom nor humanity, to insult rather than pity them. But is it certain, that thou art not as extravagant as they are ? DEMOCRITUS. I presume that I am not ; since, in every point, my ientiments are the very reverse of theirs. HERACLITUS. There are follies of different kinds. By constantly amusing thyself with the errors and misconduct of others, thou mayst render thyself equally ridiculous and culpable. DEIMOCRTTUS. Thou art at liberty to indulge such sentiments; and to weep over me too, if thou hast any tears to spare. For my part, I cannot refrain from pleasing myself W'ith the levities and ill conduct of the world about me. Are not all men foolish or irregular in their lives r H 3 138 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I^ HERACLITUS. Alas ! there is but too much reason to believe^ they are so; and on this ground, I pity and deplore their condition. We agree in this point, that men do not conduct themselves according to reasonable and just principles : but T, who do not sufFer myself to act as they do, must yet regard the dictates of my under- standing and feelings, which compel me to love themj and that love fills me with compassion for their mis- takes and irregularities. Canst thou condemn me for pitying my own species, my brethren, persons born iu the same condition of life, and destined to the same hopes and privileges? If thou should.st enter a hospi- tal, where sick and wounded persons reside, would their wounds and distresses excite thy mirt-h ? And yet^ the evils of the bedy bear no comparison with those of the mind. Thou wouldst certainly blush at thy bar- barity, if thou hadst been so unfeeling as to laugh at or despise a pocr miserable being who had lost one of his legs: and yet thou art so destitute of humanity, as to ridicule those, who appear to be deprived of the noble powers of the understanding, by the little regard which they pay to its dictates. DEMOCRITUS. Tie who has lost a leg is to be pitied, because the loss is not to be imputed to himself: but he who re- jects the dictates of reason and conscience, voluntarily deprives himself of their aid. The loss originates in his own folly, HERACLITUS. Ah ! so much the more is he to be pitied ! A furious maniac, wiio should pluck out his own eyes, would de- serve more com])assion than an ordinary blind man. CHAP. VII. DIALOGUES* . 139 DEMOCRITUS. Come, let us aGCommodate the business* There is something t© be said on each side of the question* There is every where reason for laugliing, and reason for weeping. The world is ridiculous, and I laugh at it : it is deplorable^ and th©u lameutest over it. Every person views it in his own way, and according to his own temper. One point is unquestionable, that mankind are preposterous: to think right, and to act well, we must think and act di/Ferently from them. To submit to the authority, and follow the example of the greater part of mea, would render us foglish and miserable. HERACLITUS. All this is, indeed, true ; but then, thou hast no real love or feeling for thy species; The calamities of mankind excite thy mirth : and this proves that thou hast no regard for men, nor any true respect for the rirtues whfich they have unhappily abandoned. Fenelorij Avchhukop of Ccmihray, SECTION II, DIONYSIUS, PYTHIAS, AND DAMON, Genuine virtue commands respect, even from the had. DIONYSIUS. Amazing! What do I see? It is Pythias just ar- rived. It is indeed Pythias. I did not think it possible. He is come to die, and to redeem his friend ! H4 I 54-0 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. PYTHIAS. Yes, it is Pythias I left the place of my confine- ment, with no other views, than to pay to Heaven the yows I had made ; to settle my family concerns accord- ing to the rules of justice ; and to bid adieu to my children, that I might die tranquil and satisiied. DIONYSIUS. 'But why dost thou return ? Hast thou no fear of death ? Is it not the character of a madman, to seek it thus voluntarily ? PYTHIAS. I return to suiTer, though I have not deserved deatli. Every principle of honour and goodness, forbids me to allow my friend to clie for me. DIONYSIUS. Dost thou, then, love him better than thyself? PYTHIAS. No ; I love him as myself. But J am persuaded that I ought to suffer death, rather than my friend ; since it was Pythias whom thou hadst decreed to die. It were not just that Damon should suffer, to deliver me from the death which was desigaed, not for him, but for me only. DIONYSIUS. But thou supposest, that it is as unjust to inflict death upon thee, as upon thy friend. PYTHIAS. Very true ; we are both entirely innocent : and it is equally unjust to make either of us suffer. DIONYSIUS. Why dost thou then assert, that it were injustice to put him to death, _ instead of thee ? CHAP. VII. DIALOGUES. 14-1 PYTHIAS. It is unjust, in the same degree, to inflict death either en Damon or on myself; but Pythias were highly cul- pable to let Damon sufler that death, which the tyrant had prepared for Pythias only. DIONYSIUS. Dost thou then return hither, on the day appointed, with no other view, than to save the lift of a friend,, by losing thy own ? PYTHIAS. I return in regard to thee, to suller an act of in- justice which it is common for tyrants to inllict; and, with respect to Damon, to perfonli my duty, by rescuing him from the danger he incurred by his generosity to me. DIONYSIUS- And now, Damon, lel me address myself to thee. Didst thou not really fear, that Pythias would never re- turn ; and that thou vvouldst be put to death on his ac- count r / DAMON. Iwas but too well assured, that Pythias would punc- tually return ; and that Jie would be more solicitous to keep his promise, than to preserve his life. Woi.ld to heaven^ that his relations and friends had forcibly de- tained him ! He would then have hvcd for the comfort and benefit of good men ; and 1 should have the satisfaction of dying for him ! DIONYSIUS, What ! Does life displease thee ? DAMON, Yes; it displeases me when I sse and feel th-e po>vc: ^f a ty rant, H.5 14-2 / THE El^GLISH JLEADER. PART f, DIONYSIUS. It is well ! Thou shalt see him no more. I will order thee to be put to death immediafely. FYTIIIAS. Pardon the feelings of a man who sympathizes V ith his dying friend. But remember it was Pythias w ho was devoted by thee to destruction. I come to submit to it, that I may redeem my friend. Do not refuse me this consolation in my last hour. DIONYSIUS. I cannot endure men, who despise death, and set my power at defiance. * DAMON. Thou canst not, then, endure virtue. DlONYSRiS. Ko : I cannot endure that proud, disdainful virtue, which contemns life; which dreads no punishment; and which is insensible to the charms of riches and pleasure. DAMON. Thou seest, however, that it is a virtue, which is not insensible to the dictates of honour, justice, and friend- ship. DIONYSIUS. Guards, take Pythias to execution. We shall »ee W'hether Damon will continue to despise my autho- rity. Damon. Pythias, by returning to submit himself to thy plea- sure, has merited his life, and deserved thy favour; but I have excited thy indignation, by resigning myself to thy power, in order to save him ; be satisfied, theu, with this sacrifice, and put me to death. I GHAP. Vfl. DIALOGUES. HS PYTHIAS. Hold, Dionysius ! remember, it was Pythias alOiKJ who ofTended thee; Damon could not DIONYSIUS. Alas! what do I see and hear ! where am I?' How miserable; and how worthy to be so ! I have hitherto known nothing of true virtue. I have spent my life in darkness and error. All my power and honours are insufficient to produce love. I cannot boast of having acquired a single friend, in the course of a reign of thirty years. . And yet these two persons, in a private condition, Id^e one another tenderly, un- reservedly confide in each other, are mutually happy^ and ready to die for each other's preservation. PYTHIAS. . How couldst thou, who hast never loved any pers0n> expect to have friends ? If thou hadst loved and re- spected ii)en, thou wouldst have secured their love and respect. Thou hast feared mankind; and they fear thee; they detest thee, DIONYSIUS. Damon, Pythias, condescend to admit me as third friend, in a connexion so perfect. I give you your lives ; and I will load you with riches. DAMON. We have nd^desire to be enriched by thee ; and, in regard to thy friendship, we cannot accept or enjoy if, till thou become good and just. Without th'^se ^qua- lities, thou canst be connected with none but tr^jin- bling slaves, and base flatterers. To be lovcu and esteemed by men of free and generous minds, thou must be virL-uc?as, alilctionale^ dibintcrcsted, beneficent; H6 144 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. and know how to live in a sort of equality with those who share and deserve thy friendship. Feuelon, Archbishop of Camhrai/, SECTION III, LOCKE AND BAYLE. ChiistlarMy defended against the cavils of scepticism, BAYLE. Yes, we both were philosophers; but my philosophy was the deepest. You dogmatized : I doubted. LOCKE. Do you make doubting a proof of depth in philo- sophy ? It may be a good beginning of it; but it is a bad end. BAYLE. No : — the more profound our searches are into the nature of things, the more uncertainty we shall find ; and the most subtle minds see objections and difficulties in every system, which are overlooked or undisceverable by ordinary understandings. LOCKE. It would be better then to be no philsopher, and to continue in the vulgar herd of mankind, that one may have the convenience of thinking that one knows something. I find that the eyes which nature ha^ given me, see many things very clearly, though som^r are out of their reach, or discerned but dimly. Wiiac opinion ought I 4o have of a physician, who should olfer me an eye- water, the use of which would at first uirpcn my sights as to carry it farther than ordinary \ CHAP. VII. DIALOGUES. 145 vision; but would in the end put them out? Your philosophy is to the eyes of the mind, what I have sup- posed the doctor^s nostrum to be to those of the body. It actually brought your own excellent understanding, which was by nature quick-sighted,- and rendered more so by art and a subtilty of logic peculiar to yourself — ^ it brought, I say, your very acute understanding to see nothing clearly; and enveloped all ihe great truths of reason and religion in mists of doubt. BAYLE. I own it did ; — but youT comparison is not just. I did not see well, before I used my philosophic eye- water : I only supposed I saw well; but I was in an error, with all the rest of mankind. The blindness was real, th(- perceptions were imaginary. I cured myself first of tliose false imaginations, and then I laudably endea- voured to cure other men. - LOCKE. A great cure indeed ! — and don't you think that, in return for the service you did them, they ought to erect you a statue ? BAYLE. Yes; it is good for human nature to know its own weakness. When v^e arrogantly presume on a strength we have not, we are always in great danger of hurting ourselves, or at least of deserving ridicule and contempt, by vain and idle efforts. LOCKE- I agree with you, that human nature should know its own weakness; but it should also feel its strength, and try to improve it. This was my Employment as a philosopher. 1 endeavoured to discover the real powers uf the mind, to see what it could do^ and what 146' THE ENGLISH READER. PART F* it could not; to restrain it from efrorts beyond its ability ; but to teach it how to advance as far as the facultit^s given to it by nature, with the utmost exertion and most proper culture of then), would allow it to go. In the vast ocean of philosophy, I had the line and the plummet always in my hands. Many of its deptiis I found myself unable to fathom ; but, by caution in sounciJDg, and the careful observations I made in the course of my voj^age, I found out some truths of so much use to mankind, that they acknowledge me to have been their benefactor. BAYLE. Their ignorance makes them think so. Some other philosopHer will come hereafter, and show thosfe truths to be falsehoods. lie will pr-^^end to discover other truths of equal importance. A later sage will arise, perhaps among men now barbarous and unlearned, "whose sagacious discoveries will discredit the opinions of his admired predecessor. In philosophy, as in na- ture, all changes its form^ and one thing exists by the destruction of another. LOCKE. Opinions taken up without a patient inrvestigation, depending on terms not acci?*"^*"! / c!( fiiK^d, and prin- ciples begged without proof, like theories to explain the pha^noriiena of nature, built on suppositions instead ©f experiments, must perpetually change and destroy one another. But some opinions there are, even in matters not obvious to the common sense of mankind, ■which the mind has received on such rational grounds of assent, that they are as immoveable as the pillars of heaven ; or (to speak philosophically) as the great lav/s of Nature, by which, under God, the universe is sus- CHAP.- VII. DIALOGUES. 147 tained. Can you seriously think, that, because thehy* pothesis of your countryman Descartes, which was no- thing but an ingenious, well-imagined romance, has been lately exploded, the system of Newton, which is bui-lt on experiments and geometry, the two most cer- tain methods of discovering truth, will ever fail; or that, because the whims of fanatics and the divinity of the schoolmen, cannot now be supported, the doctiines of that religion, which I,, the declared enemy of all en- thusiasm and false reasoning, firmly believed and main- tained, will ever be shaken ? ^<- BAYLE. If you had asked Descartes, while he was in the height of his vogue, whether his system would ever be confuted by any-other philosophers, as that of Aristotle had been by his, what answer do you suppose he would have returned ? LOCKE. Come, come, you yourself know the diflTerence be- tween the foundations on which the credit of those systems, and that of Newton is place-.l. Your scepti- cism is more affected than real. You found it a shorter way to a great reputation, (the only wish of _your heart,) to object, than to defend; to pull down, than to set up. And ) our talents were admirable for that kind of w ork. Then your huddling together in a Critical Dictionary, a pleasant tale, or obscene jest, and a grave argument against the Christian religion, a witty confutation of some absurd author, and an artful sophism to impeach some respectable truth, was particularly commodious to all our young smarts and smatterers in free-thinking. But what mischief have you not done to human society ? You have endeavoured^ and with some degree of sue- 148 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. cess, to shake those foundations, on which the whole moral world, and the great fabric of social happiness, entirel)' rest. How could you, as a philosopher, in the sober hours of reflection, answer for this to your con- science, even supposing you had doubts of the truth of a system, which gives to virtue its sweetest hopes, to impenitent vice its greatest fears, and to true peni- tence its best consolations; which restrains even the least approaches to guilt, and yet makes those allow- ances for the infirmities of our nature, which the Stoic pride denied to it, but which its real imperfection, and the goodness of its infmitely benevolent Creator, so evidently require ? B.\YLE. The mind is free ; and it loves to exert its freedom. Any restraint upon it is a violence done to its nature, and a tyranny, against which it has a right to rebel. LOCKE. The mind, though free, has a governor within itself, which may ah-d ought to limit the exercise of its freedom. That governor is reason. BAYLE. Yes: — but reason, like other governors, has a po- licy more dependent upon uncertain caprice, than upon any fixed laws. And if that reasoji, which rules my, mind or yours, has happened to set up a favourite no- tion, it viot only submits implicitly to it, but desires that the same respect should be paid to it by all the rest of mankind. >.ow I hold that any man may law- fully oppose this crsir'Mn another ; and that if he is wise, he will use his utmost endeavours to clieck it in himself. ■» CHAP. Vir. DIALOGUES. 149 LOCKE. Is there not also a weakness of a contrary nature to this you are now ridiculing ! do we not often take a pleasure to show our own power, and gratif}^ our own pride, by degrading the notions set up by other men, and generally respected ? BAYLE. J believe we do ; and by this means it often hap- 'pens, that, if one man builds and consecrates a temple to folly, another pulls it down. LOCKE. Do yp.u think it bencilciai to human tociety, to have §^\\ temples pulled down ? BAYLE. I cannot say that I do. LOCKE . Yet I find not in your writings any mark of distinc tion^ to show us which you mean to save. BAYLE. A truo philosopher, like an impartial historian, must be of no sect. LOCKE. Is there no medium between th« blind zeal of a sectary, and a total indiiference to all religion } BAYLE. With regard to morality, I was not indifferent, LOCKE. How could you then be indifferent with regard to I the sanctions religion gives to morality ! how could j you publish what tends so directly and apparently to weaken in mankind the belief of those sanctions? was not this sacrificing the great interests of virtue to the Ihtle motives of vanity r k 150 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. BAYLE. A man may act indiscreetly, but he cannot do wrong, by declaring that^ which, on a full discussion of the question, he sincerely thinks to be true. LOCKE. An enthu?;iast, who advances doctrines prejudicial to society, or opposes any that are useful to it, has the strength of opinion, and the heat of a disturbed imagi- nation, to plead in alleviation of his fault. But your cool head and sound judgment, can have no such ex- cuse. I know very well there are passages in all your works, and those not few, where you talk like a rigid moralist. I have also heard that your character wa« irreproachably good. But when, in the most laboured parts of your writings, you sap the surest faundations of ail moral duties ; what avails it that in others, or in the conduct of 3 OUT life, you appeared to respect ihem ? How many, who have stronger passions than yen had, and are desirous to get rid of the curb that restrains them^ will lay hold of your scepticism, to set themsdves loose from all obligations of virtue ! What a misfor- tune is it to have made such a use of such talents ! It would have been better for you and for mankind, if you had been one of the dullest of Dutch theologiaas, or the most credulous monk in a Portuguese convent. The riches of the mind,, like those of fortune, may be employed so perversely,, as to become a nuisance and pest, instead'of an ornament and support, to society, BAYLE. You are very severe upon me. — But do you count it no merit, no service to mankind, to deliver them from the frauds and fetters of priestcraft, from the de- liriums of fanaticism, and from the terrrors and follies CHAP. VII. DIALOGUES. 151 pf superstition ? Consider how much mischief these have done to the world ! Ev^n in the last age, \vhat massacres, what civil wars, what convulsions of- go- vernment, what confusion in society, did they pro- duce ! Nay, in that we both lived in, though much more enlightened than the former, did I not see them Occasion a violent persecution in my own country ? and can you blame me for striking at the root of these evils ? LOCKE. The root of these evils, you well know, was false religion: but you struck at the true. Heaven and hell are not more different^ than the system of faith I defended, and that which produced the horrors of |l?vhieh you speak. Why would you so fallaciously cdn- ' found 'them together in some of your writings, that it requires much more judgment, and a more diligent at- tention, than ordinary readers have, to separate th^m again, and to make the proper distinctions? This, in- deed, is the great art of the most celebrated free- . thmkers. They recommend themselves to warm and I ingenuous minds, by lively strokes of w^it, and by ar- I guments really strong, against superstition, enthusiasm, j and priestcraft. But, at the same time, they insi- I diously throw the colours of these upon the fair face of I true religion ; and dress her out in their garb, with a j malignant intention to render her odious or despicable, I to those who have not penetration enough to discern the ' impious fraud. Some of them may have thus deceived themselves, as w^ell as others. Yet it is certain, no book that ever was written by the most acute of these gentlemen, is so repugnant to priestcraft, to spiritual • tyranny, to all absurd superstitions, to all that can tend 152 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I, to disturb or injure society, as that gospel they so much affect to despise. ) BAYLE. Mankind are so made, that, when they have been over-heated, they cannot be brought to a proper tam- per again, till they have been over-cooled. My scep- ticism might be necessary, to abate the fever and phrenzy of false religion. LCCKE. A wise prescription, indeed, to bring on a paralytica! state of the mind, (for such a scepticism as yours is a palsy, which deprives the mind of all vigour, and deadens its natural and vital powers,) in order to take off* a fever, which temperance, and the milk of the evangelical doctrines, would probably cure ? BAYLE. I acknowledge that those medicines have a great power. But few doctors apply them untainted with the mixture of some harsher drugs, or some unsafe and ridiculous nostrums of their own. LOCKE. What you now say is too true. — God has given us a most excellent physic for the soul, in all its diseases; but bud and interested physicians, or ignorant and con* ceited quacks, administer it so ill to the r^st of man* kiAd, that much of the benefit of it is unhappily lost. LORD LVTTELTO.V. ( 153 ) CHAPTER VIIL PUBLIC SPEECHES. SECTION I, Cicero against Verres, |! X HE time is come, Fathers^ when that which has long been wished for^ towards allaying the envy your order has been subject to, and removing the im- putations against trials, is effectually put in your power. An opinion has long prevailed, not only here at home, but likewise in foreign countries, both dangerous to you, and pernicious to the state, — that, in prosecutions, rncMi of wealth are always safe, however clearly con- victed. There is now to be brought upon his trial before you, to the confusion, I hope, of the propa- gators of this slanderous imputation, one whose life and actions condemn him in the opinion of all impar- * tial persons ; but who, according to his own reckon- ing and declared dependence upon his riches, is al- ready acquitted ; I mean Caius Verres. I demand 'justice of you. Fathers, upon the robber of the public treasury, the oppressor of Asia Minor and Pamphylia, |the invader of the rights and privileges of Romans^ ''the scourge and curse of Sicily. If that sentence is passed upon him which his crimes deserve, your authoiity. Fathers, will be venerable and sacred in 4. 154? THE ENGLISH READER. P4RT I. the eyes of the public; but if his great riches should bias you in his favour, I shall still gain one point, — to make it apparent to all the world, that whatvvas wanting in this case, was not a criminal nor a prosecutor, but justice and adequate punishment. I'o pass over the shameful irregularities of his youth, what does his qua^storship, the first public employment he held, what does it exhibit, but one contrnued scene of villanies? Cnelus Carbo plundered of the public money by his own treasurer, a consul stripped and be- trayed, an army deserted and reduced to want, a pro- vince robbed, the Civil and religious ri*>hts of a people violated. The employment he held in Asia Minor and Pamphylia, what did it produce but the ruin of those countries? in which houses, cities, and temples, wore robbed by him. What was his conduct in his practor- ship here at home? Let the plundered temples, and public works neglected, that he might embezzle the money intended for carrying them on, bear witness. How did he discharge the office of a judge? Let those who suffered by his injustice answer. But his pra^tor- ship in Sicily crowns all his works of wickedness, and finishes a lasting monument to his infamy. The mis- chiefs done by him in that unhappy country, during the three years of his iniquitous administration^ are such, that many years, under the wisest and best of praetors, will not be sufficient to restore things to the condition in which he found them : for it is noto- rious, that, during the time of his tyranny, the Sici- lians neither enjoyed the protection of their own original laws; of the regulations made for their benefit by the Roman senate, upon their conjiing under the pro- tection of the commonwealth; nor of the natural and CHAP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 165 jwnalienable rights of men. His nod has decided all causes in Sicily for these three years. And his de- cisions have broken all law, all precedent, all right. The sums he has, by arbitrary taxes and unheard-of impositions, extorted from the industrious poor, are not to be computed. The most faithful allies of the commonwealth have been treated as enemies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been put to death with tor- tures. The most atrocious criminals, for money, have been exempted from the deserved pumshments; and men of the most unexceptionable characters, con- demned and banished unheard. The harbours, though sullicientiy fc» tilieo, and the gates of strong towns, have been opened to jMrates and ravagers. The soldiery and sailor:, i longing to r provmce under {he pro- tection of the conjmonwealth, have been starved to death ; whole fleets, to the great detriment of the province, suflered t''* perish. I'he cniient jnonuments of either Sicilian or Roman greatness, the statue,s • f heroes and princes, have been carried off; anltfie temples stripped of tiie images. — Having, by liis ini- quitous sentences, filled the prisons with the most in- dustrious and deserving of the 'people, he then pro- ceeded to order numbers of Roman cicizens to be strangled in the gaols : so that the exclamation, *' I am a citizen of Rome!" which has often, in the most distant regions, and among the most barbarous people, been a protection, was of no service to them ; but, on jthe contrary, brought a speedier and more severe pu- nishment upon them. I ask now, Verres, what thou hast to advance against this charge ? Wilt thou pretend to deny it ? Wilt thou jpretend, that any thing false, that even any thing 150 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I* aggravated, is alleged against thee? Had any prince, or any state, committed the same outrage against the privilege of Roman citizens, should we not think we had sufficient ground for demanding satisfaction ? What punishment ought, then, to be inflicted upon a tyran- nical and wicked praetor, who dared, at no greater distance than Sicil}-^, within sight of the Italian coast, to put to the infamous death of crucifixion, that unfor- tunate and innocent citizen, Publius Gavins Cosanus, only for his having asserted his privilege of citizen- ship, and declared his intention of appealing to the justice of his country, against the cruel oppressor, who had unjustl}' confined him in prison at Syracuse, whence he had just made his escape? The unhappy man, arrested as he was going to embark for his native country, is brought before the wicked preetor. With eyes darting fury, and a countenance distorted with cruelty, he orders the helpless victim of his rage to be stripped, and rods to be brought ; accusing him, but without the least shadow of evidence, or even of sus- picion, of having come to Sicily as a spy. It was in vain that the unhappy man cried out, " I am a Ro- man citizen : I have served under Lucius Pretius, who is now at Panormus, and will attest my inno- cence/^ The blood-thirsty prcctor, deaf to all he could, urge in his own defence, ordered the infamous punish-* ment to be inflicted. Thus, fathers, was an innocents Roman citizea publicly mangled with scourging;^ whilst the only words he uttered, amidst his cruel suf-i ferings, were, '^ I am a Roman citizen l'^ With thesei he hoped to defend himself from violence and infamy.] Pmt of so little service was this privilege to him, that>| while he was thus asserting his citizenship, the order| CHAP. Vlir. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 157 was given for his execution, — for his execution upon the cross ! liberty ! — O sound once delightful to every Ro« niftn ear ! — O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship! — once sacred !— -now trampled upon !—< But what then! Is it come to this? Sha4I an inferior magistrate, a go» vernor, who holds his whole power of the Roman people, in a Roman province, within sjght of Italv, bind, scourge, torture with fire and red hot plates of iron, and at last put to the infamous death of the cross, a Roman citizen ? Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agon}^ nor the tears of pitying spectators, nor the majesty of the Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the licentious and wanton cruelty of a monster, who, in confidence of his riches, strikes at the root of Jibert}^, and, sets mankind at defiance. 1 conclude with expressing my hopes, that your wisdom and justice, fathers, will not, by suffering the atrocious and unexampled insolence of Caius Verres to escape due punishment, leave room to apprehend the danger of a total subversion of authority, and th^ introduction of general anarchy and confusion. CICEKO's ORATIONS. SECTION II, speech of Ji)HERBAL to the Roman Senate, imploring their protection against Jugurtha. FATHERS ! It is known to you, that king Micipsa, my father, on his death-bed, left in charge to Jugurtha, his adopter son, conjunctly with my unfortunate brother U'm I 15$ THE ENGLISH READER. PARTI. and myself, the children of his own body, the admini- stration of the kingdom of Numidia, directing us to consider the senate and people of Rome as propiietors of it. He charged us to use our best endeavours to be serviceable to the Roman commonwealth; assuring us, that your protection would prove a defence against all enemies; and would be instead of armies, fortifications, and treasures. While wj brother and I were thinking of nothing but how to regulate ourselves according to the direc- tions of our deceased father — Jugurtha — the most in- famous of mankind ! — breaking through all ties of gra- titude and of common humanity, and trampling on the authority of the Roman commonwealth, procured the murder of my unfortunate brother ; and has driven me from my throne and native countr}^ though he knows I inherit, from my grandfather Massinissa, and my father Micips[>, the friendship and alliance of the Romans. For a prince to be reduced, by villany, to my dis- tressful circumstances, is calamity enough ; but my misfortunes are heightened by the consideration — that I find .myself obliged to solicit your assistance, fathers, for the services done you by my ancestors^ not for any I have been able to render you in my own person. Jugurtha lias put it out of my power to deserve any thing at your hands; and has forced me to be burden- some, before I could be useful to you. And yet, if I had no plea, but my undeserved rnisery^ — a once power- ful prince, the descendant of a race of illustrious monarchs, now, without any fault of my own, destitute of every support, and reduced to the necessity -of begging foreign assistance, against an enemy who has seized my throne and my kingdom— if my unequalled 4 CHAP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 15Q distresses were all I had to plead — it would become the greatness of the Roman commonwealth, to protect the injured, and to check the triumph of daring wickedness over helpless innocence. But, to provoke your resent- ment to the utmost, Jugurtha has driven me from the very dominions, w^hich the senate and people of Rome gave to my ancestors; and, from which, my grandfather, and my father, under your umbrage, expclleJ Syphax and the Carthaginians. Thus, fiUhers, your kindness to our family is defeated ; and Jugurtha, in injuring me, throws contempt upon you. O wretched prince ! Oh cruel reverse of fortune [ Oh father Micipsa ! is this the consequence of thy generosity; that he, whom th}* goodness raised to. an equality with thy own children, should be the murderer of thy children ? Must, then, the royal house of Nu- midia always be a scene of havoc and blood ? While Carthage remained, we suffered, as was to be expected, all sorts of hardships from their hostile attacks ; our enemy near ; our only powerful ally, the Roman commonwealth, at a distance. When that scourge of Africa was no more, we congratulated ourselves on the prospect of established peace. But, instead of peace, behold the kingdom of Numidia ilrenched with royal blood ! and the only surviving son of its Jat-e king, flying from an adopted murderer, and seeking that safety in foreign parts, which he cannot conimand ia his own kingdom. Whither— Oh ! whither shall I fly? If I return to the royal palace of my ancestors,, my father's throne is seized by the murderer of my brother. What can I there expect, but that Jugurtha should hasten to im- brue, in my blood, those hands which are now reeking 12 160 THE ENGLISH READER. PARt't* with my brother's? If I were to fly for refuge, of for assistance to any other court, from what prince can I hope for protection, if the Eoman commonweakh give me up ? From my own fannly or friends I have no expectations. My royal father is no more. He is beyond the reach of violence, and out of hearing of the complaints of his unhappy son. Were my brother alive, our mutual sympathy would be some alleviation. But he is hurried out of life, in his early youth, by the very band which should have been the last to injure any of the royal family of Numidia. The bloody Jugurtha has butchered all whom he suspected to be in my in^ terest. Some have been destroyed by the Hngering torment of the cross. Others have been given a prey to wild beasts ; and their anguish made the sport of men more cruel than wild beasts. If there be any y^t alive, they are shut up in dungeons, there to drag out a life more intolerable than death itself. Look down, illustrious senators of Rome! from that height of power to which you are raised, on the un- exampled distresses of a prince, who is, by the cruelty ©fa wicked intruder, become an outcast from all man- kind. Let not the crafty insinuations of him who re- turns murder for adoption, prejudice your judgment. Do not listen to the wretch who has butchered the sou and relations of a king> who gave him power to sit on i the same throne with his own sons. — ^I have been in- : formed, that he labours by his emissaries to prevent! your determining any thing against him in his absence; j^retending that I magnify my distress, and might, for him, have staid in peace in my own kingdom. But, if ever the time comes, when the due vengeance from i -above sh^ll overtake him, he will then dissemble as I do. Then he^ who now^, hardened in wickedness. CHAP. Viri. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 161 triumphs over those whom his violence has laid low, will, in his turn, feel distress, and suffer for his impious ingratitude to my father, and his blood-thirsty cruelty, to my brother. Oh murdered, butchered brother ! Oh dearest to my heart^ — now gone for ever from my sight!- — but Avhy should I lament his death ? He is, indeed, deprived of the blessed light of heaven, of life, and kingdom, at once, by the very person who ought to have been the fij st to hazard his owa. life, in defence of any one of Micipsa^s family. But, as things are, my brother is not so much deprived of these comforts, as delivered from terror, fiom flight, from exile, and the endless train of miseries which render life to me a burden. lie lies full low, gored with wounds, and festering in his own blood. But he lies in peace. He feels none of the miseries which reud my soul with agony and dis- traction, while I am set up a spectacle to all mankind, of the uncertainty of human affaii-s. So far from having it in my power to punish his murderer, I am not mas- ter of the means of securing my own life. So far from being in a condition to defend my kingdom from the violence of the usurper, I am obliged to apply for foreign protection for my own person. Fathers ! Senators of Rome ! the arbiters of nations f to you I fly for refuge from the murderous fury of Jugurtha.^ — By your ailection for your children ; by your love for your country ; by }'Our own virtues ; by the majesty of the Roman commonwealth; by all that is sacred, and all that is dear to you — deliver a wretched prince from undeserved, unprovoked injury ; and save tlie kingdom of JSumidia, which is your own property, from being the prey of violence, usurpation, and <^i'^^^ty. I 3 SALLUST^ 162 THE ENGLISH READER. SECTION III, The Apostle Paulas noble defence before Festus and Agrippa, Agrippa said unto Paul, thou art permitted to sjDeak for thyself. — Then Paul stretched forth his hand, and answered for himself. J think myself happy, king Agrippa, because I shall answer for myself this day before thee, concerning all the things whereof I am accused by the Jews : especially, as I know th(;e to be expert in all customs and questions which are amon.g the Jews. Wherefore I beseech thee to hear me patiently. My manner of life from my youth, which was at the. first among my own nation at Jerusalem, know all the J<'ws; \\ ho knew me from the beginning, (if they would testify,) that after the straitest sect of our re- ligion, I lived a Pharisee. And now I stand and am judged for the hope of the promise made by God to our fathers; to which promise, our twelve tribes, con- tinually serving God day and night, hope to come : and, for this hope's sake, king Agrippa, I am accused by the Jews. Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, that God should raise the dead? I verily thought with myself, that I ought to do many things contrary to the name of Jesus of Nazareth : and this I did in Jerusalem. Many of the saints I shut up in prison, having received authority from the chief priests ; and when they were put to death, I gave my voice against them. And 1 often [;unished them in every synagogue, and compelled tlitm to blaspheme; and being ex- CHAP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 16^ exceedingly mad against them, I persecuted them even unto strange cities. But as I went to Damascus^, with authority and commission from the chief priests, at mid-day, O king I I sawin the way a hght from hea- ven, above the brightness of the sun,, shining round about me, and them who journeyed with me. And when we were all fallen to the earth, I heard a voice speaking to me and sayiwg, in the Hebrew, tongue, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou- me ? It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks-. And 1 said, w ho art thou. Lord ? And he replied^. I am Jesus w horn tliou persecutfejst. But rise,, and stand upon thy feet: for I have appeared to thee foi ihis purpose, to make thee a minister, and a w itness both of these thing.«, which thou hast seen, and cf those thin-gs in which I wiJl appear to thee ; dell\ ering thee from the people, and from the Gentiles, to whom ! now send thee, to open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God ; that they may receive for- giveness of sins, and inheritance amongst them who are sanctified by foith that is in me. Whereupon, O king Agrippa ! I was not disobedient to the heavenly vision I but showed first to them of Damascus, and at Jerusalem, and through all the coasts of Judea, and then to the Gentiles, that they should repent, and turn to God, and do \vorks meet for re- pentance. Tor these causes, tlje Jews caught me in the temple ; and went about to kill me. Havins". however, obtjiiDed help from God, I continue, to this day, witnessing boUi to small and great, saying- no other things than those which the pro{)hets and Moses de- clared should come ; that Christ should suller; that he would be the first who should rise from the dead j and It 164 THE ENGLISH READER. PART. 1, that he would show h'ght to the people, and to the .Gentiles. And as he thus spoke for liimself, Festus said, with a loud voice, " Paul thou art beside thyself; much learning hath made thee mad.'^ But he replied, I am not mad, most noble Festus; but speak the words of truth and soberness. For the king knoweth these things before whom I also speak freely. I am per- suaded that none of these things are hidden from him : for this thing was not done in a corner. Kiog Agrippa, believest thou the prophets? I know that thou believest. Then Agrippa said to Paul, '* Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian. ^^ And Paul re^ plied, ^^ I would to God, that not only thou, but also all that hear me this day, were both almost, and altogether such as I am, except ttfese bonds *.^' ACTS xxvu * How bappy was this great Apostle, even in the most perilous .circumstances ! Though under bonds and oppression, his mind ^as free, and raised above every fear of man. With what dignity and composure does be defend himself, and the noble cause he had espoused ; whilst he displajj^s the most compassionate and generous feelings, for those who were strangers to the sublime re- ligion by which he was animateola CHAP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 165 SECTION IV, Lord Mays fie id's speech in the House of Peers, 1770, on the bills for preventing the delays of justice^ hy claiming the Privilege of Parliament, MY LORDS, When' I consider the importance of this bill to your Lordships, I am not surprised it has taken up so much ot your consideration. It is a bill, indeed, of no com- mon magnitude ; it is no less than to take away ffom two- thirds of the legislative body of this great king^ dom, certain privileges and immunities of which they have been long possessed. Perhaps there is no situa* tion the human mind can be placed in, that is so diffi- cult antf so trying, *as when it is made a judge in its own cause. There is something implanted in the breast of man so attached to self^ so tenacious of privileges once obtained, that in such a situation, either to dis- cuss with impartiality, or decide with justice, has ever been held the summit of ail human virtue. The bill now in question puts your lordships in this very predi- cament ; and I have no doubt the wisdom of your de- cision will convince the world,, that where self-interest and just/ce arc in opposite scales, the latter will ever preponderate with your lord,ships. Privileges have been granted to legislators in all ages, and in all countries. The practice is founded in wis- dom ; and, indeed,, it is peculiarly essential to the con- stitution of this country, that the members of both houses should be heo. in their persons, in cases of civil suits : for there may ceme a time when the safety and 16Q THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. welfare of this whole empire^ may depend upon their attendance in parliament. I am far from advising any measure that would in future endanger the state : but the bill before your lordships has, I am confident, no such tendency ; for it. expressly secures the persons of members of either house in all civil suits. This being the case, 1 confess, when I see many noble lords, for whose judgment I have a very great respect, standing lip to oppose a bill which is calculated merely to faci- litate the recovery of just and legal debts, I am asto- nibhed aud amazed. They, I doubt not, oppose the bill upon public principles : I would not wish to insi- nuate, that private interest had the least weight in their determination. The bill has been frequently proposed, and as fre- quently has miscarried ; but it w^as always lost- in the lower house. Little did I think, when it had passed the commons, that it possibly could have met with such opposition here. Shall it be said, that you, my lords, the grand council of the nation, the highest judicial and legislative body of the realm, endeavour to evade, by privilege, those very laws which you enforce on your fellow-subjects? Forbid it justice! — I am sure, were the noble lords as well acquainted as I am, with but half the difficulties and delays occasioned in the courts of justice, under pretence of privilege, they would not, nay, they could not, oppose this bilL^^j,-^ I have waited with patience to hear w hat arguments might be urged against this bill; but I have waited in vain : the truth is, there is no argument that can weigh against it. The justice and expediency of the bill are such as render it self-evident. It is a proposition of that nature, that can neither be weakened by argument. CHAP. Viri. PUBLIC SPEECHES. _ 167 nor entangled with sophistry. Much, indeed, has beeu said by soine noble lords, on the wisdom of our ances- tors, and how differently they thought from us. They not only decreed, that privilege should prevenl all civil suits from proceeding during the silting of parliament, but likewise granted protection to the very servants of members. I shall say nothing on the wisdom of our an- cestors; it might perhaps appear invidious : that is not necessary in the present case. I shall only say, that the noble lords who flatter them-'^tlves with the weight of that reflection, should remember, that as- circumstances-: alter, things themselves should alter. Formerly, it was-.- not so fas-liionable either for nrasters or servants to rua. iji debt, as it is at present. Formerly, we were not that great commercial nation we are at present;, nor, for- merly were merchants and manufacturers members of parliament as at present. The case is now very dif- ferent: both merchants and manufacturers are, with great propriety, elected members of the lower house. Commerce having thus got into the legislative body of the kingdom, privilege must be done away. We all know, that the very soul and essence of trade are re- gular payments ; and sad experience teaches us, that there are men, who w'lU not make their regular pay- ments without the compulsive power of the laws.. The law then ought to be equally open to all. Any. exemption to particular men, or particuhu* ranks of men, is, in a free and commercial country^ a^>:^Iecisia of the grossest nature. But I will not trouble your lordshipsvvith argmiientr'? for that, which is sufficiently evident without any. I shall only say a few words to some noble lords, who foresee much za^coiiYeniency;, from the persons of tkcir 1(3 Ids THE ENGLISH REA1>ER. VART T, servants being liable to be arrested. One noble lord observes, Tiiat the coachman of a peer may be av- lested, while he is driving his master to the House, and that, consequently^ he will not be able to attend his duty in parliament. If this were actually to happen^ there areso many methods by which the member might still get to the house, that I can hardly think ?Iie noble lord is serious in his objection. Another noble peer said. That, by this bill, one might lose his most valuable- and honest servants. This I hold to be a contradiction in terms ; for he can neitlrer be a valuable servant, nor an honest man, who gets into debt which he is neithef* able nor v^^illing to pay, till compelled bythe law. If my servant, by unforeseen a(^cidents, has got into debt^ and I still wish to retain him, I certainly would pay the demand. But upon no principle of liberal legisla- tion whatever, can my servant have a title to set his creditors at defiance^ v/hile, for forty shillings only, the- honest tradesman may be torn from his family, and locked up in a gaol. It is monstrous injustice ! I flatter myself, however, the determination of tiiis day will en- tirely put an end to ail these partial proecedings for the future, by passing into a law the bill now under your iordships' eonsideratior. . I come now to speak, upon what, indeed, I wouM have gladly avoided, had I not been particularly pointed at, for the part 1 have taken in this bill. It has been said, by a noble lord on my left hand, that I likew^ise aiu running the race of popularity. If the noble lord means by popularity, that applause bestowed by after- ages on good and virtuous actions, I have long beea struggling in that race : to what purpose, all-trying time can alone determine. But if the noble lord a CHAP. Vlir. PUBLIC SP-EECHRS, 169' means that mushroom popularity, which is raised with- out merit, and lost without a crime, he is much mistaken in his opinion. I defy the noble lord to point out a single action of my life, in which the ptopularity of the times ever had the smallest influence on my determina- tions. I thank God I have a more permanent and steady rule for my conduct, — the dictates of my owa b-reast. Those who have forgone that pleasing adviser,, and given up their mind to be the slave of every popu- lar impulse, I sincerely pity ; I pity them still more, }£ their vanity leads them to mistake the shouts of a mob> for the trumpet of fame. Experience might inform them, that many,, who have been saluted with the huzzas of a crowd one day, have received their execrations the next; and many, who by the popularity of their times, have been held up as spotless patriots, have, ne- vertheless, appeared upon the historian's page, wheiv ti-uth has triumphed over delusion, the assassins of li- berty. Why then the noble lord can think I am am- bitious of present popularity, that echo of folly, and shadow of renown, I am at a loss to determine. Be- sides, I do not know that the bill now before your lord- ships will be popular: it depends much upon the caprice of the day. It may not be popular to compel people to pay their debts ; and, in that case, the present must be a very unpopular bill. It may not be popular nei- ther to take away any of the privileges of parliament; for I very well remember, and many of your lordships may j'emeniber, that, not long ago, the popular cry was for the extension of privilege; and so far did they carry it at that lime, that it was said, the privilege protected members even in criminal actions; nay, such was the power of popular prejudices over weak minds, that the 170 THE ENGLISH READER, PART i, very decisions of some of the courts were tinctured "with that doctrine. It was undoubtedly an abominable doctrine. I thought so then, and I think so still : but, nevertheless^ it was a popular doctrine, and came immediately from those who are called the friends of liberty; how deservedly, time will show. True liberty, in my opinion, can only exist when justice is equally administered to all; to the king and to the beggar. Where is the justice tli^en, or where is the law that pro- tects a member of parliament, more than any other man, from the punishment due to his crimes? The laws of this country allow of no place, nor any employment, to be a sanctuary for crimes; and Avhere I have the honour to sit as jinlge, neither royal favour, nor popu- lar applause, shall protect the guilty. I have now only to beg pardon for having employed so much of your lordships^ time; and I am sorry a bill, fraught with so many good consequences, has not met with an abler advocate: but I doubt not your lordships'* determination will convince the world, that a bill, cal- culated to contribute so much to the equal distribution of justice as the present, requires with your lordships* but very little support SECTION V. An address to young persons. I INTEND, in this address, to show you the import- ance of beginning early to give serious attention to your conduct. As soon as you are capable of re- flection, you must perceive that there is a right and a wrong in human actions. You see, that those who CHAP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES.' 171 are born with the same advantages of fortune, are not all equally prosperous in the course of life. While some of them, by wise and steady conduct, attain dis- tinction in the world, and pass their days with comfort and honour; others, of the same rank, by mean and vicious behaviour, forfeit the advantages of their birth; involve themselves in much misery ; and end in being a disgrace to their friends, and a burden on society. Early, then, may you learn, that it is not on the ex- ternarcondition in which you find yourselves placed, but on the part which you are to act, that your welfare or unhappiness, your honour or infamy, depends* Now, when beginning to act that part, what can be of greater moment, than to regulate your plan of con- duct with the most serious attention, before you have yet committed any. fatal or irretrievable errors? If, instead of exerting reflection for this valuable purpose, you deliver yourselves up, at so critical a time, to sloth and pleasures; if you refuse to listen to any counsellor but humour, or to attend to any pursuit except that of amusement ; if you allow yourselves to float loose and careless on the tide of life, ready to receive any direc- ' tion which the current of fashion may chance to give you ; what can you expect to follow from such begin- nings? While so many around you are undergoing the sad consequences of a like indiscretion, for what reason shall not those consequences extend to you ? Shall you attain success without that preparation, and escape dangers without that precaution, which are re- quired of others? Shall happiness grow up to you, of its own accord, and solicit your acceptance, when, to the re.st of mankind, it is the fruit of long cultivation, uad the acquisition of labour and care ? ■ ■ Deceive 172 TKE ENGLISH READER. PART I. not yourselves with those arrogant hopes. VVhatevev be your rank. Providence will not, for your sake> reverse its established order. The Author of your bein^' hath enjoined you to *' take heed to your ways ; to ponder the paths of your feet; to remember your Creator in the, days of your youth. ^' He hath decreed, that they oidy *' who seek after wisdom, shall find it ; that fools shall be afflicted, because of their transgres- sions; and that whoever refuseth instruction, shall de- strroy his own soul/' By listening to these admonitions^ and tempering tlie vivacity of youth with a proper mixture of serious thought, you may ensure cheerfulness for the rest of life; but by delivering yourselves up at present to giddiness and levity, you lay the foundation ef lasting heaviness of heart. When you look forward to those plans of life, which either your circumstances have suggested, or your friends have proposed, yor will not hesitate to acknow- ledge, that in order to pursue them with advantage, some previous discipline is requisite. !Be assured, that whatever is to be your profession, no education is^ more necessauy to your success^, than the acquirement of virtuous dispositions and habits. This is the uni- versal preparation for every cliaracter, and every station in life. Bad as the v^orld is, respect is always paid to virtue. In the usual course of human affairs,, it will be found, that a plain understanding,, joined v.ith acknowledged worth, contributes more to pro- sperity, than the brightest parts without probity or honour. Whether scieiice or business, or public life, be your aim, virtue still enters, for a principal share, into all these great departments of society. It is con- nected with eminence, m everv liberal art ; w ith re- CHAP. VIll. PUBLIC SPEECHES* 17^ l^utation, in every branch of fair and useful business ; with distinction, in every public station. The vigour which it gives the mind, and the weight which it adds to character 5 the generous sentiments which it breathes* the und^aunted spirit which it inspires; the ardour of diligence which it quickens; the freedom ^hich it procures from pernicious and dishonourable avocations; are the foundations of all that is highly honourable, or greatly successful among men.^ Whatever ornamental or engaging endowments you now possess, virtue is a necessary requisite, in order to their shining with proper lustre. Feeble are the attractions of the fairest form, if it be suspected that nothing within corresponds to the pleasing appearance without. Short are the triumphs of wit^ when it is supposed to be the vehicle of malice. By whatever means you may at first attract the attentior^^ Y^u can hold the esteem, and secure the hearts of others, only by amiable dispositions, and the accomplishmeats of the mind. These are the qualities whose influence will last, when the lustre of all that once sparkled aui dazzled has passed away. Let not then the season of youth be barren of im- provements, so essential to your future felicity and honour. Now is the seed»time of life ; and according to " what you sow, you shall reap.^^ Your character is now, under Divine Assistance, of your own form- ing; your fate is, in some measure, put into your own hands. Your nature is as yet pliant and soft. Habits have not established their dominion. Prejudices haye not pre-occupied your understanding. The world has not had time to contract and debase your affections. All your powers are n^ore vigorous, disembara.ssed^ 174 THE ENGLISH READER. ^PART !► and free, than they will be at any future period. Whatever impulse you now give to your desires and pasjs.v'ns, the direction is hkely to continue. It will form the channel in which your life is to run; nay, it may deter iiiine its everlasting issue. Consider then the employment of this important period, as the highes trust which siiall ever be committed to you; as in ; great measure, decisive of your happiness, in time, and in eternity. As in the succession of the seasons each, by the invariable laws of nnturc, -^iflects th( productions of what is next in course; so,, in huiiiati ■ life, every period of our n2re, according as it is well or ill spent, influences the happiness of that whicl. is i to follow. Virtuous youth gradually brings forward. 'j accomplished and fl)urishing manhood; and such njan- i hood passes of itself, without uneasiness, into rt^spect- j ablf* «»r»d t^ancjuil old age. But when nature is turned i out of its regular course, disorder takes place in the ^j moral, just as in the vegetable world. If the spring j put forth no blossoms, in summer there will be no i beauty, and in autumn, no fruit: so, if youth be i trifled away without improvement, manhood will pro* j bably be contemptible, and old age miserable. If the^ beginnings of life have been *' vanity, '^ its latter end^ can scarcely be any other than *' vexation of spirit." | I shall finish this address, with calling your attentioi^ to that dependence on the blessing of Heaven, which,] amidst all your endeavours after improvement, you ought continually to preserve. It is too common with the young, even when they resolve to tread the patll of virtue and honour, to set out with presumptuous confidence in themselves. Trusting to their own abi-^ lities for carrying them successfully through life, the^ CHAP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. ' 175 are careless of applying to God, or of deriving any assistance from what they are apt to reckon the gloomy discipline of religion. Alas! how little do they know the dangers which await them? Neither human wis- dom, nor human virtue, unsupported by religion, is equal to the trying situations which often occur in ^,life. By the shock of temptation, how frequently have the most virtuous intentions been overthrown? Under the jyressure of disaster, how often has the greatest constancy sunk ? "Every good, and every per- fect gift, is from above." Wisdom and virtue, as well as '' riches and honour, come from God.'' Destitute of his favour, you are in no better situation, with all your boasted abilities, than orphans left to v.ander in a trackless desert, without any guide to conduct them, or any shelter to cover them from the gathering storm. Correct, then, this ill-founded arrogance. Expect not, that your happiness can be independent of Him who made you. By faith and repentance, apply to the Redeemer of the world. By piety and prayer, seek the, protection of the God of heaven. I conclude with the solemn words, in which a great prince de- livered his dying charge to his son : words, which every young person ought to consider as addressed to himself, and to engrave deeply on his heart : " Solo- mon, my son, know thou the God of thy fathers ; and serve him w^ith a perfect heart, and with a willing mind. For the Lord searcheth all hearts, and under- standeth all the imaginations of the thoughts. If thou seek him, he will be found of thee ; but if thou forsake him, he will cast thee oil' for ever.'' blair. ( 176 ) CHAPTER IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. SECTION 7. Marihqiuile at Calabria y in the year 1638. An account of this dreadful earthquake^ is given by the celebrated father Kircher. It happened whilst he was on his journey to visit Mount ELXw^i, and the rest of the wonders that lie towards the South of Italy. Kircher is considered^ by scholars^ as one of the greatest prodigies of learning. ** Having hired a boat, in company with four more, (two friars of the order of St. Francis, and two seculars^) we launched, from the harbour of Messina, in Sicily; and arrived, the same day, at the promontory of Pelorus. Our destination was for the city of Euphaemia, in Calabria; where we had some business to transact; and where we d^isigned to tarry for some time. How- ever, Providence seemed wilhng to cross our design; for we were obliged to continue three days at Pelorus, on account of the weather ; and though we often put out to sea, yet we were as often driven back. At length, wearied with the delay, we resolved to prose- cute our voyage; and, although the sea seemed more than usually agitated, we ventured forward. The ,gulf of Charybdis, which we approached, seemed CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES* 17^ whirled round in such a manner, as to form a vast hollow, verging to a point in the centre. Proceeding onward, and turning my ey^s to wEtna, I saw it cast forth large volumes of smoke, of mountainous sizes, which entirely covered the island, and blotttd out the very shores from my view. This, together with the dreadful noise, an4 the sulphurous stench which was strongly perceived, filled me with apprehensions, that some more dreadful calamity was impending. The sea itself seemed to wear a very unusual appearance : they who have seen a lake in a violent shewer of rain, covered all over with bubbles, will conceive some idea of its agitations. My surprise was still increased, by the calmness and serenity of the weather; not a breeze, not a cloud, which might be supposed to put all na- *ture thus into motion. I therefore warned my com- panions, that an earthquake was approaching; and, after some time, making for the shore with all possible diligence, we landed at Tropaea, happy and thankful for having escaped the threatening dangers of the Sea.'^ *' But our triumphs at land were of short duration ; for we had scarcely arrived at the Jesuit^s College, in that city, when our ears were stuTyied with a horrid sound, resembling that of an infinite number of cha- riots> driven fiercely forward ; the wheels rattling, and the thongs cracking. Soon after this, a most dreadful earthquake ensued ; so that the whole tract upon which we stood seemed to vibrate> as if we were in the scale of a balance, that continued wavering. This motion, however, soon grew more violent ; and being no longer able to keep my legs^ I was thrown prostrate upon the ground. In the mean tim^, the universal ruin round 178 THE ENGLISH READER. PARTI. me redoubled my amazement. The crash of falling houses, the tottering of towers, and the groans of the dying, all contributed to raise my terror and despair. On every side of me, I saw nothing but a scene of ruin ; and danger threatening wherever I should fly. I recommended myself to God, as my last great refuge. At that hour, O how vain was every sublunary happi- ness ! Wealth, honour, empire, wisdom, all mere use- less sounds, and as empty as the bubbles of the deep ! Just standing on the threshold of eternity, nothing but God was my pleasure; and the nearer I approached, I only loved him the more, ^her some time, how- ever, finding that I remained unhurt, amidst the gene- ral concussion, I resolved to venture for safety ; and running as fast as I could, I reached the shore, but al- most terrified out of my reason. I did not search long here, till I found the boat in which I had landed ; and my . companions also, whose terrors were even greater than mine. Our meeting was not of that kind, where every one is desirous of telling his own happy escape : it was all silence, and a gloomy dread of impending terrors.^' *' Leaving this seat of desolation, w^e prosecuted our voyage along the coast ; and the next day came to Iiochetta, where we landed, although the earth still continued in violent agitations. But we had scarcely arrived at our inn, when we were once more obliged to return to the boat; and, in about half an hour, we saw the greater part of the town, and the inn at which we had set up, dashed to the ground, and burying the inhabitants beneath the ruins. ^^ ** In this manner, proceeding onward in our little vessel, finding no safety at land, and yet, from the CHAP. rx. PROMISCUOUS PIECES, 179 sniallness of our boat^ having but a very dangerous con- tinuance at sea, we at length landed at Lopizium, a castle midway between Tropaea and Euphagmia, the city to which J as I said before, we were bound. Here, wherever I turned my eyes, nothing but scenes of ruin and horror appeared ; towns and castles levelled to the ground ; Strombalo, though at sixty miles distance, belching forth flames in an unusual manner, and with a noise which I could distinctly hear. But my attention was quickly turned from more remote, to contiguous danger. The rumbling sound of an approaching earthquake, which we by this time were grown ac- quainted with, alarmed us for the consequences; it every moment seemed to grow louder, and to ap-. proach nearer. The place on which we stood now began to shake most dreadfully ; so that being unable to stand, my companions and I caught hold of what- ever shrub grew- next to us, and supported ourselves in that manner.'^ '' After some time, this violent paroxysm ceasing, we again stood up, in order to prosecute our voyage to Euphsemia, which lay within sight. In the mean time, while we were preparing for this purpose, I turned any eyes towards the city, but could see only a fright- i*ul dark cloud, that seemed to rest upon the place. This the more surprised us, as the weather was so very serene. We waited, therefore, till the cloud had passed away : then turning to look for the city, it was to- tally sunk. Wonderful to tell ! nothing but a dismal and putiid lake was seen where it stood. We looked about to find some one that could tell us of its sad catastrophe, but could see no person. All was become a melancholy solitude ; a scene of hideous desolation. 1^0 THE ENGLfSH READER. PART t* Thus proceeding pensively along, in quest of some human being that could give us a little information, we at length saw a boy sitting by the shore, and ap- pearing stupified with terror* Of him, therefore, we inquired concerning the fate of the city 5 but he could not be prevailed on to give us an answer. We en- treated him, with every expression of tenderness and pity, to tell us; but his senses were quite wrapt up in the contemplation of the danger he had escaped, W^ offered him some victuals, but he seemed tci loath the sight. We still persisted in our offices of kindness; but he only pointed to the place of the city, like one out of his senses ; and then running up into the woods, was never heard of after. Such Was the fate of the city of Euphaemia. As we continued our melan- choly course along the shore, the whole coast, for the space of two hundred niiles> presented nothing but the remains of cities ; and men scattered^ without a habi*. tation, over the fields. Proceeding thus along, we at length ended our distressful voyage, by arriving at Naples, after having escaped a thousand dangers both at sea and laud,^^ goldsmh ;»c s}i:cTtox n. Loiter from Flinf to Geminius. Bo we not sometimes observe a sort of people, who though they are themselves tmder the abject dominion of every vice, show a kind of malicious resentment against the errors of others; and are most severe upon those whom they most resemble? yet, surely a lenity of disposition, even in persons who have the legist occa-* CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 181 sion for clemency themselves, is of all virtues the most becoming. The highest of all charaqters, in my estima- tion, is his, who is as ready to pardon the errors of mankind, as if he were every day guihy of some him^ self; and, at the same time, as cautious of committing a fault, as if he never forgave one. It is a rule then which we should, upon all occasions, both private and public, most religiously observe; ^' to be inexorable to our own failings, while we treat those of the rest of the world with tenderness, not excepting even such as forgive none but themselves." I shall, perhaps, be asked, who it is that has given occasion to these reflections. Know then that a cer- tain person lately — but of that when we meet — though, upon second thoughts, not even then; lest, whilst I condemn and expose his conduct, I shall act counter to that maxim I particularly recommend. Whoever therefore, and whatever he is, shall remain in silence : for though there may be some use, perhaps, in setting a mark upon the man, for the sake of example, there will be more^ however, in sparing him, for the sake of humanity. Farewell. melmoth's pliny. SECTIOS III* Letter from Piiwr to Marcellinus, on the death of an amiable young ivoman. I WRITE this under the utmost oppression of sorrow : the youngest daughter of ifiy friend Fundanus is dead ! Never surely was there a more agreeable, and more amiable young person ; or one who better deserved to have enjoyed a long, I had almost said, an immortal K 182 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. life ! She had all the wisdom of age, and discretion of a matron, joined with youthful sweetness and virgin modesty. With what an engaging fondness did she behave to her father! How kindly and respectfully re- ceive his friends! How affectionately treat all those who, in their respective offices, had the care and edu- cation of her ! She employed much of her time in reading, in which she discovered great strength of judgment; she indulged herself in few diversions^ and those with much caution. With what forbearance, with what patience, with what courage, did she endure her last illness ! She complied with all the directions of her physicians; she encouraged her sister, and her father; and, w^hen all her strength of body was ex- hausted, supported herself by the single vigour of her mind. That, indeed, continued, even to her last mo- ments, unbroken by the pain of a long illness, or the terrors of approaching death ; and it is a reflection wd:iicli makes the loss of her so much the more to be lamented. A loss infinitely severe ! and more severe bv the particular conjuncture in which it happened ! She was contracted to a most worthy youth; the wedding day was fixed, and we were all invited. — How sad a cliange from the highest joy, to the deepest sorrow ! How shall I express the wound that pierced mv heart, when I heard Fundanus himself, (as grief is CH'er finding out circumstances to aggravate its afflic- tion,) ord(M'i ng the money he had designed to la.y out upon clothes and jewels for her marriage, to be em- ploy tul in n^.yrrh and spices for her funeral? He is a man of great learning and good sense, who lias applied himself, from his earliest youth, to the noblest and most elevated studies; lut all tlie maxims of fortitude CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS' PIECES. 183 vvhicli he has received from books, or advanced him- self, he now absolutely rejects; and every other virtue of his heart givesi place to all a parent's tenderness. We shall excuse, we shall even approve his sorrow, when wc consider what he has lost. He has lost a daughter who resembled him in his manners, as well as his person ; and exactly copied out all her father. If his friend Marcellinus shall think proper to write to him, upon the subject of so reasonable a grief, let me remind him not to use the rougher arguments of con- solation, and such as seem to carry a sort of reproof with them ; but those of kind and sympathizing hu- manity. Time will render hTm more open to the dic- tates of reason : for as a fresh wound shrinks back from the hand of the surgeon, but by degrees submits to, and even requires the means of its cure; so a mind, under the first impressions of a misfortune, shuns and rejects all arguments of. consolation ; but at length, if applied with tenderness, calmly and willingly ac- quiesces in them. Farewell. MELMOIU'S PI.JSY; SECTIOy IF. On discretion, I have often thought, if the minds of men were laid open, we should see but Utile difference between that of the wise man, and that of the fool. There are infinite rev^^nes, numberless extrava- gances, and a succrssion of vanities, which pass through b/)th. The great dilFerence is, that the fir^^ knows how to pick and cull Lis thoughts for con- K 2 184 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I, vers^tloii, by suppressing some, and communicating others; wher-eas the other lets them all indifferently fly out in words. This sort of discretion/ however, has no place in private conversation between intimate friends. On such occasions, the wisest men very often talk like the weakest; for indeed talking with a friend is nothing else than thinking aloud, Tully has therefore very justly exposed a precept, delivered by some ancient writers. That a man should live with his enemy in such a manner, as might leave him room to become his friend; and with his friend, in such a manner, that, if he became hisf enemy, it should not be in his power to hurt him. -The first part of this rule, which regards our behaviour towards an enemy, is indeed \ery reasonable, as well as very prudential ; but the latter part of it, which regards our behaviour towards a friend, savours more of cun- ning than of discretion; and would cut a man off from the greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedon^ of conversation with a bosom friend* Besides that, when a friend is turned into an enemy, the world is "just enough to accuse the perfidiousness of the friend, rather thaq the indiscretion of the person who con- fided in him. Discretion does not only show itself in "vvords, but in all the circumstances of action ; and is like an under-agent of providence, to guide and direct us in the ordinary concerns of life. There are many more shining qualities in the mind of man, but there is none so useful as discretion. It is this, indeed, which gives a value to all the rest ; which sets them at work in their j:roper times and places ; and turns them to the advantage of the person I CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 185 who is possessed of them. Without it^ learning is pedantry, and wit impertinence ; virtue itself looks like weakness; the best parts only qualify a man to be more sprightly in errors^ and active to his own pre- judice. Discretion does not only make a man the master of his own parts, but of other men^s. The discreet man finds out the talents of those he converses with ; and knows how to apply them to proper uses. Accord- ingly, if we look into particular communities and divisions of men, we may observe, that it is the dis- creet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor the brave, who guides the conversation, and gives mea- sures to the society. A man with great talents, but void of discretion, is like Polyphemus in the flible, strong and blind ; endued with an irresistible force, which, for want of sight, is of no use to him. Though a man have all other perfections, yet if he want discretiou, he v. ill be of no great consequence in the world; on the contrary, if he have this single talent in perfection, and but a common share of other*, be m^y do what he pleases in his particular station of life. At the same time that I think discretion the most useful talent a man can be master of, I look upon cun- ning to be the accomplishment of little, mean, unge- nerous miuds. Discretion points out the noblest enda to us; and pursues the most proper and laudable me- thods of attaining them: cunning has only private selfish aims; and sticks at nothing which may make them succeed. Discretion has large and extended views; and, like a well-formed eye, commands a whole horizon : cunning is a kind of short-sightednes^, that discovers the minutest objects which are near ai K 3 186 THE ENGLISH READER. PART !• hand, but is not able to discern things at a distance. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the person who possesses it : cunning, when it is once detected, loses its force, and makes afar off with astonishment ; but when nearjy viewed, it ap- pears disproportioned, unshapely, and rude. Observations of the same kind may be applied to a1] the reputation derived from civil accomplishments; from the refined politics of the statesman ; or the lite- CHAP. IX. rUGMISCUOUS PIECES. 203 rary efforts of genius and erudition. These bestow, and within certain bounds, ought to bestow, emi- nence and distinction on men. They discover talents which in themselves are shining; and which become highly valuable, when employed in advancing the good of mankind. Hence, they frequently give rise to fame. But a distinction is to be made between fiime and true honour. The statesman, the orator, or the poet, may be famous; while yet the man him- self is far from being honoured. We envy his abi- lities. We wish to rival them. But we would not choose to be classed with him Avho possesses them. Instances of this sort arc too often found in every re- cord of ancient or modern history. From all this it follows, that in order to discern where man's true honour lies, we must loofe, not to any adventitious circumstance of fortune'; 'not to any single sparkling quidity; but to the whole of what forms a man ; what entitles hiln,afij siich, td rank high among that class of beings to vfhich he belongs'; in a w^ord, we must look to the mind and the sonl. A mind superior to fear, to selfish interest and corrup- tion ; a mind governed by the principles of uniform rectitude and integrity ; the Stinie in prosperity and adversity ; which no bribe can seduce, nor terror over- awe; neither by pleasure melted into elTeminacy, nor by distress sunk into dejection: such is the mind which forjtis the distinction and eminence of man. — One, who in no situation of life, is either ashamed or afraid of discharging his duty, and acting his proper part with firranass. and constancy; true to the God whom he worshipkS,>and true to the faith in which he professes to-believe; full of affection to his brethren of mau- L 205 THE ENGLISH READfR. PART t. kind; faithful to his friends, generous to liis enemies, warm with compassion to the unfortunate ; self-denying to little private interests and pleasures, but zealous for public interest and happiness; magnanimous, with'- out being proud ; fumble, without being mean ; just, without being harsh ; simple in his manners, but manly in his feelings; on whose words we can entirely rely ; whose countenance never deceives us; whose pro-^ fessions oi' kindness are the efiusions of his heart: one, ?n fine, whom, independent of any views of advan- tage, we would choose for a superior, could trust in as a friend, and could love as a brother — ^This is the 3T)cin, ^\ horn in our heart, above all others^ we do, we must honour. blair. SlCTIOy XIIT. The injlucnce of dnwtion on the happina-s of life. WHATEVER promotes and strengthens virtue, what- rvcr calms and regulates the temper, is a source of hanplness. Devotion produces these effects in a re- markable degree. It inspires composure of spirit, mildness, and benignity; weakens the painful, and eiierishes the pleasing emotions; and, by these means, carries on the life of a pious man in a smooth and placid tenor. Besides exerting th» habitual influence on the mind, df votion opens a field of enjoyments, to which the vieious are entire strangers; enjoyments the more valuable, its ihey peculiarly belong to retirement, when Ibe world kaves us; and to adversity, vvhen it GHAP,iX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 207 becomes our foe. . These are the two seasons, for which every wise man would most wish to provide some hidden store of comfort. For kit him be placed in the most favourable situation which tlie human state admits, the world can neither always auiuse him, nor always shield him from distress. There will J^e many hours of vacuity, and many of dejection, in his life. If he be a stranger to God, and to devotion, how dreary will the gloom of solitude often prove? With what oppressive weight will sickness, disappointment, or old age, fall upon his spirits. , But for those pensive periods, the pious man has a relief prepared. From the tiresome repetition of the common vanities of life, or from the painful corrosion of its cares and sor- rows, devotion transports him into a new region ; and surrounds him there with such objects, as are ihu most fitted to cheer the dejection, to calm the tumults, and to heal the w^ounds of his heart. If the world hai been empty and delusi\e, it gladdens him with the prospect of a higher j nd better order of things> about to arise. If niQii have been ungrateful and base, it displays before him the faithfulness of that Supreme B.ing, who, thougii every other friend fail, will never forsake him. Let us consult cur experience, and \\q shall find, that the two greatest sources of ia.vard joy, are, the exercise;, of love directed towards a de- serving object^ and, the .p^ercise of hope terminatii]"- on some high and assured happiness. iioHi those are sappUevl by ijevotiou; and therefore we have no reason to be su]*j>|'i^edj if, on some occasions,, it fiUsi tho Ijearts of gooj men '.virh a satisfaction not to be ex- ]■•■ F 2 208 THE ENGLISH READER. ^AkT I. Tiie refined pleasures of a pious mind are, in many respects, superior to the coarse gratifications of sense. They are pleasures ^vhich belong to the highest powers and best affections of the soul; whereas the gratifications of sense reside in the lowest region of our nature. To the latter, the soul stoops below its native dignity. The former, raise it above itself. Th(i latter, leave al\iays a comfortless, often a mortifying, remembrance oehind them. The former, are reviewed with applaus6 and delight. The pleasures of sense resemble a foaming torrent, which, after a disorderly course, speedily runs out, and leaves an empty and offensive channel. But the pleasures of devotion re- semble the equable current of a pure river, which enlivens the fields through which it passes, and dif- fuses verdure and fertility along its banks. To thee O Devotion ! we owe the highest improvement of our tiature, and much of the enjoyment of our life. Thou art the support of our virtue, and the rest of our souls. In this turbulent world. Thou composest the thoughts. Thou calmest the passions. Thou exaltest the heart. Thy communications, and thine onl3r, are imparted t© the low, no less than to the high ; to the poor, as well as to the rich. In thy presence, worldly distinc- tions cease; and under thy influence, worldly sorrow^s are forgotten. Thou art the balm of the wounded mind. Thy sanctuary is ever open to the miserable; inaccessible only to the unrighteous and impure. Thou beginnest on earth the temper of heaven. Ia thee, the hosts of angels and blessed spirits eternally rejoice. blafr. CHAP. IX, PROMISCUOUS P1£,C£S. SECTION XI r. The plane tar jj and terrestrial worlds coinparath-ch^ considered. To us, who dwell on its surface^ the earth is by far the most extensive orb that our eyes cao any where behold : it is also clothed with \ei*dui-e, distinguished by trees, and adorned with a variety of beautiful de- corations ; whereas^ to a spectator placed on one of the planets, it wears a uuiform aspect; looks all luminous; and no larger than a spot. To beings who dwell at still greater distances, it entirely disappears. That which we call alternately the morning and the evening star, (as in one part of the orbit she rides foremost in the precession of night, in the other ushers in aiid anticipates the dawn,) is a planetary wcrld. This planet, and the four others that so wonderfully vary their mystic dance, are in themselves dark bodies, and shine only by reflection; have fields and seas, and iikies of their own; rv.e furnished with all accom- modations for animal subsistence, and are supposed to be the abodes of intellectual life ; all which, together with our earthly habitation, are dependent on that grand dispenser of Divine munificence, the suii; receive their light from the distribution of his rays, and derive their comfort from his benign agency. The sun, which seems to perform its daily stages through the sky, is in this respect f^xed and immoveable : it is the great axle of heaven, about w^hich the globe we inhabit, and other more spacious orbs, wheel thell* slated courses. The sun, though seemingly smaller L3^ 210 THE ENGLISH READ F.R, PART l» thnn the dial it illuminates, is abundnntly larger than tliis whole earthj on which so many lofty mountains rise, and such vast oceans roil. A line extending from side) to side throu^^h the centre of that resplendent orb, v.cidd n^eastne more than eiglit hundred thousand r.iiks: a girdle formed to go round in circumference^ would r;^qnire a length of millions. Were its solid content.-i to be estimated, the account would overwhielm our understanding, and bo almost beyond the poweir' of language to express. Are we startled at these re- ]) vis cf philosophy ! Are we ready to cry out in a tianspoi't of surprise, "How mighty is the Being who kindled so prodigious a fire j and keeps alive, from age to age, so enormous a ma-s of fiamc !'■' let us i-tlend our pliilosophic guide-^, and we sliail be brought acquainted with speculations more enlarged and more inHaming. Tills sun with all its attendant planets, is but a very liule part of the grand machine of the universe: every star, thougli in appearance no bigger than the diamond that glitters upoji a lady's ring, is really a vast globe^ I;ke the -sun in size and in gki'V ; no hss Fpacious, no Ji.s.s luminoi.!,-, tiian the radiant source of day^ So that every star, is not barely a woild, but the centre of a magnificent sygtcm ; has a retinue of worlds, irradiated by its beams, and revolving round its attractive iii- fLuence, all which f^-e lust to curs^ght in unmeasura'ble v/dds of ether. That the stars appear like so many uiminutive, aiu) scarcely distinguisliable points, is owiriir to {hi ir immense and inconceivable distance. Immense and inconctivable indeed it is, since a bai!^ shot from the loaded cannon, and fiying with unabated rapidity, must travel, ^^t this impetuous ra^r, ahuo; ?. CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 2It seven hundred thousand years, before It could reach the nearcit of these twinkling luminaries. While, beholding this vast expanse, I learn my own extreme meanness, I would also discover the abject Jiitleness of all terrestrial things. What is the earthy with all her ostentatious scenes, compared with this astonishing grand furniture of the skies? W^hat, but a dim speck, hardly perceivable in the map of the universe ? It is observed by a very judicious writer, that li^ the sun himself, which enlightens this part of the creation, were extinguished, and all the host of planetary worlds, which move about him, were an- nihilated, ihcy would not be missed by an eye that can take in the \\hole compass of nature, any mere ihan u grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The built of which they consist, and the space which tliey occupy, are so exceedingly little in comparison of the whole, |Jiat their loss would scarcely leave a blank in theimmen.^ify of God\s works. If then, not our globe only, but [\i\± "whole system, be so very diminutive, what is a king- dom or a country? What are a few Icnlships, or the 80 much admired patrimonies of those who are stykd wealthy? When I measure them^^ith my ou n liil'e pittance, they swell into proud and bloated diuieu- sions : but when I take the universe for my sland.jrJ, how scanty is their size! bow contemptible their figure ! They shrink into pompous nothing.?; L 1- 212 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. SECTION XI' 0nihe pGivcr of custom, and the uses to ivhich it may he applied. There is not a common saying, which has a better turn of sense in it^ tlian what we often hear in the mouths cf the vulgar^ that ' Custom is a second nature.' It is indeed able to form the man anew; and give hlna inclinations and capacities altogether difiereat from those he w^as born with. A person who is addicted to play or gaming, though he took but little delight in \t at firsts by degrees contracts so strong an inclinatioQ towards it, and gives himself up so entirely to it, that it icems the only end of his being. The love of a retired or busy life will grow upon a man insensibly, as he is conversant in the one or the other, till he is utterly unqualified for relishing that to which he has been for some time disused. Nay, a man may smoke, or drink, or take snufT, till he is unable to pass away his time without it; not to mention how our delight in any- particular st'ud}^ art, or science, rises and improves, in proportion to the application which we bestow upon it. Thus, what was at first an exercise, becomes at length an entertainment. Our employments are changed into diversions. The mind grows fond of those actions it is accustomed to; and si drawn with, reluctancy from those paths in which it has been used to walk. If we attentively consider this property of human nature, it may instruct us in very fine moralities. In the first place, I would have no man discouraged with CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 2f3 that kind of life, or series of action, in which the choice of others, or his own necessities, may have engaged him. It may perhaps be very disagreeable to him, at first ; but use and application will certainly render it not only less painful, but pleasing and satisfactory. In the second place, I would recommend to every one, the admirable precept, which Pythagoras is said to have given to his disciples, and which that philosopher must have drawn from the observation I have enlarged upon: " Pitch upon that course of life -which is the 'most excellent, and custom wiH render it the most de- lightful.^' Men, whose circumstances will permit them to choose their own way of life, are inexcusable if they do not pursue that which their judgment tells them is the most laudable. The voice of reason is more to be regarded, than the bent of any present inclination ; since, by the rule above-mentioned, in- cllmition will at length come over to reason, though we can never force reason to comply with inclina- tion. In the third place, this observation may teach the most sensual and irreligious man, to overlook those hard- ships and difficulties, which are apt to discourage him fix)m the prosecution of a virtuous life. *' The Gods,** said Ilesiod, " have placed labour before virtue; the way to her is ;at first rough and difficult; bvtt grows more smooth and easy the farther we adv^rtce in it.** The man who proceeds in it with steadiness and resolution, \vil)*,'*rh k^^^ttte''Ktti^, find that '' her ways are ways of pleasantness, and that all her paths are peace/* To enforce this consideratton^' ^e may 'fcrt^er ob^ serve, that the practice of religion will not only be 214' THE ENGLISH READER. PART I, attended with that pleasure which naturally acconipa- liies those actions to which we are habituated, but w^ith those supernumerary joys of heart, that rise from the consciousness of such a pleasure ; from the satisfaction of acting up to the dictates of reason; and from the prospect of a happy immortality. In the fourth place, we may learn from this observa- tion,, which we have made on the mind of man, to take particular care, when we are once settled in a regular course of life, how we too frequently indulge ourselves in even the most innocent diversions and entertain- ments; since the mind may insensibly fall oft' from the relish of virtuous actions, and, by degrees, exchange that pleasure which it takes in the performance of its duty, for delights of a much inferior and an unprofit- able nature. The last use which I shall make of this remarkable property in human nature, of l)eing delighted with those actions to which it is accustomed, is, to show how absolutely necessary it is for us to gain habits of virtue in this life, if we would enjoy the pleasures of the next. The state of bliss we call heaven, will not be ciipabla of affecting those minds which are not thus qualified for it: we n)ust, in this world, gain a relish of truth and virtue, if we would be able to taste that knowledge and perfection, which are to make us happy in the next. The seeds of those spiritual joys and raptures, which are to rise up and flourish in the soul to all eternity, must be planted in it during this its present stxite of probation. In short, heaven is not to be looked upon only as the reward, but as the natural elTect, of a religious life. ADDISON. C1*AP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PISCES, '2l5 SECTION' XVI, The pleasures result i Jig fro?n a proper use of our faculties, Happy that man, who, unembarrassed by vulgar cares, master of Itimself, his time, and fortune, spends his time in making himself wiser ; and his fortune, in making others (and therefore himself) happier: who, as the will and understanding are the two ennobling faculties of the soul, thinks himsolf not complete, till his understanding is beautified with the valuable fur- niture of knowledge, as well as his will enriched with every virtue; who has furnkhed himself with all the advantages to relish solitude and enliven- conversation; who when serious, is not sullen ; and when cheerful, not indiscreetly gay ^ whose ambition is, not to be ad- mired for a false glare of greatness, but to be beloved for the gentle and sober lustre of his wisdom and good- ness. The greatest minister of state has not more busi- ness to do, in a public capacity, than he, and indeed every other man, may find in the retired and still scenes of life. Even in his private walks, every^ thing that is visible convinces him there is present a Eeing invisible. Aided by natural philosophy, ho read* plain legible traces of the Divinity in every thing he meets : he sees the Deity in every tree, as well as Moses did in the burning bush, though not in so glaring a manner ; and when he sees him, he adores, bim with the tribute of a grateful heart. 21(5 THE KNGLXSH READER. ^ART 1. SECTION XV U: Description of candour. Troe candour is altogether diflerent from that guarded^ inoffensive language, and that studied open- ness of behaviour, which we so frequently meet wilk among men of the world. Smiling, very often, is the aspect, and smooth are the words, of those who in- wardly are the most ready to think evil of others. That candour which is a Christian virtue, consists. Lot in fairness of speech, but in fairness of hearty It may want the blandishment of external courtesy, but supplies its place with humane and generous li- berality of sentiment. Its manners ape unaffected, and its professions cordial. Exempt-, en one hand, from the^ dark jealoHsy of a suspicious mind; it is no less removed^ on the other, from that easy credulity which is im^ posed on by every specious pretence. It is perfectly consistent with extensive knowledge of the world, and with doe attention to our own safety. In that various intercouTse, which we are obliged to carry on with persons of evcFy different character, suspicion, to a certain degree, is a necessary guard. It is only wh^n k exceeds the bounds of prudent cnuticn, that it de* generates into vice. There is a proper n^an between wndistinguishing credulity, and universal jealousy, whicK H sound «nder3ta»didig discerns, and which t^ie man of candour studies to preserve. He makes allowance for the mixture of evil with good, which is to be found in every human character, lie expects vsyiw^ to be faultless; and he is unwilling CHAP. rX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 217 to believe that there is any ^vithout some commendable quality. In the midst of many defects, he can discover a virtue. Under the influence of personal resentment^ be can be just to the merit of an enemy. Pie never lends an open ear to those defamatory reports and dark suggestions, which^ among the tribes ©f the cen- sorious, circulate with so much rapidity >, and meet v>iih so ready acceptance. He is not hasty to judge;. and he requires full evidence before he will condemn. , As long as an action can be ascribed to difiereut mo- tives, he holds it as no mark of sagacity to impute it always to the worst. Where there is just ground foe doubt, he keeps his judgment undecided; and, dur* ing the period of suspense, leans to the most charitable construction which an action can bear. When he mu&t condemn, he condemns with regret ; and without tho«f; aggravations which the severity of others adds to the crime. He listens calmly to the apology of the oiFender,. juxd readily admits every extenuating circumstance,, which equity can suggest. How much soever he may blame the principles of any sect of party, he never confounds, under one general censore, all who bcloog to that party or sect. He charges tbera not with sucb consequences of their tenets, as they refuse and dis- avow. From one wrong opinion, h« does not infer the subversion of all sound principles; nor from one bad action, conclude that all regard to constknce is over- tlirown. When he '' beholds the mote in- hjs brother's eye," he remembers '' the beam in his own.^* He commiserates human frailty ; and judges of others according to the principles, by which he would think it reasonable that they should judge of him. la a "word, he views men and actions in the clear sunshine 2tS THE ENGLISH READER. PARTT. ©f charity and good-nature; and not in that dark and sullen shade which jealousy and party-spirit throw over all characters. BLAm, S-ECTION XVIJT. On the imperfection of if/at happiness ijcliich rests solely on tvorldlj/ pleasures. The canity of human pleasirres, is a topic which Dvight be embellished with the j)omp of much descrip- tion. But I shall studiously avoid exaggeration, and only point out a threefold vanity in human life, which every impartial observer cannot but admit; disap- pofntment in pursuit, dissatisfaction in enjoyment, un- certainty in possession. . First, disappointment in pursuit. When we looJc around us on the world, we every where behold a^ busy multitiide, intent on the prosecution of various designs, which their wants or desires have suggested^ ■We behold them employing every method which in* genuity can devise; some the patience of industry^ some tlie boldness of entei prise, others the dexterity of stratagejn, in order to compass their ends. Of tiiis incessant stir and activity, what is the fruit? In com- parison of the crowd who have toiled in vain^ how jsmall is the number of the successful? Or rather where- is the man who will declare, that in every point he has completed his plan, and attained his utmost wish ? ISo extent of human abihties has been able to discover a path which, in any line of life, leads unerringly to success. *' The race is not always to the swift, nor the CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PFECES. 219 battle to the strong, nor riches to men of understand- ing.^^ V/e may form our plans with the most profound sagacity, and w ith the most vigilant caution may guard against dangers on every side. But some unforeseen occurrence comes across, which balfles cur wisdom, and lays our labours in the dust. Were such disappointments confined to those wdio aspire at engrossing the higher departments of life, the misfortune would be less. The humiliation of the niigbty,and the fall of ambition from its towering height, little concern the bulk of mankind. These are objects on vviilch, as on distant meteors, they gaze from afar, without drawing personal instruction from events so much above them. But, alas ! when we descend into the regions of private life, we find disappointment and blasted hope equally prevalent there. Neither the moderation of our views, nor the justice of our pretensions, can ensure success. But " time and chance happen to all.'^ Against the stream of events, both the worthy and the undeserving are obliged to struggle ; and both are frequently overborne ahke by the current. Besides disappointment in pursuit, dissatisfliction in enjoyment is a fiiilher vanity, to which the human state U subject. Tiiis is the severest of all mortihcations, after having been successful in the pursuit, to be baffled in the enjoyment itself. Yet this is found to he an evil still more general than the former. Some may be so fortunate as to attain what they have pur- sued ; but none are rendered completely happy by what they have attained. Disappointed hope is mi- sery ; and yet successful hope is only imperfect bliss. Look through all the ranks of mankin^.,JB;iamine the f university] 220 THE ENGLISH READER. PART t. condition of those who appear most prosperous; and vou will find that they are never just what they desire to be. If retired, they languish for action; if busy, they complain of fatigue. If in middle life, they are impatient for distinction; if in high staiions, they sigh after freedom and ease. Something is still wanting to that pleniitude of satisfaction^ which they expected to acquire. Together with every wish that is gratified, a new demand arises. One void opens in the heart, as another is filled. On v^ ishes, wishes grow ; and to the end, it is rather the expectation of what they have not, than the enjoyment of what they hare, which occupies and interests the most successful. This dissatisfaction in the midst of human pleasure, springs partly from the nature of our enjoyments them- selves, and partly from circumstances which Corrupt them. No worldly enjoyments are adequate to the high desires and powers of an immortal spirit. Fancy paints them at a xiistance with splendid colours; but possession u» veils the fallacy. The eagerness of pas- sion bestows upon them, at first, a brisk and lively relish. But it is their fate always to pall by familiarity, and sometimes to pass from satiety into disgust; Happy would the poor man think himself, if he could enter on all the treasures of the rich; and happy for a short time he might be : but before he had long contem- plabed and admired his state, his possessions would seem to lessen,, and his cares would grow. Add to the unsatisfying nature of our pleasures, the attending circumstimces which never fail to corrupt them. For,, such as they are, they are at no time possessed unmixed. To human lips it is not given to tai^te the cup of pure joy. When external circum- CHAP. IX. TROMISCUOUS PIECES. 221 Stances show fairest to the world, the envied maa groans in private under his own burden. Some vexa- tion disquiets, some passion corrodes him ; some distress, either felt or feared, gnaws, like a worm, the root of his felicity. When there is nothing from without to disturb the prosperous, a secret poison operates within. For worldly happiness ever tends to destroy itself, by corrupting the heart. It fosters the loose and the violent passions. It engenders noxious habits; and taints the mind with false delicacy, which makes it feel a thousand unreal evils. But put the case in the most favourable light. Lay aside from human pleasures both disappointment in pursuit, and deceitfulness in enjoyment; suppose them to be fully attainable, and completely satisfactory; still there remains to be considered the vanity of un- certain possession and short duration. Were there in worldly things any fixed point of security which we could gain, the mind would then have some basis oi> which to rest. But our condition is such, that every thing wavers and totters around us. *' Boast not thy» self of to-morrow ; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth." It is much if, during its course, thou hearest not of somewhat to disquiet or alarm thee. For life never proceeds long in a uniform train. It is continually varied by unexpected eventsi. The s^eds of alteration are every where sown; and the sunshine of prosperity commonly accelerates their growth. If our enjoyments are numerous, we lie. more open on different sides to be wounded. If we have possessed them long, we have greater cause to dread an approaching change. By slow degrees pro- 22^ THE ENGLISH RI-ADER* PART J. sperity rises; but rapid is the progress cf evil. It rv-^qnires no re paratioii to bring it forward. The edi- fice which it co.^t nrach time and labour to ercct_^ one inauspicious event, one sudden blow, can le el with the dust. Even supposii!g the accidents of life to . leave us untouched, human bliss must stIH be trarisi- torv ; for man changes of Iiiniself. No course of en- joyment can delight us long. Vv^hat amused our youth, loses its charm in maturer age. As years advance^ our powers are blunted, and our pleasurable feelings decline. I'he silent lapse of time is evv r carrying somewiuil fi^m us, till at length the period comes, when all must be swept away. The prospect of this termination of our labours and pursuits, is suITicieijt to mark our state with vanity. '* Our days are a hand-breadth, and our age is a:j nothing.^^ Within that little space is all our enterprise bounded. Vie crowd it with toils and cares^ with contention and strife. We project great designs, entertain high hop^s, and then h ave our plans unfmished, and sink into oblivion. This much let it suffice to have said concerning fne vanity of the world. That too much has not been said^ must tippf-ar to every one who considers how generally mankind jean to the opposite sidej' and how often, by undue attachment to the present state^ they both feed trie most sinful passions, and '' pierce theiu* selves through with m.any sorrows.'' BLAIR. ■kp. L P. 1^. PROMISCUOUS PIECES* 225 SECTION XIX, \Vliat are ihc real and solid aijoyincnis of human Jlfc» Jt must be adinitted, that unmixed and complete hap|iine»s is unknown on earth. Ko regulation of conduct can altogctfier prevent passions fumi disturb- ing our peace, and mitfurtunts from wounding our heart. JBut after this concession is made, will it follow, that there is no object on v'arlh which deserves our pursuit, or that all enjoyment becomes contemptible which is not peril'ct ? Let U;< survey our state with an impartial eye, and be ju.>t to the various giAs of H?a<- ven. How vain soever this life, considered in itself^ may be, the comforts and hopes of religion are suiii- cicnt to give solidity to the enjoyments of the riglite» ous. I.i the exercise of good aflections, aiid the testimony of an approving conscience ; in the ^ense of peace and reconciliation with God, through the great Itcdeemur of mankind ; in the firm confidence of being conducted through all the trials of life, by infinite Wisdom and Goodness; and in the joyful prospect of arriving, in the end, at immortal felicity, they possess a happiness which, descending from a purer and more perfect region tliau this world, partakes not of its vanity I Besides the enjoyments peculiar to religion, there are other pleasures of our present state, which, though of an inferior order, must not be overlooked in the estimate of human life. It is necessary to call atten- tion to these, in order to check that repining and un- f24 THE ENGLISH READEIl. I'ART I, thankful spirit to which man is always too prone. Some degree of importance must be allowed to the comforts of health, to the innocent gratifications of sense, and to the entertainment afibfded us by all the beautiful scenes of nature ; some to the pursuits and harmless amusements of social life; and more to the internal enjoyments of thought and reflection, and to the pleasures of affectionate intercourse with those whom we love. These comforts are often held in too low estimation, merely because they are ordinary and common ; although that is the circumstance which ought, in reason, to enh/'nce their value. They lie open, in some degree, to all ; extend through every rank of life; and fill up agreeably many of those spaces in our present existence, which are not occupied with higher objects, or with serious cares. From this representation it appears that, notwith- standing the vanit}?^ of the world, a considerable de- gree of comfort is attainable in the present state. luQt the recollection of this serve to reconcile us to our condition, and to repress the arrogance of comr plaints and murmurs. — What art thou, O son of man I M'ho, having sprung but yesterday out of the dust, darest t® lift up thy voice against thy Maker, and to arraign his providence, b(Xause all things are not or- dered according to thy vvisii ? What title hast thou to find fault with tlie order of the universe, whose lot is so much beyond what thy virtue or merit gave thee ground to claim! Is it nothing to thee to have been introduced into this magnificent world ; to have been admitted as a spectator of the Divine wisdom and works; and to have had access to all the comforts which nature^ with a bountiful hand, has poured CHAP. IX. i»ROMlSCUCUS PIECES. 225 forth around thee ? Are all the hours forgotten which thou hast passed in ease, in complacency, or joy ? Is I k a small favour in thy eyes, that the hand of Divine Mercy has been stretched iorth to aid thee ; and, if : thou reject not its proflered assistance, is ready to conduct thee to a happier slate of existence h When thou comparest thy condition with thy desert, blush, and be ashamed of thy complaints. Be silent, be grateful, and adore. Receive with thankfulness the blessings which are allowed thee. Revere that go- vernment which at present refuses thee more. Rest in this conclusion, that though there are evils in the world, its Creator is wise and good, and has been bountiful to thee. blahi. SECTION XX, Scale of beings. Though there is a great deal of pleasure in con- templating the material world ; by which I mean, that system of bodies, into which nature has so c. riously wrought the mass of dead matter,- with the several relations that those bodies bear to one another; there is still, methiiiks, something more wonderful and sur- prising, in contemplations on the world of life; by which I understand, all those animals with which every part of the universe is furnished. The material world is only the shell of the universe : the world of life are its inhabitants. If we consider those parts of the material worlds which lie the nearest to I confess I should be more able to succour the neces- sitous, the only advantage for which the wealthy are to be envied ; but small as my possessions are, I can still contribute something to the support of the state^ and the assistance of niy friends. With respect to honours, my country places me, poor as I am> upon a level with the richest : for Rome knows no quali- fications for great em'ploymentSj but virtue and abi-' lity. She appoints me to officiate in the most august ceremonies of rehgion ; she intrusts me with the com- mand of her armies ; she confides to my care the -most, important negociations. My poverty does not lessen the weight and iniluence of my counsels in the sena<-e. The Roman people honour me for that very poverty M5 23S THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. •which king Pyrrhus considers as a disgrace. They know the many opportunities I have had to enrich myself, without censure ; they are convinced of my disinterested zeal for their prosperity: and if I have any thing to complain of, in the return they make me, it is only the excess of their applause. What vajue, then, can I put upon thy gold and silver ? What king can add any thing to my fortune? Always attentive to discharge the duties incumbent upon me, I have a mind free from self-reproach ; and J have an honest fame. , SECTION XXV. Character of James /. king of England, No PRiNXE, so little enterprising and so inoffensive, was ever so much exposed to the opposite extremes of calumny and flattery, of satire and panegyric. And the factions which began in his time, bemg still con- tinued, have made his character oe as much disputed to this day, as is commonly that of princes who are our contemporaries. Many virtues, however, it must l)e owned, he was possessed of; but not one of them pure, or free from the cc;ntag}on of the neighbouring vices. His generosity bordered on profusion, his learn- ing on pedantry, his pacific disposition on pusillani- mity, his wisdom on cunning, his friendship on light fancy, and boyish fondness- While he imagined that he was only maintaining his own authority, he may perhaps be suspected in some of his actions, and still more of his proteusions, to have encroached on die CHAP. IX« PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 239 liberties of his people. While he endeavoured, by slxi exact neutrality, to acquire the good will of all 'his neighbours, he was able to preserve fully the esteem and regard of none. His capacity was considerable, but fitter to discourse on general maxims^ than to conduct atiy intricate business. His intentions were just, but more adapted to the conduct of private life, ihan to the government of kingdoms. Avvkward in his person, and ungainly in his manners, he was ill qualified to command respect: partial and undiscerning in his aliections, he was little fitted to acquire general Jove. Of a feeble temper, more than of a frugal judgment; exposed to our ridi- cule from his vanity, but exempt from our hatred by his freedom uoni pride and arrogance. And, upon the whole^ it nuiy be pronounced of his character, that all his qualities were sullied with weakness, and embeliislied by humanity. Political courage he was ertainly devoid of^ and from thence chiefly is de- lved the strong prejudice, which prevails against hi^ pf rsoiial brav.ir* : an inference, however, which must from general experience, to be extremely ,,,^.ir.^'. HUME, ^ECTIO^ XXVI » .'■UARLES V, emperor of Germani/, res2g?is Ids dondruons, and retires from ihc world. This great emperor, in the plenitude of his power, and in possession of all the honours which can flatter the heart of man, took the QXtraordinary resolution. 240 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. to resign his kingdoms; and to withdraw entirely from any concern in business or the aliairs of this world, in order that he might spend the remainder of his days in retirement and solitude. Though it requires neither deep reflection^ nor extraordinary discernment, to dis- cover that the state of royalty is not exempt from cares and disappointments; though most of those who are exalted to a throne, find solicitude, and satiety, and disgust, to be their perpetual attendants, in that en- vied pre-eminence ; yet, , to descend voluntarily from the supreme to a subordinate station, and to relinquish the possession of power in order to attain the enjoy- ment of happiness, seems to be an effort too great for the human mind. Several instances, indeed, occur in history, of monarchs who have quitted a throne, and have ended their days in retirement. But they were either weak princes, who took this resolution rashly, and repented of it as soon as it was taken; or unfor- tunate princes, from whose hands some strong rival had wrested their sceptre, and compelled them to de- scend with reluctance into a private station. Dio- clesian is, perhaps, the only prince capable of hold- ing the reins of government, who ever resigned them from deliberate choice; and who continued, during many years, to enjoy the tranquillity of retirement, without fetching one penitent sigh, or casting back one look of desire, towards the power or dignity which he had abandoned. No W'onder, then, that Charles's resignation should fiU all Europe with, astonishment, and give rise, both among his contemporaries, and among the historians of that period, to various conjectures concerning the motives which determined a prince, whose ruling CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 241 passion had been uniformly the love of power^ at the age of fifty-six, when objects of ambition operate with full force on the mind, and are pursued with the greatest ardour, to take a resolution so singular and unexpected. The emperor, in pursuance of his determination, having assembled the states of the Low Countries at Brussels, seated himself, for the last time, in the chair of state ; on one side of which was placed his son, and on the other, his sister the queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands, with a splendid retinue of the grandees of Spain and princes of the empire standing behind him. The president of the council of Flan- ders, by his command, explained, in a few words, his intention in calling this extraordinary meeting of the states. He then read the instrument of resigna- tion, by which Charles surrendered to his son Philip all his territories, jurisdiction, and authority in the Low Countries; absolving his subjects there from their oath of allegiance to him, which he required them to transfer to Philip his lawful heir ; and to serve him with the same loyalty and zeal that they had mani- fested, during so long a course of years, in support of his government. Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on the shoulder of the prince of Orange, -because he was un- able to stand without support, he addressed himself to the audience; and, from a paper which he held in his hand, in order to assist his memory, he recounted, with dignity, but without ostentation, all the great things which he had undertaken and performed, since - the commen(;^ement of his administration. He ob- served, that from the seventeenth year of his age, he 242 THE ENGLISH READER»v PART I. had dedicated all his thoughts and attention to pub- lic objects, reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of his ease, and very little for the enjoy- iTjent of private pleasure ; that either in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visited Qermany nine times, Spain six times, France four times, Italy se- ven times, the Low Countries ten times, England twice, Africa as often, and had made eleven voyages by sea; that while his health permitted him to dis- charge his duty, and the vigour of his constitution was eqiial, in any degree, to the arduous office of govern- ing dominions so extensive, he had never shunned labour, nor repined under fatigue ; that now, when his health w^s broken, and his vigour exhausted by the rage of an incarable distemper, his growing infirmi- ties admonished him to retire ; nor was he so fond of reigning, as to retain the sceptre .in an impotent hand, which was no longer able to protect his subjects, or to render them happy ; that instead of a sovereign worn out with diseases, and scarcely half alive, he gave them one in the prime of life, accustomed already to govern, and who added to the vigour of youth all the attention and sagacity ofmaturer years; that if, dur- ing the course of a long administration, he had com- mitted any material error in government, or if, under the pressure of so many and great affairs, and. amidst the attention w^hich he had been obliged to give to them, he had either neglected or injured any of his subjects, he now implored their forgiveness; that, for his part, he should ever retain a grateful sens^ of their fidelity and attachment, and would carry the remem- brance of it along with him to the place of his retreat, as his sweetest consolation^ as well as the best reward CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 21-3 for all his services; and in his last prayers to Al- Ottighty God, would pour forth his ardent wishes for their welfare. Then turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees and kissed his father's hand, '* If," says he, *' 1 had left you, by my death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made such large additions, some regard would have been justly due to my memory on that account; but now, when I voluntarily resign to you what I might have still retained, I may well expect the warmest expressions of thanks on your part. With these, however, I dispense; and shall consider your concern for the welfare of your subjects, and your love of them, as the best and most acceptable testi- mony of your gratitude to me. It is in your power, by a wise and virtuous administration, to justify the extraordinary proof which I give this day of my pa- ternal affection, and to demonstrate that you are worthy of the confidence which I repose in you. Pre- serve an inviolable regard for religion ; maintain the Catholic faith in its purity; let the laws of your country be sacred in your, eyes ; encroach not on the rights and privileges of your people; and if the tmie shall ever come, when you shall wish to enjoy the tranquillity of private life, may you have a son en- dowed with such qualities, that you can resign your sceptre to him, with as much satisfaction as I give up mine to you." As soon as Charles had finished this long address to liis subjects, and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair, exhausted and ready to faint with the fatigue of so extraordinary an effort. During his discourse, the whole audience melted into tears; some from 244 THE ENGLISH READER. PART f. admiration of his magnanimity ; others softened by the expressions of tenderness towards his son, and of love to his people ; and all were afFected with the deepest sorrow, at losing a sovereign, who had distin- guished the Netherlands, his native country, with par- ticular marks of his regard and attachment. SECTION xxrii. The same subject continued, A FEW weeks after the resignation of the Netherlands, Charles, in an assembly no less splendid, and with a ce- remonial equally pompousr, resigned to his sofi the crowns of Spain, with all the territories depending on- them, both in the old and in the new world. Of all these vast possessions, he reserved nothing for himself, but an annual pension of a hundred thousand crowns, to defray the charges of his family, and to afford him a small sum for acts of beneficence and charity. Nothing now. remained to detain him from that retreat for which he languished. Every t!iing having been prepared some time for his voyage, he set out for Zuitburgh in Zealand, where the fleet had orders to rendezvous. In his way thither, he passed through Ghent : and after stopping there a few days, to in- dulge that tender and pleasing melancholy, which arises in the mind of every man in the decline of life, on visiting the place of his nativity, and viewing the scenes and objects famihar to him in his early youth, he pursued his journey, accompanied by his son Philip, his daughter the arch-duchess, his sisters the dowager queens of France and Hungary, Maximilian his son-in- CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES* 245 ■ Jaw, and a numerous retinue of the Flemish nobility. Before he went on board, he dismissed them, with ; marks of his attention or regard; and taking leave of Philip with all the tenderness of a father who em* braced his son for the last time, he set sail under con-^ voy of a large fleet of Spanish, Flemish, and English ships. His toyage was prosperous and agreeable ; and he arrived at Laredo in Biscay, on the eleventh day after tie left Zealand. As soon as he landed, he fell pro- strate on the ground ; and considering himself now as dead to the world, he kissed the earth, and said, *' Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked I now return to thee, thou common mother of man- kind." From Laredo he proceeded to Valladolid. "There he took a last and tender leave of his two sisters; whom he would not permit to accompany him to his solitude, though they entreated it with tears: not only that they might have the consolation of con- tributing, by their attendance and care, to mitigate or to sooth his sufferings, but that they might reap instruction and benefit, by joining with him in those pious exercises, to which he had consecrated the re- mainder of his days. From Valladolid, he continued his journey to Pla- zencia in Estremadura. He had passed through that city a great many years before ; and having been struck at that time with the delightful situation of the monastery of St. Justus, belonging to the order of St. Jerome, not many miles distant from that place, he had then observed to some of his attendants, that this was a spot to which Dioclesian might have retired with pleasure. The impression had remained se '246 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I, Strong on his mind, that he pitched upon it as the place of his retreat. It was seated in a vale of no great extent, watered by a small brook, and sur- rounded by rising grounds, covered, with lofty trees. From the nature of the soil, as well as the temperature of the climate, it was esteemed the most heahhful and delicious situation in Spain. Some months before his resignation, he had sent an architect thither, to add a new apartment to the monastery, for his accommo- dation ; but he gave strict orders that the style of the building should be such as suited his present station, rather than his former dignity. It consisted only of six rooms, four of them in the form of friars' cells, with naked walls; the other two, each twenty feet square, were hui^gwith brown cloth, and furnished in the most .^KijiJe manner. They weie all on a level with the ground j with a door on one siile into a garden, of which Charles himself had given the plan, and had filled it with various plants, which he proposed to cul- tivate with his own hands. On the other side, they communicated with the chapel of the monastery, in which he was to perform his devotions. Into this iiurnble retreat, hardly sufficient for the comfortable accommodation of a jnivate gentleman, did Charles- enter, with twelve domestics only. He buried there, in solitude and silence, his grandeur, his ambition^ together with all those vast projects, which, during half a century, had alarmed and agitated Europe; fdlingj every kingdom in it, by turiis, with the terror ofj his arms, and the dread of being subjected to hL power. In this retirement, Charles formed such a plan of life for himself, as would have suited the condition < CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 247 a private person of a moderate fortune. His table was neat but plain ; his domestics few ; his inter- course with them famihar ; all the cumbersome and ceremonious forms of attendance on his person M'cre entirely abolished^ as destructive of that social ease and tranquillity, which he courted, in order to sooth the remainder of his days. As the mildness of the climate, together with his deliverance from the bur- dens and cares of government^ procured him, at first, a considerable remission from the acute pains with which he had been long tormented, he enjoyed, per- haps, more complete satisfaction in this humble so- litude, than all his grandeur had ever yielded him. The ambitious thoughts and projects which had so long engrossed and disquieted him, were quite effaced from hi^ mind. Far from taking any part in the poli- tic;; lions of the princes of Europe, he rc- straiiicvi iiiy curiosity even from any inquiry concern- ing them J and he seemed to view the busy scene which he had abandoned, with all the contempt and indifference arising from his thorough experience of its vanity, as well as from the pleasing reilection of having disentangled himself from its cares. ' Dr. ROBERTSON, PIECES IN POETRY. CHAPTER L SELECT SENTENCES AND PARAGRAFHS. SECTION /. Short and easy Sent€nc€%, 'I Education. X IS education forms the common mind ; Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined. Candour. With pleasure let us own our errors past; And make each day a critic on the last. Reflection, A soul without reflection, like a pile Withiput Inhabitant, to ruin runs. ' - ^ p^ ** ""^ ^- ' mTE, In the first chapter, the Compiler has exhibited a considerable variety of poetical constrtiction, for the youDg rcadcr^s prepara^ tory exercise. 25® THE ENGLISH READER. FART J t. Secret virtue. The private path, the secret acts of men, If noble, far the noblest of their lives. Necessary knowledge easily attained. Our needful knowledge, like our needful food^ Unhedg'd lies open in life's common field ; And bids all welcome to the vital feast. Disappointment. Disappointment ]urk.s in many a prize, As bees in flowVs ; and stings us with success. Virtuous elevation, Ths mind that would be happy, must be great; Great in its wishes; great in its surveys. Extended views a narrow mind extend. Natural and fanciful life. Who lives to nature, rarely can be poor : Who lives to fancy, never can be rich, Charitj/, In faith and hope the world will disagree ; But all mankind's concern is charity. The prize of virtue. What nothing earthly giv^es, or can destroy, ^ The souPs calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy. Is virtue's prize. Se?ise and modest}/ connected. Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks; It still looks home, and short excursions makes; But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks. Moral discipline salutary* Heav'n gives us friends to bless the present scene ; Resumes them to prepare us for the next. } CHAP. r. SELECT S feNTE N C E S, &C. 251 All evils natural are moral goods ; All discipline, indulgence, on the whole. Present blessings undervalued. Like birds, whose beauties languish, half concealed, Till, mounted 6n the wing, their glossy plumes Expanded shine with azure, green, and gold, How blessings brighten as they take their flight ! \ . llofe. Hope, of all passions most befriends us here; Passions of' prouder name befriend us less. Joy has her tears, and transport has her death ; Hope, like a cordial, innocent, though strong, Man's heart, at once, inspirits and serenes. Happiness 7nodest and tranquil. Never man wasiruly blest, But itcompos'd, and gave him such a cast As folly might mistake for want of joy : ^ A cast unlike the triumph of the proud; modest aspect, and a smile at heart. True greatness.. Who noble ends by noble means obtains, * Or failing, smiles in exile ^r in chains. Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates, that man is great indeed. The tear of sympathy . No radiant pearl, which crested fortune wears. No gem, that twinkling hangs from beauty's ears, Nor the bright stars, which night's blue arch adorn, Nor risinor suns that gild the vernal morn. Shine with such lustre, as the tear that breaks, For others' wo, down Viitue's manly cheeks. 252 TR£ ENGLISH READER. FART tl* SECTIOlf II, Verses in which the lines are of different length. Bliss of celestial origin^ Restless mortals toil for nought 5 Bliss in vain from earth is sought; Bliss, a native of the sky, Never wanders. Mortals, try ; There you cannot seek in vain; For to seek her is to gain. The passions. The passions are a numVous crowd, Imperious, positive, and loud. Curb these licentious sons of strife ; Hence chiefly rise the storms of life ; If they grow mutinous, and rave. They are thy masters, thou their slave. Trust in Providence recommended. ^Tis Providence alone secures, In ev^ry change, both mine and yourSc Safety consists not in escape From dangers of a frightful shape : An earthquake may be bid to spare The man that's strangled by a hair. Fate steals^along with silent tread. Found oft'nest in what least we dread; Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow. Epitaph. How lovM, how valu'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot: A heap of dust alone remains of thee; Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be. CHAP. 1. SELECT SENTENCES, &:C. 253 Fame, All fajae is foreign, but of true desert; Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart. One self-approving hour, whole years outweighs Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas; And more true joy Marcellus exilM feels, TThan Caesar with a senate at his heels. Virtue the guardian of youth, Down the smooth stream of life the stripling darts, Gay as the morn; bright glows the vernal sky, Hope swells his sails, and Passion steers his course. Safe glides his little bark along the shore. Where Virtue takes her stand : but if too far He launches forth beyond discretion's mark, Sudden the tempest scowls, the surges roar, Blot his fair day, and plimge him in the deep. ' Siuu'ise, "But yonder comes the powerful king of day, Rejoicing in the east. The less^iing cloud, The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow, Ilium'd with fluid gold, his near approach Betoken glad. Lo, now, apparent all Aslant the dew-bright earth, and coloured air, He looks in boundless majesty abroad ; And sheds the shining day, that burnished plays On rocks, and hills, and tow'rs, and wand'ring streams, High gleaming from afar. Self-government, May I govern my passions with absolute sway; And grow wiser and better as life wears away. Shepherd, On a mountain, stretched beneath a hoary willow, Lay a shepherd swain, and view'd the rolling billow. N 254 THE ENGLISH READER. SECTION III, Verses containing Exclamations , Interrogations ^ and Parentheses, Competence. A COMPETENCE is all we can enjoy : Oh! be content, where Heav'n can give no more! Reflection essential to happiness. Much joy not only speaks small happiness, But happiness that shortly must expire. Can joy unbottom'd in reflection, stand ? And, in a tempest, can reflection live ? Friendship. Can gold gain friendship? Impudence of hope ! As well mere man an angel might beget. Love, and love only, is the loan for love. Lorenzo! pride repress ; nor hope to find A friend, but what has found a friend in thee. All like thepurchase; few the price will pay: And this makes friends such miracles below. Patience, Beware of desp'rate steps. The darkest day (Live till to-morrow) will have passM away. Luxury, jry 1 Bane of elated life, of affluent states. What dreary change, what ruin is not thine ! How doth thy bowl intoxicate the mindl To the soft entrance of thy rosy cave. How dost thou lure the fortunate and great! Dreadful attraction ! CHAP. r. SELECT SENTENCES, &:C, 255 Virtuous activity. Seize, mortals! seize the transient hour; Improve each moment as it flies : Life's a short summer — man a flowV; He dies — Alas! — how soon he dies I The source of happiness. Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, Lie in three words, health, peace, and competence : But health consists with temperance alone; And peace, O virtue ! peace is all thy own. Placid emotion. Who can forbear to smile with nature ? Cau T)ie stormy passions in the bosom roll, While ev'ry gale is peace, and ev'ry grove Is melody ? Solitude *. O sacred solitud^; divine retreat! Choice of the prudent ' envy of the great ! By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade, We court fair wisdom, that celestial maid : The gei.uine offspring of her lovM embrace, (Strangers on earth,) are innocence and peace. There from the ways of miCn laid safe ashore, We smile to hear the distant tempest roar; There, bless'd with health, with business unperplex'd, This life we relish, and ensure the next. Presime not on to-?norroi'j. In human hearts what bolder thoughts can rise, Than man's presumption on to-morrow*s dawn ? * By soliiude here is meant, a temporary seclusion from the woilJ. 4 N 2 256 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II Where is to-morrow? In another world. For numbers this is certain; the reverse Is sure to none. Dum vivimus vivamus. Whilst ive live let m live, " Live, vvhile you live," the epicure would say, " And seize (he pleasures of the present day." *' Live, while you live," the sacred preacher cries; " And give to God each moment as it flies." Lord ! in my views, let both united be ; 1 live in pleasure, when I live to thee ! DODDRIDGE. SECTION ir. Verses in various forms. The security of virtue. Let coward guilt, with pallid fear, To sheltVing taverns fly. And jaslly dread the vengeful fate, That thunders through the sky. Protected by that hand, whose law The threatening storms obey. Intrepid virtue smiles secuie. As in the blaze of day. Resignation, And O! by error's force subdu'd, Since oft my stubborn will Prepost'rous shuns the latent good. And grasps the specious ill. Not to my wish, but to my want. Do thou thy gifts apply ; CHAP. r. SELECT SENTENCES, SiC. 25? Unask'd, what good thou knowesi gratit; What ill, though ask'd, deny. Compassion, I have found out a gift for my fair ; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed: But let me that plunder forbear ! She will say, His a. barbarous deed. For he ne'er can be true, she averr'd, Who can rob a poor bird of its young: And J lov'd her the more, when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue. JEpiUip/i. Here rests his head upon the lap 6f earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; Fair science frowned not on his hiwible birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heav'n did a recompense as largely send : He gave to misVy all he had — a tear; He gained from Hw av*n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. Jot/ and sorroiv connected. Still, where rosy pleasure leads. See a kindred grief pursue ; Behind the steps that misVy treads, Approaching comforts view. The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sable tints of wo ; N 3 25S THE ENGLISH READER. PAl And blended rortn, with artful strife, The strength and harmony of life. The golden mean. He that holds fast the golden mean, And lives contentedly between The little and the great, Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, Imbkt'ring all his state. The tallest pines feel most the pow'r Of wint'ry blast; the loftiest tow'r Comes heaviest to the ground. The bolts that -spare the mountain's side, His cloud-capt eminence divide ; -And spread the ruin round. Moderate views and aims recommended. With passions unruffled, untainted with pride, Ey reason my life let me square ; The wants of my nature are cheaply supplied; And the rest are but folly and care. How vainly, throughinfinite trouble and strife, The many their labours employ ! Since all that is truly delightful in life, Is what all, if they please, may enjoy. Attachment to life. The tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the |«pund : Twas therefore said, by ancient^ages. That love of life increas'd with years. So much, that in our later stages, When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears. CHAP. K SELECT SENTENCES, &C. 259 Virtue's address to Pleasure'^* Vast happiness enjo)' thy gay allies ! A youth of follies, an old age of cares ; Young yet enervate, old yet never wise. Vice wastes their vigour, and their mind impairs. Vain, idle, delicate, in thoughtless ease, Reserving woes for age, their prime they spend ; All wretched, hopeless, in the evil days, With sorrow to the verge of life they tend. Griev'd with the present, of the past ashamM, They live and are despis*d ; they die, nor more are namM. SECTION r. Verses in which sound corresponds to signification. Smooth and rough verse. Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows. And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows. But when loud surges lash the sounding shore. The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar. Slow motion imitated. When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labours, and the words move slow. Swift and easy motion. Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. Felling trees in a xvood. Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes j On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks * Sensual pleasure, N4 260 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. Headlong. Deep echoing groan Ihe thickets brown ; Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down. Sound of a how-string, -The string let fly TwangM short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry. The Pheasant, See ! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings. Scylla and Charyhdis, Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms, And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms. When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves, The rough rock roars ; tumultuous boil the waves. Boisterous and gcntk sounds. Two craggy rocks projecting to the main, The roaring winds tempestuous rage restrain : Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide ; And ships secure without their haulsers ride. Laborious and impetuous motion. With many a weary step, and many a groan, Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone : The huge round stone resulting with a bounds Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground. Regular and sloiv inovefnent. First march the heavy mules securely slow ; O'^-hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go, ••■W^ Motion slow and difficult, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. CHAP. 1. sele'ct sentences, &c. 261 A rock torn from the broio of a mountain. Still gathering force, it smokes, and urgM amain, Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain. Bxtent and violence of the ivaves. The waves behind impel the waves before, Wide-rolling, foaming high, and tumbling to the shore. Pensive nimibers. In those deep solitudes and awful cells. Where heav'niy-pensive contemplation dwells. And ever-musing melancholy leigns. Battle, Arms on armour clashing bra_y'd Horrible discord ; and the madding wheels Of brazen fury rag'd. Sound imitating reluctance. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned; Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. Nor ca^t one longing, lingering look behind ? SECT] ON VI, Paragraphs of greater length. Connubial affection The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against sickness and old age, Preserved by virtue from declension. Becomes not weary of attention : Rut lives, when that exterior grace. Which first inspired the flame, decays. N5 262 THE ENGLISH READER. PARI ^Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compassionate, or blind ; And will with sympathy endure Those evils it would gladly cure. But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, Shows love to be a mere profession; Proves that the heart is none of his, Or soon expels him if it is. Sivar7}ts ofjipng insects. Thick in yon stream of light a thousand ways, Upward and downward, thwarting and convolv'd, The quivering nations sport; till tempest-wing'd. Fierce winter sweeps them from the face of day, Ev'n so, luxurious men, unheeding, pass An idle summer life, in fortune^s shine, A season's glitter ! Thus they flutter on, From toy to toy, from vanity to vice ; Till, blown away by death, oblivion comes Behind, and strikes them from the book of lifeo Beneficence its ovm rcivard. My fortune (for Til mention all, And more than you dare tell) is small ; Yet ev^ry friend partakes my store, And want goes smiling from my door. Will forty fehillings warm the breast Of worth or industry distressed I This sum I cheerfully impart; •HTis fcurscore pleasures to my heart : And you may make, by means like these, Five talents ten, whene'er you please. 'Tis true, my little purse grows light; But then I sleep so sweet at night \ SELECT SENTENCES, &C. 263 This grand specific will prevail, When all the doctor's opiates fail. Virtue the best treasure, Virtue, the strength and beauty of the souf, Is the best gift of Heav'n : a happiness, That, even above the smiles and frowns of fate^ Exalts great nature's favourites : a wealth That ne'er encumbers ; nor to baser hands Can be transferr'd. It is the only good Man justly boasts of, or can call his own. Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn*d. But for one end, one much-neglected use. Are riches worth our care; (for nature's wants Are few, and without opulence supplied;) This noble end is to produce the soul ; To show the virtues in their fairest light j. And make humanity tl>e minister Of bounteous Providence. Contemplation^ As yet 'tis midnight deep. The weary crouds^ Slow meeting, mingle into solid gloom. Now, while the drowsy world lies lost in sleep^. Let me associate with the serious night, And contemplation her sedate compeer ; Let me shake off th' intrusive cares of day, And lay the meddling senses all aside; Where now, ye lying vanities of life ! Ye ever tempting, ever cheating train I W^here are you now ? and what is your amount? Vexation, disappointment, and remorse. Sad, sickening thought I And yet, deluded ra^Dj.' N6, 264- THE ENGLTMIt tlEADER. PART II. A scene of crude disjointed visions past, And broken slumbers, rises still resolv'd. With new flQsh'd hopes, to run the giddy round. Pleasure of piety. A Deity believ'd, is joy begun ; A Deity adorM, is joy advanced ; A Deity belov'd, is joy maturM. Each branch of piety delight inspires : Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next, O'er death's dark galf, and all its horror hides ; Praise, the sweet exhalation of oar joy. That joy exalts, and makes it sweeter still ; Pray'r ardent opens heaven, lets down a stream Of glory, on the consecrated hour Of mao in audience with the Deity. ( 265 ) CHAPTER 11. NARRATIVE PIECES. SECTION I. llie hears and the bees. As two young bears, in wanton mood, Forth issuing from a neighbouring wood, Came where th^ industrious bees had stored, In artful cells, their luscious hoard ; O^erjoyM they seizM, with eager haste, Luxurious on the rich repast. AlarmM at this, the little crew About their ears vindictive flew. The beasts, unable to sustain Th' unequal combat, quit the plain ; Half-blind with rage, and mad with pain, Their native shelter they regain ; There sit, and now, discreeter grown, Too late their rashness they bemoan ; And this by dear experience gain. That pleasure's ever bought with pain. So when the gilded baits of vice Are placed before our longing eyes. With greedy haste we snatch our fillj And swallow down the latent ill 5 2^6 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 11» But when experience opes our e^es. Away the fancied pleasure flies. It flies, but oh ! too late we find, It leaves a real sting behind. merrick. SECTION II, The nightingale and the gloiv-worm, A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long Had cheer'd the village with his song^ Nor yet at eve his note susjiended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appetite ; When, looking eagerly around, He spied far ofl, upon the ground, A something shining in the dark, And knew the glow-worm by his spark. So, stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop. The worm, aware of his intent. Harangued him thus, right eloquent — " Did you admire my lamp,'' quoth he, As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong. As much as I to spoil your song ; For 'twas the self-same pow.'r divine. Taught you to sing, and me to shine ; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night.'^ The songster heard his short oratioDj And, warbling out his approbation, CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 267 Releas*d Wm, as my st-ory tells, ^# And found a supper somewhere else. / Hence, jarring sectaries may learn Their real intVest to discern; That brother should not war w^ith brother, And worry and devour each other: But sing and shine by sweet consent, Till life's poor transient night is spent; Respecting, in each other's case. The gifts of nature and of grace. Those Christians best deserve the name, Who studiously make peace their aim ; Peace, both the duty and the prize Of him that creeps, and him that flies. COWPER, SECTION III. The trials of virtue. Plac'd on the verge of youth, my mind Lifers opening scene surveyM : I view'd its ills of various kind, Afflicted and afraid. But chief my fear the dangers mov*d, That virtue's path enclose : My heart the wise pursuit approved; , But O, what toils oppose ! For see, ah see! while yet her ways With doubtful step 1 iread, A hostile world its terrors raise. Its snares delusive spread. 268 THE ENGLISir READER. PART II. how shall I, with heart prepar'd. Those terrors learn to meet? How, from the thousand snares to guard My unexperienced feet? As thus I mus'd, oppressive sleep Soft o'er my temples drew Oblivion's veil. — The wat'ry deep, An object strange and new, Before me rose ; on the wide shore Observant as I stood, The gathering storms around me roar, And heave the boiling flood. Near and more near the billows rise; Ev'n now my steps they lave ; And death to my affrighted eyes Approach'd in every wave. What hope, or whither to retreat! Each nerve at once unstrung; Chill fear had fetter'd fast my feet, And chain'd my speechless tongue. 1 felt my heart within me die; When sudden to mine ear A voice, descending from on high, ReprovM my erring fear. ** What tho' the swelling surge thou see Impatient to devour; Rest, mortal, res| on God's decree, And thaiikfurown his pow'r,^^ CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 2<59 Knew, when he bade the deep appear, « Thus far,' th' Almighty said, ' Thus far, no farther, rage ; and here * Let thy proud waves be sta)'d/'^ I heard; and lo ! at once controlPd, The waves hi wild retreat Back on themselves reluctant rolPd, And raurm'ring left my i^eet. Deeps to assembling deeps in vain Once more the signal gave : k The shores the rushing weight sustain, And cheek th* usurping wave. Convinced, in nature's volume wise, The imagM truth I read; And sudden from my waking eyei Th' instructive vision fled. Then why thus heavy, O my soul ! Say why, distrustful still, Thy thoughts with vain impatience roll O'er scenes of future ill? Let faith suppress each rising fear, Each anxious doubt exclude; Thy Maker's will has placed thee here, A Maker wise and good ! He to thy ev'ry trial knows Its just restraint to give ; Attentive to behold thy woes. And faithful to relievis. 270 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. Then why thus heavy, O my soul ? Say why, distrustful still. Thy thoughts with vain impatience roll O'er scenes of future ill? Tho' griefs unnumber'd throng thee round, Still in thy God confide. Whose finger marks the seas their bound, And curbs the headlong tide. MERRICK* SECTION IV. The youth and the philosopher* A Grecian youth of talents rare, Whom Plato's philosophic care Had form'd for virtue's nobler view, By precept and example too, Would often boast his matchless skill, To curb the steed, and guide the wheel ; And as he pass'd the gazing throng. With graceful ease, and smack'd the thong, The idiot w^onder they expressed, Was praise and transport to his breast. At length, quite vain, he needs would show His master what his art could do ; And bade his slaves the chariot lead To Academus' sacred shade. The trembling grove confess'd its fright, The wood-nymphs started at the sight; The muses drop the learned lyre, And to their inmost shades retire* HAP. 11. NARRATIVE PIECES. 271 Howe'er, the youth, with forward air; Bows to the sage, and mounts the car. The lash resounds, the coursers spring, The chariot marks the rolling ring ; And gathering crowds, with eager eyes, And shouts, pursue him as he flies. Triumphant to the goal returned, With nobler thirst his bosom burnM ; And now along th' indented plain The selfsame track he marks again. Pursues with care the nice design, Nor ever deviates from the line. Amazement seiz'd the circling crowd ; The youths with emulation glow'd'; Ev'n bearded sages hail'd the boy ; And all but Plato gaz'd with joy. For he, deep-judging sage, beheld With pain the triumphs of the field : And when the charioteer drew nigh, And, flush'd with hope, had caught his eye, " Alas ! unhappy youth," he cry'd, ** Expect no praise from me," (and sigh*d.) *' With indignation I survey Such skill and judgment thrown away: The time profusely squander'd there. On vulgar arts beneath thy care, If well employ^, at less expense. Had taught thee honour, virtue, sense; And rais'd thee from a coachman's fate To govern men, and guide the stale.** WaiTEHEAD. 272 THE ENGLISH READER, PART 11,' SECTION V, Discourse henucen Adam and Eve, reliring to rest. Now came still evening on, and twilight gray Had in her sober livVy all things clad. Silence accompanied; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to their nests Were slunk; all but the wakeful nightingale. She all nighi long her am'rous descant sung : Silence was pleas'd. Now glowM the firmament With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length. Apparent queen unveil'd her peerless light, And o*er the dark her silver mantle threw. When Adam thus to Eve : " Fair consort, th* hour Of night, and all things now retir'd to rest, Mind us of like repose; since God hath set Labour and rest, as day and night, to men Successive ; and the timely dew of sleep, Now falling with soft slumb'rous weight, inclines Our eye-lids. Other creatures all day long Rove idle unemployed, and less need rest ; Man hath his daily work of body or mind Appointed, which declares his dignity. And the regard of Heav'n on all his ways ; While other animals unactive range. And of their doings God takes no account. To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east With first approach of light, we must be risen, And at our pleasant labour ; to reform eHAP. IT. NARRATIVE PIECES. 273 Yon flow'ry arbours, yonder alleys green, Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, That mock our scant manuring, and require More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth. Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, That lie bestrown, unsightly and unsmooth, Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease. Mean while, as nature wills, night bids us rest.'* To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adornM: - ** My author and disposer, what thou bidst Unargu'd I obey; so God ordains. With thee conversing 1 forget all time; All seasons and their change, all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet. With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sun When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flowV, Glist'ring with dew; fragrant the fertile earth After soft shovv'rs; and sweet the coming on Of grateful evening mild ; then silent nighf. With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon. And these the gems of heav'n, her starry (rain-. But neither breath of morn, when she ascends With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flow'r, Gfist'ring with dew ; nor fragrance after show'rs; Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent night With this her solemn bird ; nor walk by moon, Olr glittering star-light, — wilhont thee is sweet. But wherefore all night loiig shine these? far whom This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes?" To whom our genVal ancestor re[)ly'd : ** Daughter of God and man, accomplishM Eve, 2 274 THE ENGLISH READER. PART IT These have their course to finish round the earth, By morrow evening ; and from land to land, In order, though to nations yet unborn, Minist'ring light prepared, they set and rise ; Lest total darkness should by night regain Her old possession, and extinguish life In nature and all things; which these soft fires Not only enlighten, but, with kindly heat Of various influence, foment and warm. Temper or nourish ; or in part shed down Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow On earth, made hereby apter to receive Perfection from the sun^s more potent ray. These then, though unbeheld in deep of night, Shine not in vain ; nor think, though men were none. That heav*n would want spectators, God want praise : Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep. All these with cetiseless praise his works behold. Both day and night. How often, from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air. Sole, or responsive each to others' note, Singing their great Creator? Oft in bands, While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds. In full harmonic number join'd, their songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heav'n.'^ Thus talking hand in hand alone they passed On to their blivsful bowV. There arriv'd, both stood. Both turn'd ; and under open sky ador'd The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heav n, CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 275 Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe, And starry pole. " Thou also mads't the night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the day, Which we, in our appointed work empIoyMj Have finished, happy in our mutual help. And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss Ordain'd by thee; and this delicious place For us too large, where thy abundance wants ] Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. I But thou hast promised from us two a race, I To fill the earth, who shall with us extol I Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, ! And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep." MILTON,^ SECTION VI. Religion and Death. Lo ! a form divinely bright Descends, and bursts upon my sight; A seraph of illustrious birth ! (Religion was her name on earth ;) . Supremely sweet her radiant face, And blooming with celestial grace ! Three shining cherubs form'd her train, Wav'd their light wings, and reach'd the plain ; Faith, with sublime and piercing eye. And pinions flatl'ring for the sky ; Here Hope, that smiling angel stands, And golden anchors grace her liands ; There Charity in robes of while, Fairest and fav'rite maid of light. 276 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. The seraph spoke — " 'Tis reason's part To govern and to guard the heart; To lull the wayward soul to rest, When hopes and fears distract the breast. Reason may calm this doubtful strife, And steer thy bark through various life : But when the storms of death are nigh, And midnight darkness veils the sky, Shall Reason then direct thy sail, Disperse the clouds, or sink the gale ? Stranger, this skill alone is mine, Skill that transcends his scanty line." " Revere thyself — thouVt near allied To angels on thy better side. How various e'er their ranks or kind?. Angels are but unbodied minds: When the partition-walls decay, Men emerge angels from their clay. Yes, when the frailer body dies. The soul asserts her kindred skies. But minds, though sprung from heav'niy race. Must first be tutor'd for the place : The joys above are understood. And relish'd only by the good. Who shall assume this guardian care; Who shall secure their birth-right there? Souls are my charge — to me ^tis giv^n To train them for their native heav'n.'^ " Know then — who bow the early knee, And give the willing heart to me ; Who wisely, when Temptation waits. Elude her frauds, anrd spu^rn her baits ; CHAP II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 277 Who dare to own my injur'd cause, Though fools deride my sacred laws ; Or scorn to deviate to the wrong, Though persecution lift^ her thong; Though all the sons of hell conspire To raise the stake and light the fire;, Know, that for such superior souls. There lies a bliss beyond the poles ; Where spirits shine with purer ray. And brighten to meridian day ; Where love, where boundless friendship rules; (No friends that change, no love that cools;) Where rising floods of knowledge roll, And pour, and pour upon the soul 1'* " But where's the passage to the skies? — The road through death's black valley lies. Nay, do not shudder at my tale ; Tho' dark the shades, yet safe the vale. This path the best of men have trod ; And who'd decline the road to God? Oh ! 'tis a glorious boon to die ! This favour can't be priz'd too high.*' While thus she spoke, my looks express'd The raptures kindling in my breast ; My soul a fixM attention gave; When the stern monarch of the grave, With haugfity strides approachM — amaz'd I stood and trembled as I gaz'd. The seraph caImM each anxious fear, And kindly wip'd the falling tear; Then hastened with expanded wing To m-eet the pale, terrific king, O 278 THE ENGLISH READER. FART II. But now what milder scenes arise ! The tyrant drops his hostile guise ; He seems a youth divinely fair, In graceful ringlets waves his hair ; His wings their whitening plumes dispUy, His burnish'd plumes reflect the day ^i^:- Light flows his shining azure vest. And all the angel stands confess'd. 1 viewM the change with sweet surprise; And, Oh ! 1 panted for the skies; ThankM heav'n, that e'er I drew my breath ; And triumph'd in the thoughts of death. COTTON. ( 279 ) CHAPTER III. DIDACTIC PIECES. SECTION /. The vanity ofivealth. r^Q MORE thus brooding o'er yon heap, With avVice painful vigils keep ; Still unenjoyM the present store, Still endless sighs are breath'd for more. Oh ! quil the shadow, catch the prize, AVhich not all India's treasure buys ! To purchase heav'n has gold the pow'r ? Can gold remove the mortal hour? In life can love be bought with gold ? Are friendship's pleasures to be sold ? No — all that's worth a wish — a thousrht. Fair virtue gives unbrib'd, unbought. Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind ; Let nobler views engage thy mind. DR. JOHNSON". SECTION II, Nothing formed in vain. Let no presuming impious railer tax Creative wisdom, as if aught was formed In vain, ornot for admirable ends^ 02 230 ^HE ENGLISH READER, PiMlTII. Shall little haughty ignorance pronounce His works unwise, of which the smallest part Exceeds the narrow vision of her mind ? As if, upon a full-proportion'd dome,v On swelling columns heav'd, the pride of art ! A critic-fly, whose feeble ray scarce spreads An inch around, with blind presumption bold, Should dare to tax the structure of the whole. And lives the man, whose universal eye Has swept at once th' unbounded scheme of things; Mark'd their dependence so, and firm accord, As with unfauk'ring accent to conclude, That this availeth nought ? Has any seen The mighty chain of beings, lessening down From infinite perfection, to the brink Of dreary nothing, desolate abyss ! From which astonish'd thought, recoiling, turns? Till then alone let zealous praise ascend, Andh}mns of holy wonder, to that powkr, Whose wisdom shines as lovely in our minds, As on our smiling eyes his servant-sun. 'i HOMSON. SECTION III, On pride. Of all the cause*?, which conspire to blind Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, What the weak head vvitli strongest bias rules. Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools. Whatever nature has in worth deny'd, She gives in large recruits of needful pride! For, as in bodies, thus in souls, we find What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind. CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 2^1 Pride, where wit falls, steps in to oar defence, And fills up all the mighty void of sense. Jf once Tight reason drives that cloud away, Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. Trust not )'Ourselfj bat, your defects to know, Make use of ev'ry friend — and ev'ry foe. A little learning is a dangerous thing ; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring : There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain ; And drinking largely sobers us again. Fir'd at first sight with what the muse imparts, In fearless youth we*tempt the heights of arts. While, from the bounded level of our mind. Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind; But more advanc'd, behold, with strange surprise. New distant scenes of endless science rise! So pleas'd at first the tow'ring Alps we try. Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky ; Th' eternal snows appear already past, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last : But, those attainVl, we trcmS " to survey The growing labours of the lengthen'd wav; Th' increasing prospect tires our wciurrino- eves ; Hills peep o*er hih's, and Alps on Alps arjse. POPE* SECTION IV, Cruelty to brutes ccmurcd, I WOULD not enter on my list of friends, (Though grac'd with polisli'd manners and fin^ sense, Yet wanting sensibility,) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. O 3 2S2 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. An inadvertent step may crush the snail, That crawls at evening in the public path ; But he that has humanity, forewa^n'd, Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. The creeping verpiine, loathsome to the sight, And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes A visitor unwelcome into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose, th' alcove. The chamb-ir, or refectory, may die. A necessary act incurs no blame. Not so, when held within their proper bounds, And guiltless of offence, they range the air, Or take their pastime in the spacious field : There they ar4i privileg'd. And he that hunts Or harms them there, isguilly of a v/rong; Disturbs th' economy of nature's realm, Who when she formM, design'd them an abode. The sum is this 5 if man's convenience, health, Or safety, interfere, his rights and claims. Are paraT.cunt, and must extinguish theirs. Else they are all — the mean to think his injurer his foe : Nought, but what wounds his vir.tue, wounds his peace. A cover'd heart their character defends; A cover'd heart denies him half his praise. . With nakedness his innocence agrees \ I- F 302 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. While their broad foliage testifies their fall 1 Their no joys end, where his full feast begins : His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss. To triumph in existence, his alone; And his alone triumphantly to think His true existence is not yet begun. His glorious course was, yesterday, complete; Death, then, was welcome; yet life still is sweet. YOUNG. SECTION VIII, The pleasures of rei'uement, O KNEW he but his happiness, of men The happiest he ! who, far from public rage, Deep in the vale, with a choice few retir'd, Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life. What tho* the dome be wanting, whose proud gate Each morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd Of flatterers false, and in their turn abusM ? Vile intercourse! What though the glitt'ring robe, Of ev'ry hue reflected light can give, Or floated loose, or stiff with mazy gold, The pride and gaze of fools, oppress him not? What tho', from utmost land and sea purveyed. For him each rarer tributary life Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps With luxury, and death? What tho' his bowl Flames not with costly juice; nor sunk in beds Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night. Or melts thq thoughtless hours in idle state ? What though he knows not those fantastic joys, That still amuse the wanton, still deceive ; CHAP. IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 303 A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain ; Their hollow moments undelighted all? Sure peace is his; a solid life estranged To disappointment, and fallacious hope. Rich in content, in nature'^ bounty rich^ In herbs and fruits; whatever greens the spring, When heaven descends in showers; or bends the bough When summer reddens, and when autumn beams; Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies Conceal'd and fattens with the richest sap: These are not wanting; nor the milky drove, Luxuriant, spread o*er all the lowing vale ; Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams, And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere Into the guiltless breasj;, beneath the shade> Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay; Nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song, Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and fountain clear. Here too dwells simple truth ; plain innocence ; Unsullied beauty ; sound unbroken yolilii, Patient of labour, with a little pleased ; Health ever blooming; unambitious toil ; Calm contemplation, and poeiic case, THOMSON. SECTION IX, \ T^he pleasure and benefit of an improved andvccU-drn J . imagination. Oh ! blest of Heaven, who not tlie languid songs Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave P2 sot THE ENGLISH READER. PAR.T II. Those ever blooming sweets, which, from the store Of nature, fair imagination, culls, To charm th' enlivened soul ! What tho' not all Of mortal offspring can attain the height Of envy'd life : tho' only few possess Patrician treasures, or imperial state ; Yet nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasures, and an ampler state, Endows at large whatever happy man Will deign to use them. His the city^s pomp, The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns •• The princely dome, the column, and the arch, The breathing marble and the sculptured gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring Distils her dews, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds : for him, the hand Of autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings : And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow; not a cloud imbibes The setting sun's effulgence; not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascends; but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure, unteprov'd. Nor thence partakes Fresh pleasure only ; for th' attentive mind, By this harmonious action on her powers. Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft In outward things to meditate the charm Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home, To find a kindred order ; to exert CHAP. IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 305 Within herself this elegance of love, This fair inspired delight : her tempered pow'rs Refine at length, and ev'rv passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze On nature's form, where, negligent of all These lesser graces, she assumes the port Of that Eternal Majesty that weigh'd The world's foundations, if to these the mind Exalts her daring eye ; then mightier far Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms Of servile custom cramp her genVous pow'rs ? Would sordid policies, the barb'rous growth Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear; Lo ! she appeals to nature, to the winds And rolling waves, the sun*s unwearied course, The elements and seasons : all declare For what th* eternal maker has ordainM The povv'rs of man : w^e feel within ourselves His energy divine : he tells the heart. He meant, he made us to behold and love What he beholds and loves, the general orb Of life and being; to be great like Him, Beneficent and active. Thus the men Whom nature's works instruct, with God himstlf Hold converse ; grow familiar, day by day. With his conceptions ; act upon his plan ; And form to his, the relish of their souls. AKENSIDE. P3 ( S06 ) CHAPTER V. PATHETIC PIECES. The hermzL JxX the close of the day, when the hainlel is stil/, , And mortals the sweets of forgetfuhiess prove ; When nought but the torrent Is heard on the hill^ And nought but (he nightingale's song- iii ibe grove : 'Tw". ihu\ by the cavo of the mountain ata?-, V/hilt I?.;., hirp rung symphonious, a iiermit begai] j No more witli hiniselfor with nature at w^r, He thought LIS a sage, tho' hie felt as a m-dv., '' A'! !' V? hv, all abanJonM to darkn^ Why, ujne Philomela, that languisl; ;.^ i i, . For spring shall return, and a lover be.^tr: •", And sorrow no longer thy bosom ir'i ■. 'y inspire thee, renew the Scid h\v, c,,:r^r-.fe?.t co!T!plainer,man calls L-iee tomoarn ; ; ho^e ••leisures like thine p^ss av\..) : tuil qmckiy ^ — i:ut they nev^; return. ^^ " N'-'W gl: