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LECTURE I. 
 
 On the English Language — its Simplicity f 
 Harmony , and Copiousness. 
 
 Shakespeare was born in i5G4; and died in 1G1G. 
 
 On the Universality 
 
 of 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S Genius. 
 
 Never, perhaps, was there so comprehensive a talent 
 for the delineation of character as Shakespeare's. It not 
 only grasps the diversities of rank, sex, and age, down 
 to the dawnings ef infancy; not only do the king and the 
 beggar, the hero and the pick-pocket, the sage and the 
 idiot, speak and act with eqnal truth; not only does he 
 transport Limself to distant ages and foreign nations, 
 and portray, in the most accurate manner — - with only 
 a few apparent violations of costume - — the spirit of the 
 ancient Romans, of the French in their wars with 
 the English, of the English themselves during a great 
 part of their history, of the Southern- Europeans , (iii 
 the serious part of many comedies , ) the Cultivated 
 Society of that time, and the former Rude and Bar- 
 barous state of the North; his human characters have 
 not only such depth and precision that they can be ar- 
 ranged under classes , and are inexhaustible even in con- 
 ception : — no — this Prometheus not merely forma 
 Men, he opens the gates of the magical world of Spirits; 
 calls up the midnight ghost; exhibits before us witches t 
 amidst their unhallowed mysteries; peoples the air with 
 sportive fairies and sylphs: — and, these beings, existing 
 only in imagination, possess such truth and consistency, 
 ^that, even when deformed monsters like Caliban, he ex- 
 torts the conviction, that if there should be such beings, 
 they would so conduct themselves* In a word, as h* 
 
 1 
 
carries with him tile most fruitful and daring fancy into 
 the kingdom of Nature — on the other hand , he carries 
 nature into the regions of Fancy , lying beyond the con- 
 fines of reality. We are lost in astonishment at seeing 
 the extraordinary, the wonderful, and the unheard of, 
 in such intimate nearness. 
 
 If Shakespeare deserves our admiration for his Charac- 
 ters , he is equally deserving of it for his exhibition of 
 Passion — taking this word in its widest signification , 
 as including every mental condition, every tone, from 
 indifference or familiar mirth, to the wildest rage and 
 despair. He gives us the history of Minds ; he lays open 
 to us, in a single word, a whole series of preceding 
 conditions. His passions do not at first stand displayed 
 to us in all their height — - as is the case with so many 
 tragic poets, who, in the language of Lessing , are tho- 
 rough masters of the legal style of love — he paints , 
 in a most, inimitable manner, the gradual progress, from 
 the first origin. " He gives " , as Lessing says , " a 
 living picture of all the most minute and secret arti- 
 fices by which a feeling steals into our souls ; of all 
 the imperceptible advantages which it there gains; of 
 all the stratagems by which every other passion is 
 made subservient to it, till it becomes the sole tyrant 
 of our desires and our aversions." Of all Poets , per- 
 haps , he alone has portrayed the mental diseases , Melan- 
 choly, Delirium, Lunacy, with such inexpressible, and, 
 in every respect, definite truth, that the Physician may 
 enrich his observations from them , in the same manner, 
 as from real cases. &c. 
 
 The objection , that Shakespeare wounds our feelings 
 hy the open display of the most disgusting moral odious- 
 mess, harrows up the soul unmercifully, and tortures 
 even our minds by the exhibition of the most insupport- 
 able and hateful spectacles, is one of considerable 
 importance. He has never, in fact, varnished over wild 
 and blood-thirsty passions with a pleasing exterior — 
 never clothed crime and want of principle, with a false 
 show of greatness of soul; and, in that respect, he is 
 every wajr deserving of praise. Twice he has portrayed 
 downright Villains ; and the masterly manner in which 
 lie has contrived to elude impressions of too painful a 
 nature, may be seen in lago and Riohara 1 111, The con- 
 stant reference to a petty and puny race, must cripple the 
 boldness of the poet. Fortunately, for his art, Shake- 
 speare lived in an age extremely susceptible of noble and 
 
3 
 
 tender impressions ; but which had still enough of the 
 firmness inherited from a vigorous olden-time not to shrink 
 back with dismay from every strong and violent picture. 
 We have lived to see tragedies of which the catastrophe 
 consists in the Swoon of an enamored princess! If Shake- 
 speare falls occasionally into the opposite extreme , it is 
 a noble error , originating in the fulness of a gigantic 
 strength: and yet this tragical Titan, who storms the 
 heavens , and threatens to tear the world from off its 
 hinges ; who , more fruitful than Eschylus , makes our 
 hair stand on end , and congeals our blood with horror , 
 possessed , at the same time , the insinuating loveliness of 
 the sweetest poetry. He plays with Love like a child; 
 and his Songs are breathed out like melting sighs. He 
 unites, in his genius, the utmost elevation and the 
 utmost depth; and the most foreign, and even apparently 
 irreconcileable properties, subsist in him peaceably toge- 
 ther. The world of Spirits and Nature have laid all 
 their treasures at his feet. In strength a demi-god, in 
 profundity of view a prophet, in all-seeing wisdom a 
 protecting spirit of a higher order, he lowers himself to 
 mortals, as if unconscious of his superiority, and is as 
 open and unassuming as a child. 
 
 Shakespeare's Comic talent is equally wonderful with 
 that which he has shown in the pathetic and tragic ; it 
 stands on an equal elevation, and possesses equal extent 
 and profundity. So little is he disposed to Caricature, 
 that we may rather say many of his traits are almost 
 too nice and delicate for the Stage; that they can be 
 properly seized by a great actor, and fully understood 
 by a very acute audience only. &c. Schlegel. 
 
 A. W. Schlegel b. 1767 ; d. . 
 
 Milton b. 1608; d. 1674. 
 
 Milton's chief talent , and indeed his distinguishing excellence , lies 
 in the Sublimity of his thoughts. There are others of the Moderns 
 who rival him in every other part of poetry , but in the greatness of 
 his sentiments he triumphs over all the poets, both modern and 
 ancient, Horner only excepted. It is impossible for the imagination 
 of Man to distend itself with greater ideas , than those which he 
 has laid together, in his I , II , and IV Books. 
 
 The opening of his Speech to the Sun is veiy bold and no- 
 ble — " O thou that with surpassing glory crowned", &c This Speech 
 is, I think, the finest that is ascribed to Satan in the whole poem. 
 
 Addison. 
 
4 
 
 Mil ton's literature was unquestionably great. TTe read all the lan- 
 guages which are considered either as learned or polite ; Hebrew with its 
 two dialects, Greek, Latin, Italian, French, and Spanish. In La- 
 tin his skill was such as places him in the first rank of Writers 
 and Critics ; and he appears to have cultivated Italian with un- 
 common diligence^ 
 
 Before the greatness displayed in Milton's poem , all other great- 
 ness shrinks away. The weakest of his agents are the highest and 
 noblest of human beings , the original parents of mankind. 
 
 The heat of Milton's mind may be said to sublimate his learning; 
 to throw off into his work the spirit of science , unmingled with 
 its grosser parts. 
 
 He had considered Creation in its whole extent , and his des- 
 criptions are therefore learned. He had accustomed his imagination to 
 unre trained indulgence, and his conceptions therefore were extensive. 
 The characteristic quality of his poem is Sublimity, He sometimes descends 
 to the Elegant^ but his element is the Great. He can occasionally invest him- 
 self with grace ; but his natural port is gigantic loftiness. He can please 
 when pleasure is required ; but it is his peculiar power to astonish. 
 
 His great works were performed under discountenance and in 
 blindness; but difficulties vanished at his touch; he was boin for 
 whatever is arduous ; and his work is not the greatest of heroic 
 poems , only because it is not the first, 
 
 Johnson. 
 
 SATAN'S Soliloquy* 
 
 O Thou that, 5,k with surpassing glory crowned, 
 Lookest from lliy sole dominion , like the God 
 Of this New-world; at whose sight all the stars 
 Hide their diminished heads; to thee I call — 
 But with no friendly voice, aiid add thy name, 
 
 Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams, 
 That bring to my remembrance from what state 
 
 1 fell — How glorious once above thy sphere! 
 
 Till pride — and worse — ambition ! threw me down , 
 
 "Warring in heaven against heaven's matchless King. 
 
 Ah , wherefore ! he deserved no such return 
 
 From me, whom he created what I was 
 
 In that bright eminence — and with his good 
 
 Upbraided (a) none: nor was his service hard. — — 
 
 "What could be less than to afford him praise, 
 
 The easiest recompense; and pay him thanks, 
 
 How due ! yet, all his good proved ill in me, 
 
 And wrought but malice; lifted up so high 
 
 I 'sdained (b) subjection , and thought one step higher 
 
 "Would set me highest, and in a moment quit (c) 
 
 The debt immense of endless gratitude — 
 
 (a) Upbraided, voorwerpen , in dan zin van verwyten. 
 (h) \S.Jained, an unallowable abreviation of disdained. 
 (#) Quit , get rid of y annul — afdoen* 
 
So burdensome, still paying, still to owe; 
 
 Forgetlul what from him I still received; 
 
 And understood not that a grateful mind, 
 
 By owing, owes not, but still pays; at once 
 
 Indebted and discharged: what burden then! 
 
 O had his powerful destiny ordained 
 
 Me some inferior angel! 1 had stood 
 
 Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised 
 
 Ambition. Yet why not? some other power, 
 
 As great, might have aspired, and me, though mean, 
 
 Drawn to his part — but other powers as great 
 
 Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within 
 
 Or from without, to all temptations armed. 
 
 Hadst thou (a) the same free-will and power to stand? 
 
 Thou hadst. Whom hast thou then, or what to accuse , 
 
 But Heaven's free love, dealt equally to all. 
 
 Be then his Love accursed! since love or hate — 
 
 To me alike — it deals eternal woe. 
 
 Kay, cursed be thou! (a) since against his thy will 
 
 Chose freely what it now so justly rues» 
 
 Me miserable ! whicli way shall I flee 
 
 Infinite wrath, and infinite despair! 
 
 Which way I flee is hell; myself am hellj 
 
 And in the lowest deep; a lower deep 
 
 £till threatening to devour me, opens wide — 
 
 To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven. 
 
 O then at last Relent Is there no place 
 
 Left for repentance, none for pardon left? 
 
 None left — but by Submission ! and that word 
 
 Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame 
 
 Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced 
 
 With other promises and other vaunts, 
 
 Than to submit — boasting I could subdue 
 
 The Omnipotent. Ah me! they little know 
 
 How dearly I abide (b) that boast, so vain — - 
 
 Under what torments inwardly I groan , 
 
 While they adore me on the throne of hell: 
 
 With diadem and sceptre high advanced, 
 
 The lower still I fall — only supreme 
 
 ]n misery — Such joy Ambition finds! 
 
 But say (c) I could repent, and could obtain, 
 
 By act of grace, my former state; how soon 
 
 Would height recal high thoughts ? how soon unsay (c/) 
 
 (a) Satan is here addressing himself. 
 
 (b) Abide, bear, or support the consequences of it. 
 
 (c) Say , Suppose , take for granted. 
 
 {d) Uusay, recal , retract, recant, deny. 
 
"What faint submission swore? Ease would recant 
 
 Vows made in pain, as violent and void; 
 
 For never can true Reconcilement grow 
 
 "Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep: 
 
 Which would but lead rne to a worse relapse , 
 
 And heavier fall: so should I purchase dear 
 
 Short intermission , bought with double smart. 
 
 This knows my Punisher — therefore , as far 
 
 From granting He, as I from begging peace: 
 
 All hope excluded thus — behold instead 
 
 Of us outcast, exiled, his new delight, 
 
 Mankind created, and for him this world. 
 
 So farewei Hope, and with hope, farewel Fear — - 
 
 Farewel Remorse — all good, to me, is lostj 
 
 Evil , be thou my good ! by thee , at least 
 
 Divided empire with heaven's King I hold — • 
 
 And more than Half perhaps will reign; 
 
 As Man, ere long, and this New-World, shall fcnow. 
 
 Milton's Paradise Lost, Book IV, 
 
 Sterne b. 1713,' d, 1708, 
 
 An Account of Sterne, by Sir W. Scott, may be found among 
 the Pieces after VIII Lecture. 
 
 The Starting ; 
 
 with some Reflections on 
 Liberty and Slavery. 
 
 — As for the Bastile — the terror is in the word — 
 Make the most of it you can, said I to myself, the Bastile 
 is but another word for a Tower — and a Tower is but 
 
 another word for a House you can't get out of 
 
 (Mercy on the Gouty for they are in it twice a year!) 
 but with Nine Livres a day, and pen and ink, and pa- 
 per and patience , albeit a man can't get out , he may do 
 very well within — at least for a month, or six-weeks; 
 at the end of which, if he is a harmless fellow, his inno- 
 cence appears , and he comes out a better and wiser man 
 than he went in. 
 
I had some occasion ( I forget what) to step into the 
 court-yard, as I settled this account ; and remember 1 walk- 
 ed down stairs in no small triumph with the conceit of 
 my reasoning. Beshrew the sombre pencil ! said I , 
 
 Tauntingly — for I envy not its powers , which paints 
 the evils of life with so hard and deadly a coloring. 
 The mind sits terrified at the objects she herself has 
 magnified and blackened : reduce them to their proper 
 size and hue , she overlooks them. 'Tis true , said 
 
 I , correcting the proposition — the Bastile is not an 
 evil to be despised — — but , strip it of its towers — — 
 fill up the fosse — unbarricade the doors — call it sim- 
 ply a confinement , and suppose 'tis some tyrant of a 
 distemper, and not of a man, which holds you in it — * 
 the evil vanishes, and you bear the other half without 
 complaint. 
 
 I was interrupted in the heydey of this Soliloquy 
 by a voice which I took to be that of a Child, which 
 complained it could not get out, — I looked up and 
 down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, nor 
 child, I went out without further attention. 
 
 On my return back through the passage , I heard the 
 same words repeated twice over 5 and looking up , I saw 
 it was a Starling, which was hung in a little cage — 
 " 1 can't get out — I can't get out !" said the Starling. 
 I stood looking at the Bird — and to every one who 
 came through the passage, it rushed flutteringly to the 
 side towards which they approached it, uttering the same 
 lamentations of its captivity — " I can't get out !" said 
 the Starling ■ God help thee! said I, but I will let 
 thee out, cost what it may; so I turned about the cage 
 to get at the door ; it was twisted and doubly twisted so 
 fast with wire, there was no getting it open, without 
 pulling the cage to pieces — I took both hands to it : the 
 Bird flew to the place where I was attempting its deliver- 
 ance , and thrusting its head through the trellis , pressed 
 its breast against it , as if impatient. — I fear, poor crea- 
 ture! said I, I cannot set thee at liberty — u No!" 
 said the Starling — " I can't get out! I can't get out !'» 
 I vow I never had my affections so tenderly awakened ; 
 nor do I remember any incident in my life , where the 
 dissipated spirits , to which my reason had been a bubble, 
 were so suddenly called home. Mechanical as the notes 
 were, yet so true in tune to Nature were they chanted, that 
 in one moment they overthrew all my s) r stematic reason- 
 ings upon the Bastile j and I heavily walked up stairs , 
 
8 
 
 unsaying every word I had said in going down them. 
 
 Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery! said I — • 
 still thou art a bitter draught! and though thousands , in 
 all ages, have been made to drink of thee, thou art no 
 less bitter on that account. 'Tis thou, thrice sweet and 
 gracious goddess— addressing myself to Liberty , whom all 
 in public and in private worship — whose taste is grate- 
 ful, and ever will be so, till Nature herself shall change 
 -— no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, nor 
 
 chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron with thee 
 
 to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is 
 happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art 
 exiled ! — - Gracious Heaven ! — cried I , kneeling down 
 upon the last step but one in my ascent — grant me 
 but health, thou Great Bestower of it, and give me but 
 this fair goddess as my companion — and shower down 
 thy mitres , if it seem good unto thy Divine Providence , 
 upon those heads which are aching for them ! 
 
 The Bird in its cage pursued me into my room — • I sat 
 down close by my table, and leaning my head upon my 
 hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confine- 
 ment; I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full 
 ecope to my imagination. 
 
 I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow 
 creatures , born to no other inheritance than Slavery; but 
 finding, however affecting the picture was, that 1 could 
 not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sad groups 
 in it did but distract me — I took a single captive; and 
 having first shut him up in his dungeon, 1 then looked 
 through the twilight of his grated door , to take his 
 picture. 
 
 I beheld his body half wasted away , with long expec- 
 tation and confinement; and felt what kind of sickness of 
 the heart it was , which arises from hope deferred. Upon 
 looking nearer, 1 saw him pale and feverish; in thirty 
 years the western breeze had not once fanned his blood — 
 he had seen no sun, no moon-, in all that time — nor 
 had the voice of friend, nor kinsman, breathed through 
 
 his lattice — his children but here my heart began 
 
 to bleed — and 1 was forced to go on with another part 
 of the portrait. 
 
 He was sitting upon the ground , upon a little straw , 
 in the farthest corner of his dungeon , which was , alter- 
 nately, his chair and bed; a little calendar of small sticks 
 was laid at the head , notched all over with the dismal 
 flays and nights he had passed there — he had one of 
 
these little sticks in his hand , and , with a rusty nail , 
 he was etching another day of misery to add to the 
 heap. As I darkened the little light he had , he lifted np 
 
 a hopeless eye toward the door then — cast it 
 
 down — shook his head — and went on with his work 
 of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs , as he turn- 
 ed his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle 
 
 He gave a deep sigh — I saw the iron enter into his 
 soul — — I burst into tears — I could not sustain tha 
 picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn. 
 
 Sterne's Sentimental Journey, 
 
 Pope b. 1688; d. 1744. 
 See Dryden and Pope compared , by Johnson, after VI Lecture. 
 
 The Dying Christian , to his Soul. 
 
 Vital spark of heavenly flame! 
 Quit, oh quit this mortal frame! 
 Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying — 
 
 Oh the pain, the bliss of dying! 
 Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
 And let me languish into Life. 
 
 Hark! they whisper — angels say, 
 * Sister spirit, come away!' 
 What is this absorbs me quite — 
 Steals my senses — shuts my sight — 
 Drowns my spirits — draws my breath — - 
 Tell me, my soul, can this be Death? 
 
 The world recedes — it disappears — - 
 Heaven opens on my eyes — my ears 
 
 With sounds seraphic ring: 
 Lend, lend your wings — I mount ! I fly! 
 O grave , where is thy Victory! 
 
 O Death , where is thy Sting ! 
 
 In one of Pope's Letters to Steele, 
 
 Johnson b. 17095 d. 1784. 
 
 See Article Johnson after V Lecture.' 
 
 When Johnson's Dictionary was on the eve of publication Ches- 
 terfield furnished The World (a periodical work) with two Essays; 
 
io 
 
 dated Nov. 38 » and Dec. 5 , 1754 ; wot io much to prepare tha 
 public for the appearance of so great and important a work , as 
 tacitly to solicit a Dedication of the Dictionary to himself; which 
 apparent civility, Johnson treated with merited disdain; and said, 
 *' I have sailed a long and painful voyage round the world of 
 the English Language — and does he now send out two Cock- 
 boats to tow me into harbour ? " Johnson was not to be caught 
 with the lure thrown out by his Lordship ; he remembered with indig- 
 nation , that he had in vain sought Chesterfield's patronage ; that he 
 had dedicated the Plan of his Dictionary to him, in the year 1747, and 
 that he had been neglected by that nobleman during the Compilation of his 
 great and masterly work -— a lasting monument of labor and learn- 
 ing; partaking of the fallabilities of human nature, but unrivalled 
 in the annals of literary productions. Chesterfield's Essays seemed 
 to call for some acknowledgement , and the following Letter was 
 penned in consequence : it is Johnson '* all over." 
 
 To the Right Honorable Feb: lj55. 
 
 The Earl of Chesterfield. 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 I have been lately informed, by the proprietors of the 
 World, that two Papers, in which my Dictionary is re- 
 commended to the public, were written by your Lordship. 
 To be so distinguished is an honor which, being very 
 little accustomed to favors from the great, I know not 
 well how to receive , or in what terms to acknowledge. 
 
 When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited 
 your Lordship, 1 Was overpowered, like the rest of man- 
 kind, by the enchantment of your address; and could not 
 forbear to wish, that I might boast myself le vainqueur die 
 vainqueur de la terre ; that I might obtain that regard for 
 which 1 saw the world contending. But I found my at- 
 tendance so little encouraged , that neither pride nor mo- 
 desty would suffer me to continue it. When I had once 
 addressed your Lordship in public, I had exhausted all the 
 art of pleasing, which a retired and unconrtly scholar 
 can possess. 1 had done all that I could; and no man is 
 well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little. 
 
 Seven years, my Lord, have now passed , since I wait- 
 ed in your outward room, or was repulsed from your 
 door ; during which time I have been pushing on my work 
 through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, 
 and have* brought it, at last, to the verge of publication , 
 without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, 
 or one smile of favor. Such treatment I did not expect — 
 for I never had a Patron before. 
 
II 
 
 The Shepherd in Virgil grew acquainted with Love, and 
 found him a native of the rocks. 
 
 Is not a Patron, my Lord, one who looks with uncon- 
 cern on a man struggling for Life in the water , and when 
 he has reached ground, encumbers him with help? The 
 notice which you have been pleased to take of my labors , 
 had it beefi early, had been kind; but it has been delay- 
 ed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am 
 solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and 
 do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity 
 not to confess obligations where no benefit has been 
 received ; or to be unwilling that the public should consid- 
 der me as owing that to a Patron, which Providence 
 has enabled me to do for myself, 
 
 Having carried on my work thus far with so little 
 obligation to any favorer of learning , I shall not be 
 disappointed , though I should conclude it — if less be 
 possible — with less ; for I have been long wakened 
 from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted my- 
 self with so much exultation , 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 Your Lordship's most humble 
 and most obedient servant, 
 Samuel Johnson, 
 
 Byron b. 1788 ; d. 1824. 
 See Byron and Scott contrasted , by Hazlitt , after IV Lecture, 
 
 An Address to the Ocean. 
 
 CLXXJX. 
 
 Roll on, Thou deep and dark blue Ocean — - roll! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over Thee in vain; 
 Man marks the Earth with ruin — his control 
 Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain 
 The wrecks are all Thy deed; nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
 When for a moment, like a drop of rain , 
 He sinks into Thy depths with bubbling groan , 
 Without a grave, unknelled, (a) uncoffined, and unknown. 
 {a) Unknelled, zonder doodkloJ: gelai. 
 
13 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 His steps are not upon Thy paths — Thy fields 
 Are not a spoil for him — Thou dost arise 
 And shake him from Thee; the vile strength he wields 
 For Earth's destruction Thou dost all despise , 
 Spurning him from Thy bosom to the skies ^ 
 And send'st him, shivering, in Thy playful spray, 
 And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
 And dashest him again lo earth — there let him lay! 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 The armaments which thunder-strike the walls 
 Of rock-built cities , bidding nations quake , 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
 The oak-leviathans , whose huge ribs make 
 Their clay-creator the vain title take 
 Of Lord of Thee , and arbiter of war — 
 These are Thy toys; and, as the snowy flake, 
 They melt into Thy yest of waves , which 'mar 
 Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar, (a) 
 
 CLXXXIJi 
 
 Thy shores are empires — changed in all, save Thee — - 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome; Carthage, what are they I 
 Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
 And many a tyrant since! their shores obey 
 The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay 
 Jlas dried up realms to deserts : not so Thou — 
 Unchangeable! save to Thy wild waves play — 
 Time writes no wrinkle on Thy azure brow '•> 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, Thou rollest now, 
 
 CLXXX1II. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
 
 Glasses itself in tempests; in all time — 
 
 Calm, or convulsed; in breeze, or gale, or storm; 
 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 
 Dark-heaving — boundless , endless , and sublime — 
 
 (a) The Spanish Armada became a prey to the Seas on two differ- 
 ent occasions, in i588 j and the Prizes of I'rafalgai were scattered 
 by the Winds, through Admiral Collingwood's neglecting Lord Nt:l- 
 fcon's orders — to bring the Fleet to anchor , in i8o5» Trafalgar is 
 here accented contrary to good usage; Canning has preserved the 
 proper accent in — 
 
 O price, his conqueriug Country grived to pay — 
 O dcar-bonght glories of Trafalgar s day! 
 
 blni and Trafalgar, 
 
10 
 
 The image of Eternity — the throne 
 Of the Invisible ! even from out Thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
 Obeys Thee j Thou goest forth -—dread, fathomless, alone! 
 
 ' CLXXXIV. 
 
 And r have loved Thee, Ocean! and my joy 
 Of youthful sports , was , on thy breast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy 
 I wantoned with thy breakers ; they, to me, 
 "Were a delight; and. if the freshening Sea 
 Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear; 
 For I was, as it were, a Child of Thee, 
 And trusted to thy billows , far and near , 
 And laid my hand upon Thy mane — : as I do here. 
 
 J3yro*i's Chllde Harold's Pilgrimage , Canto IV. 
 
 Francis Bacon b. i56i ; d. 1626. 
 
 Human intellect seems divided into two great classes — a talent for 
 discovery, and a talent for the acquisition of knowledge. In the 
 latter class instances are to be found, within the observation of most 
 persons, where elastic powers of the mind have exceeded all belief; 
 so much so, as in some cases to have procured for them the appell- 
 ation of " walking Encyclopedias." But a talent for discovery, which 
 in order of intellect ranks the highest, is of a different kind; for we 
 seldom see any great proficiency made in any one department of dis- 
 covery , but by men wholly absorbed in that pursuit , and almost 
 totally unacquainted with the other fields of science. If occasionally 
 these two talents be combined , Nature seems to ordain such instances 
 rather to excite humility than emulation; and, on examination, it 
 will appear, that he who imitates an Aristotle, or a Bacon, in the 
 intellectual, or a Cyrus, or an Alexander, in the political world, 
 generally suffers disappointment in the individual , and brings des- 
 truction upon his species. 
 
 MS. 
 
 If Parts allure thee , think how Bacon shined — 
 The wisest , brightest , meanest of mankind. 
 
 Pope's Essay on Man. 
 
 On Study and Books. 
 
 Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for abi- 
 lity. Their chief use for delight, is in privateness , and 
 retiring; for ornament, is in discourse j and for ability, is 
 
i4 
 
 in the judgement and disposition of business: for expert 
 men can execute, and perhaps judge of particulars one by 
 one; but the general counsels, and the plots and mar- 
 shalling of affairs , come best from those who are learned. 
 To spend too much time in Studies is sloth ; to use them 
 too much for ornament is affectation; to make judgement 
 wholly by their rules is the humor of a scholar. They 
 perfect nature, and are perfected by experience; for na- 
 tural abilities are like natural plants, that need pruning 
 by Study; and Studies themselves do give forth directions 
 too much at large , except they be bounded in by expe- 
 rience. Crafty men contemn Studies, simple men admire , 
 and wise men use them; for they teach not their 
 own use; but that is a wisdom without them, and 
 above them, won by observation. Read not to contradict 
 and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to 
 find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some 
 Books are to be tasted , others to be swallowed , and 
 some few to be chewed and digested: that is , some Books 
 are to be read only in parts ; others to be read , but not 
 curiously; and some few to be read wholly , and with dili- 
 gence and attention. Some Books also may be read by 
 deputy, and extracts made of them by others; but that 
 would be only in the less important arguments, and the 
 meaner sort of books; else distilled Books are like common 
 distilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a full man; 
 Conference a ready man ; and Writing an exact man : and, 
 therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great 
 memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present 
 Avit; and if he read little, he had need have much cunning , 
 to seem to know that he doth not. Histories make men 
 wise, Poets witty, the Mathematics subtle; Natural-phi- 
 losophy deep ; Moral grave ; Logic and Rhetoric able to 
 contend; (t Aheunt sludia in mores"; nay, their is no 
 stand or impediment in the Wit, but may be wrought 
 out by JQt Studies — like as diseases of the Body may have 
 appropriate exercises; Bowling is good for the stone and 
 reins ; Shooting for the lungs and breast ; gentle Walking 
 for the stomach ; Riding for the head ; and the like — so , 
 if a man's Wits be wandering, let him study the Mathe- 
 matics; for in demonstrations, if his wit be called away 
 never so little, he must begin again; if his Wit be not apt 
 to distinguish or find differences, let him study the School- 
 men ; if he be not apt to beat over matters, and to call 
 upon one thing to prove and illustrate another, let him 
 
i5 
 
 study the LawyerVcases ; so , every defect of the mind 
 may have a special Receipt. 
 
 Bacon. * 
 
 Note. I have given this Piece as a specimen of Bacon's style — 
 concise , comprehensive, deep, and now obsolete. Many of the 
 words are signs of other ideas than such as we attach to them in 
 the present day ; and explanatory notes would occupy more space 
 than the Piece itself; therefore, I leave it as it is. 
 
 Byrom b. 1691; d. 1763. 
 
 There is a manly and nervous style employed in all Byrom's se- 
 rious writings , which distinguishes them as the works of one who 
 was capable of executing high designs. 
 
 James Nichols. 
 
 His invention was fertile, his allusions happy, his imagery just; 
 and in no part of his poetry does there appear a defect , except 
 in the finishing. Each piece may be considered as a kind of rapid 
 impromptu that never afterwards had one moment of polishing bestow- 
 ed on it — with the exception of but thirteen pieces, in the two 
 volumes of his poetry. 
 
 Life of Byrom. 
 
 St. PHILIP NERI and a Student. 
 
 Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all 
 these things shall be added unto you. Mat. VI. 33. 
 
 Saint Philip Neri , as old readings say, 
 Met a young Stranger in Rome's streets one day ; 
 And being ever courteously inclined 
 To give young folks a sober turn of mind, 
 He fell into discourse with him; and, thus, 
 The dialogue they held comes down to us — 
 " Tell me, what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome?" 
 * To male myself a Scholar, [a) Sir, I come.' 
 <( And when you are one, what do you intend V 9 
 1 To he a Priest, I hope , Sir , in the end.' 
 <l Suppose it so — what have you next in view ?" 
 ' That I may get to be a Canon too' 
 
 " Well — and how then ?" * JVhy then , for aught I know, 
 J may be jnade a Bishop P tc Re it so — 
 "What then ?" f Why , Cardinal's a high degree — 
 And yet , my lot it possibly may be ! 
 
 " Well , if it should , what then ?" f Why, who can say 
 But Pve a chance of being Pope one day I 9 
 {a) Scholar , geleerde. 
 
i6 
 
 <l Well, having worn the Mitre, the Red-hat; 
 And Triple-crown, what follows after that?" 
 1 Nay , there is nothing further , to be sure, 
 Upon this earth that wishing would procure : 
 ■JVhen I've enjoyed a dignity so high, 
 jLs long as God shall please , then — — / must Die / 
 f< "What! must you die, fond youlh ! and at the best 
 But wish , and hope , and may be all the rest? 
 Take my advice — whatever may betide , 
 For that which must be first of all provide ; 
 Then think of that which may be: and, indeed , 
 "When well prepared, who knows , what may succeed? 
 You yet may be , as you are pleased to Hope , 
 Priest, Canon, Bishop, Cardinal, and Pope." 
 
 Byrom. 
 
 Chatham b. 1708; d. 1778. 
 
 Note. In July 1766 , Mr. Pitt was created Earl of Chatham, and 
 entered the House of Peers : the following Speech is addressed to 
 the Speaker of the House of Commons — " Sir" — before Pitt became 
 Chatham; but I attach the name of Chatham to all the Extracts from 
 this Speaker, that the reader may not attribute those of the Father, 
 Lord Chatham, to his Son, the Right Hon. Wm, Pitt, 
 
 On a Charge 
 
 brought against certain Members of the House , 
 
 as Sowers of Sedition in America. 
 
 Sir, 
 A Charge is brought against certain gentlemen sitting in 
 this House, for giving birth to Sedition in America. The 
 freedom with which they have spoken their sentiments 
 against this unhappy act, is imputed to them as a crime; 
 but the imputation shall not discourage me. It is "a li- 
 berty which I hope no gentleman will be afraid to exer- 
 cise : it is a liberty by which the gentleman who calum- 
 niates it , might have profited. He ought to have desisted 
 from his project. We are told America is obstinate ! 
 America is almost in open rebellion. £ir , I rejoice that 
 America has resisted — three millions of people so dead 
 to all the feelings of liberty as voluntarily to submit to 
 be slaves, would have been fit instruments to have made 
 slaves of all the rest. I came not here, Sir, armed at all 
 
»7 
 
 points with law cases and acts of parliament; with the 
 statute book folded down in dogs' ears to defend the cause 
 of liberty; but for the defence of liberty upon a general 
 Constitutional principle: it is a ground upon which 1 dare 
 meet any man. I will not debate points of law; but what, 
 after all, do the cases of Chester and Durham prove, 
 but that, under the most arbitrary reigns, Parliament were 
 ashamed of Taxing a people without their consent , and 
 allowed them representatives? A higher and better ex- 
 ample might have been taken from Wales ; that Principal- 
 ity was never taxed by parliament till it was incorporated 
 with England. We are told, Sir, of many classes of 
 persons in this kingdom not Represented in parliament; 
 but are they not all virtually represented as Englishmen 
 resident within the realm? Have they not the option, 
 many of- them at least, of becoming themselves Electors? 
 Every inhabitant of this Kingdom is necessarily included 
 in the general system of representation. It is a misfor- 
 tune that more are not actually represented. The hon- 
 orable gentleman boasts of his bounties to America — are 
 not these bounties intended finally for the benefit of this 
 Kingdom? If they are not, he has misapplied the national 
 Treasures. 1 am no courtier of America. I maintain 
 that parliament has a right to bind, to restrain America. 
 Our legislative power over the colonies is sovereign and 
 supreme. The honorable gentleman tells us, he under- 
 stands not the difference between Internal and External 
 taxation — but surely there is a plain difference between 
 taxes levied for the purpose of raising a Revenue , and 
 duties imposed for the regulation of Commerce. IVhen , 
 said the honorable gentleman, were the Colonies emanci- 
 ■paled? At what lime , say I in answer, were they made 
 Slaves ? I speak from accurate knowledge , when I say , 
 that the profits to Great-Britain, from the trade of the 
 Colonies, through all its branches, is Two millions per 
 Annum ! This is the fund which carried you trium-* 
 phantly through the last war; this is the price America 
 pays you for her protection: and shall a miserable Fin- 
 ancier come down with a boast that he can fetch a 
 Pepper-corn into the Exchequer, at the loss of Millions to 
 the nation? I know the valor of your troops; I know 
 the skill of your officers; I know the force of this coutry; 
 but in such a cause, your success would be hazardous. Ame- 
 rica if she fell, would fall like the strong man — she would 
 embrace the Pillars of the state, and pull down the Consti- 
 tution with her ! Is this your boasted peace — not to sheathe 
 
 2 
 
i8 
 
 tlie sword in the scabbard, but to sheathe it in the bowels 
 of your Countrymen ? The Americans , Sir , have been 
 wronged; they have been driven to madness by injustice. Will 
 you punish them for the madness you have occasioned? 
 No, No; let this country be the first to resume its pru- 
 dence and temper — I will pledge myself for the Colo- 
 nies , that , on their part , animosity and resentment will 
 cease. Let Affection be the only bond of Coercion. The 
 system of policy , I would earnestly exhort Great Britain 
 to adopt, in relation to America, is happily expressed in 
 the words of a favorite poet — 
 
 Be to her faults a little blind, 
 
 Be to her virtues very kind; 
 
 Let all her ways be unconfined, 
 
 And clap your padlock on her mind. Pistor. 
 
 Upon the whole , I will beg leave to tell the House in 
 a few words what is really my opinion — it is , that the 
 Stamp -Act be repealed absolutely — totally — and im- 
 mediately* Chatham. 
 
 What needs my Shakespeare, for his honored bones, 
 
 The labor of an age in piled stones ? 
 
 Or that his hallowed relics should be hid 
 
 Under a starry-pointing pyramid? 
 
 Dear son of memory , great heir of fame , 
 
 What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? 
 
 Thou in our wonder and astonishment 
 
 Hast built thyself a live-long monument ; 
 
 Thou , so sepulchered , in such pomp dost lie , 
 
 That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die. 
 
 Milxok. Written in if»3o. 
 
 ANTONY'S Oration, 
 
 Over the Dead Body of cesar. 
 
 Friends , Romans , Countrymen , lend me your ears ; 
 
 I come to bury Cesar, not to praise him. 
 
 The evil that men do , lives after them; 
 
 The good is oft interred with their bones; 
 
 So let it be with Cesar. The noble Brutus 
 
 Hath told you, Cesar was ambitious: 
 
 If it were so , it was a grievous (a) fault ; 
 
 And grievously (Z>) hath Cesar answered it! 
 
 Here, under leave of Brutus , and the rest — • 
 
 For Brutus is an honorable man ; 
 
 So are they all, all honorable men — • 
 
 (a) grievous, onverdragelyk 7 hatelyk, 
 
 (b) grievously, duur* 
 
19 
 
 „ Come I to speak at Cesar's funeral. 
 
 He was ray Friend, faithful and just to me — 
 
 But Brutus says , he was Ambitious j 
 
 And Brutus is an honorable man. 
 
 He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
 
 Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill : 
 
 Did this , in Cesar , seem Ambitious ? 
 
 "When that the poor have cried, Cesar hath wept : 
 
 Ambition should be made of sterner (a) stuff — 
 
 Yet, Brutus says, he was Ambitious; 
 
 And Brutus is an honorable man. 
 
 You all did see, that, on the Lupercal , 
 
 I thrice presented him a kingly crown, 
 
 "Which he did thrice refuse J was this Ambitious ? 
 
 Yet , Brutus says , he was Ambitious ; 
 
 And , sure , He is an honorable man. 
 
 I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke , 
 
 But here I am to speak what I do know. 
 
 You all did love him once — not without cause, (&) 
 
 "What cause (c) withholds you then to mourn for him ? 
 
 O Judgement ! thou art fled to brutish beasts , 
 
 And men — have lost their reason ! — Bear with me; 
 
 My heart is in the coffin there , with Cesar, 
 
 And I must pause till it come back to me. 
 
 (Here the Citizens converse , on the Injustice done to Cesar.) 
 
 But Yesterday , the word of Cesar might 
 
 Have stood against the world; now lies he there, 
 
 And none so poor (a?) to do him reverence, (e) 
 
 masters ! ii I were disposed to stir 
 Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage , 
 
 1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, 
 "Who, you all know, are honorable men: 
 
 I will not do them wrong ; I rather choose 
 
 To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you, 
 
 Than 1 will wrong such honorable men. 
 
 But here's a Parchment, with the seal of Cesar — 
 
 I found it in his closet — 'tis his Will ; 
 
 Let but the Commons (/) hear this Testament — 
 
 Which, pardon me, I do not mean to Read — 
 
 And they would crowd to Kiss dead Cesar's wounds, 
 
 And dip their napkins («■) in his sacred blood ; 
 
 (a) Sterner, onmededoogender. (b) Cause, oorzaak. 
 (c) Cause, beweegreden. (d) Poor, gering. 
 (e) Reverence , eerbetooning, [f) Commons, polk* 
 is) Napkins, zdkdoeken. 
 
20 
 
 Yea , b?g a liair of him for memory, (a) 
 And, dying, mention it within their wills, 
 Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, 
 Unto their issue. 
 
 (Here they wish Antony to read the TV UK) 
 
 Have patience , gentle friends , I must not Read it; 
 It is not meet (Jb) you know how Cesar loved you: 
 You are not wood, you are not stones, but Men — 
 And being Men, hearing the Will of Cesar, 
 It will inflame you! it will make you mad ! 
 'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs; 
 For, if you should, O, what would come of it! 
 
 (Here they call for the Will) 
 
 "Will you be patient? will you stay awhile? 
 
 1 have o'ershot myself, (c) to tell you of it. 
 
 I fear , I wrong the honorable men , 
 
 Whose daggers have stabbed Cesar — I do fear it. 
 
 {Here they clamor for the Will.) 
 
 You will compel me then to Read- the Will — 
 
 Then make a ring about the Corpse of Cesar , 
 
 And let me show you Him that made the Will. 
 
 Shall I descend? And will you give me leave? 
 
 {Here Antony descends from the Rostrum , and stands by the Corps* of Cesar*) 
 
 If you have tears , prepare to shed them now. 
 
 You all do know this Mantle: I remember 
 
 The first time ever Cesar put it on; 
 
 r Twas on a Summer's evening, in his tent — 
 
 That day he overcame the Nervii. 
 
 Look, in this place, ran Cassius's dagger through \ 
 
 See, what a rent the envious Casca made; 
 
 Through this , the well-beloved Brutus stabbed — ■ 
 
 And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, 
 
 Mark, how the blood of Cesar followed it — 
 
 As rushing out of doors , to be resolved 
 
 If Brutus so unkindly knocked , or no — • 
 
 For Brutus , as you know , was Cesar's angel : 
 
 Judge, O ye Gods, how dearly Cesar loved him! 
 
 This was the most unkindest cut of all: 
 
 For when the noble Cesar saw Him stab , 
 
 Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, 
 
 Quite vanquished him : then burst his mighty heart! 
 
 (a) Mrmory , gedachtcnis. (b) Meet, gesc/iikt. 
 (e) I have o'tisliot myself, ik ben te per, gegaan. 
 
31 
 
 And, in his mantle, muffling up his face — 
 
 Even at the base of Pompey's statue — 
 
 Which all the while ran blood, great Cesar fell! 
 
 O , what a fall was there , my countrymen ! 
 
 Then I, and You, and All of us , fell down, 
 
 Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. 
 
 O, now yoa weep, and, I perceive, you feel 
 
 The dint (a) of pity: these are gracious drops, (b) 
 
 Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold 
 
 Our Cesar's Vesture wounded? Look you here, 
 
 (II ere Antony exposes the Body. J 
 
 Here is Himself — marred — - (c) as you see^, .by Traitors t 
 
 (Here they bellow for Revenge.) 
 
 <Good friends , sweet friends, let me not stir you up 
 
 To such a sudden flood of mutiny: 
 
 They, that have done this deed, are honorable; 
 
 What private griefs they have, alas! I know not, 
 
 That made them do it; they are wise and honorable , 
 
 And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you, 
 
 I come not, friends , to steal away your hearts ; 
 
 I am no Orator, as Brutus is: 
 
 But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man 
 
 That loves my friend; and that they know full (a?) well 
 
 Who gave me public leave to speak of him — 
 
 For 1 have neither writ (ji) , nor words , nor worth , 
 
 Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, 
 
 To stir men's blood; I only speak right on; 
 
 I tell you that, which you yourselves do know; 
 
 Show yon sweet Cesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths 9 
 
 And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus, 
 
 And Brutus Antony — there were an Antony 
 
 Would ruffle (/) up your spirits , and put a tongue 
 
 In every wound of Cesar , that should move 
 
 The Stones of Rome to rise and mutiny! 
 
 Shakespeare's Julius Cesar, Act. Ill* 
 
 (a) Dint, Jcracht, (6) Gracious drops, berninnelyke tranan, 
 (c) Maired, mishandeld , opgereten. (d) Full, zetr. 
 (e) Writ, schrift. 
 
 (/} Ruffle, it opwinden, ontclammen , opbruischen , &c. but 
 none of these Words express ruffle* 
 
LECTURE II. 
 
 An Historical account of the English Language 7 
 down to the Age of Elizabeth, 
 
 FIELDING and SMOLLETT, 
 Compared, 
 
 In leaving Smollett's personal for his literary character, 
 it is impossible not to consider the latter as contrasted 
 ■with that of his eminent contemporary Fielding. It is true, 
 that such comparisons , though recommended b} r the exam- 
 ple of Plutarch , are not in general the best mode of esti- 
 mating individual merit. But in the present case, the 
 history, accomplishments, talents, pursuits, and, unfor- 
 tunately, the fates of these two great authors , are so close- 
 ly allied, that it is scarcely possible to name the one 
 without exciting recollections of the other. Fielding and 
 Smollett were both born in the highestrankof society, both 
 educated to learned professions , yet both obliged to follow 
 miscellaneous literature as the means of subsistence. Both 
 were conlined , during their lives, by the narrowness of their 
 circumstances , both united a humorous cynicism with gener- 
 osity and good nature, both died of the diseases incident to 
 a sedantary life, and to literary labor, and both drew 
 their last breath in a foreign, land , * to which they re- 
 treated under the adverse circumstances of a decayed con- 
 stitution , and an exhausted fortune. 
 
 Their studies were no less similar than their lives. 
 They both wrote for the Stage, and neither of them suc- 
 cesfully. They both meddled in Politics; they both wrote 
 Travels, in which they showed that their good humor 
 was wasted under the sufferings of their disease; and, to 
 conclude, they were both so eminently successful as Nov- 
 elists, that no other English author, of that class, has 
 
 * Fielding died, in Lis 48th year, in October 1754, at Lisbon; 
 Smollett died at Leghorn, in October 1771, in his 42nd year. 
 
2D 
 
 a right to be mentioned in the same breath with Fielding 
 and Smollett, 
 
 If we compare the works of these two great masters yet 
 more closely, we may assign to Fielding, with little hesi- 
 tation, the praise of a higher and a purer taste than was 
 shown by his rival ; more elegance of composition and 
 expression ; a nearer approach to the grave irony of Swift 
 and Cervantes ; a great deal more address or felicity in 
 the conduct of his story; and, finally, a power of des- 
 cribing amiable and virtuous characters , and of placing 
 before us heroes, and especially heroines, of a much high- 
 er as well as pleasing character than Smollett was able 
 to present. &c 
 
 But the deep and fertile genius of Smollett afforded re- 
 sources sufficient to balance these deficiencies ; and when 
 the full weight lias been allowed to Fielding's superiority 
 of Taste and Expression, his northern contemporary will 
 still be found fit to balance the scale with his great rival. 
 If Fielding had superior taste , the palm of more Brilliancy 
 of genius, more inexhaustible richness of Invention, must, 
 in justice , be awarded to Smollett, &c. 
 
 Every successful Novelist must be more or less a Poet , 
 even although he may never have written a line of Verse. 
 The quality of Imagination is absolutely indispensable to 
 him: his accurate power of examining and embodying hu« 
 man character and human passion, as well as the external 
 face of nature, is not less essential; and the talent of des- 
 cribing well what he feels with accuteness , added to the 
 above requisites, goes far to complete the poetic character. 
 Smollett was, even in the ordinary sense, which limits 
 the name to those who write Verses , a Poet of distinction; 
 and , in this particular , superior to Fielding , who seldom 
 aims at more than a slight Translation from the classics. 
 Accordingly, if he is surpassed by Fielding in moving pity, 
 the northern novelist soars far above him in his powers 
 of exciting terror. &c. 
 
 It is , however , chiefly in his profusion , which amounts 
 almost to prodigality, that we recognise the superior rich- 
 ness of Smollett's fancy. He never shows the least desire 
 to make the most either of a character, or a situation, or 
 an adventure , but throws them together with a careless- 
 ness which argues unlimited confidence in his own powers. 
 Fielding pauses to explain the principles of his art, and to 
 congratulate himself and his readers on the felicity with 
 which he constructs his narrative, or makes his charac- 
 ters evolve themselves in the progress. These ap'peals to 
 
2* 
 
 tlie reader's judgement, admirable as tliey are, have some- 
 times the fault of being diffuse, and always the great dis* 
 advantage, that they remind us we are perusing a work 
 of fiction, and that the beings with whom we have been 
 conversant during the perusal, are but a set of evanescent 
 phantoms, conjured up by a magician for our amusement. 
 Smollett seldom holds communication with his readers in 
 his own person. He manages his delightful puppet-show 
 without thrusting his head beyond the curtain , to explain 
 what he is doing ; and hence , besides that our attention 
 to the story remains unbroken, we are sure that the au- 
 thor, fully confident in the abundance of his materials, 
 has no occasion to eke them out with extrinsic matter. &c» 
 In the Comic part of their writings, we have already 
 said , Fielding is pre-eminent in grave irony; a Cervantic 
 species of pleasantry, in which Smollett is not equally suc- 
 cessful. On the other hand, the Scotchman (notwithstand- 
 ing the general opinion denies that quality to his country- 
 men) excels in broad and ludicrous humor. His fancy 
 seems to run riot in accumulating ridiculous circumstances 
 one upon another, to the utter destruction of all power of 
 gravity; and perhaps no books ever written, have excited 
 such peals of inextinguishable laughter as those of Smollett. 
 Smollett may be said to resemble Rubens. His pictures 
 are often deficient in grace; sometimes coarse, and even 
 vulgar in conception; deficient too in keeping, and in the 
 due subordination of parts to each other, and intimating 
 too much carelessness on the part of the artist. But these 
 faults are redeemed by such richness and brilliancy of co- 
 lors ; such a profusion of imagination — now bodying forth, 
 the grand and terrible; now the natural, the easy, and 
 the ludicrous; there is so much of life , action, and bustle 
 in every group he has painted; so much force and indivi- 
 duality of character, that we readily grant to Smollett an 
 equal rank with his great rival Fielding — while we place 
 both far above any of their successors in the same line of 
 fictious composition. gi r *yy # Scott. 
 
 The Essay on Criticism , •which was published some months since , is a 
 master-piece in its kind. The observations follow one another like those 
 in Horace's Art of Poetry, without that methodical regularity which would 
 have been requisite in a prose writer. They are some of them uncom- 
 mon, hut such as the reader must assent to when he sees them explained 
 with that ease and perspicuity in which they are delivered. As for those 
 which are the most known and the most received , they are placed in so 
 beautiful a light , and illustrated with such apt allusions , that they have 
 
35 
 
 in them all the graces of novelty ; and make the reader , who was before 
 acquainted with them, still more convinced of their truth and solidity. 
 There are three poems in our tongue of the same nature , and each a mas- 
 ter-piece in its kind — the Essay on Translated Verse ; the Essay on the Art 
 oj Poetry; and the Essay on Criticism. Addisok. 
 
 One of Pope's greatest, though of his earliest works, is the Essay on 
 Criticism, which if he had written nothing else would have placed him 
 among the first Critics and the first Poets ; as it exhibits every mode of 
 excellence that can embellish or dignify didactic composition , selection 
 of matter, novelty of arrangement, justness of precept, splendor of illus- 
 tration , and propriety of digression. It is a work which displays such 
 extent of comprehension , such nicety of distinction, such acquaintance 
 with mankind, and such knowledge both of Ancient and Modern learn- 
 ing, as are not often attained by the maturest age and longest experience. 
 
 Joh:nso:nv 
 
 Extracts , 
 
 From an Essay on Criticism* 
 
 Canto /. 
 
 'Tis hard to say if greater want of skill 
 
 Appear in writing, or in judging, ill; 
 
 But of the two, less dangerous is the offence 
 
 To tire our patience , than mislead our sense. 
 
 Some few in that, but numbers err in this ; 
 
 Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss. Stc, 
 
 'Tis with our Judgements as our Watches , none 
 Go just alike, yet each believes his own. 
 In Poets as true genius is but rare, 
 True taste as seldom is the Critic's share; 
 Both must alike from Heaven derive their ligTit ; 
 These born to judge, as well as those to write. 
 Let such leach others who themselves excel , 
 And censure freely who have written well: 
 "Authors are partial to their Wit" — 'tis true; 
 But are not Critics to their Judgement too? &c. 
 
 But you who seek to give and merit fame, 
 And justly bear a critic's noble name, 
 Be sure yourself, and your own Reach, to know — • 
 How far your genius, taste, and learning, go; 
 Lanch not beyond your depth, but be discreet, 
 And mark that point where Sense and D illness meet. &c. 
 
 First follow Nature, and your judgement frame 
 By her just standard, which is still (a) the same: 
 
 (a) Still, always } ei§trmora , invariably, unalterably* 
 
26 
 
 Unerring Nature — still divinely bright, 
 One clear, unchanged, and universal light — 
 Life, Force, and Beauty, must to all impart; 
 At once the Source, and End, and Test of Art. &c. 
 
 You then, whose Judgement the right course would steer, 
 Know well each Ancient's proper character} 
 His fable, subject , scope in every page, 
 Religion, country, genius of his age: 
 Without all these at once before your eyes, 
 Cavil (a) you may, but never Criticise. &c. 
 
 Some beauties yet no precepts can declare, 
 For there's a happiness as well as care. 
 Music resembles Poetry; in each 
 Are nameless graces which no methods teach , 
 And which a master-hand alone can reach. 
 If, where the Rules not far enough extend, 
 (Since rules were madebiit to promote their end,) 
 Some lucky License answer to the full 
 The intent proposed , that License is a Rule. &c* 
 
 Canto II, 
 
 A little Learning is a dangerous thing — 
 
 Drink deep, or taste not the Pierean spring; 
 There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain , 
 And drinking largely sobers us again. &c. 
 
 A perfect judge will read each work of Wit 
 With t]ie same spirit that its Author writ — 
 Survey the whole , nor seek slight £aults to find 
 Where Nature moves, and Rapture warms the mind; 
 Nor lose, for that malignant dull delight, 
 The geiierous pleasure to be charmed with Wit. &c. 
 
 Whoever" thinks a Faultless piece to see , 
 
 Thinks what ne'er was , nor is , nor e'er shall be. 
 In every work regard the writer's End, 
 Since none can compass more than they intend; 
 And if the Means be just, the Conduct true , 
 Applause , in spite of trivial faults , is due. 
 As men of breeding, sometimes men of wit. 
 To avoid great errors, must the less commit; 
 Neglect the rules each verbal critic lays — 
 For not to know some trifles, is a Praise. &o. 
 (a) Cavil, dispute , contend; redekavelei% 
 
S2 7 
 
 Some to Conceit alone their taste confine , 
 
 And glittering thoughts struck out at every line; 
 Pleased with a work where nothing's just or fit ; 
 One glaring chaos and wild heap of wit. &c. 
 
 Others for Language all their care express , 
 And value books, as women men, for Dress: 
 Their praise is still — "The Style is excellent! * 
 The Sense they humbly take upon content. 
 Words are Tike leaves; and where they most abound, 
 Much fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found. 
 False eloquence , like the prismatic glass , 
 Its gaudy colors spreads on every place ; 
 The face of Nature we no more survey, 
 All glares alike, without distinction gay: 
 But true Expression , like the unchanging sun , 
 Clears and improves whate'er it shines upon; 
 It gilds all objects , but it alters none. 
 Expression is the dress of Thought, and still 
 Appears more decent as more suitable : 
 A vile conceit in pompous words expressed, 
 Is like a clown in regal purple dressed : 
 For different Styles with different Subjects sort, 
 As several garbs with country, town, and court. 
 Some by Old Words to fame have made pretence, 
 Ancients in Phrase, mere Moderns in their Sense# &c. 
 
 In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; 
 Alike fantastic if too new, or old: 
 Be not the First by whom the new are tried, 
 Nor yet the Last to lay the old aside. 
 
 But most by Numbers judge a poet's song, 
 
 And smoothe or rough, with them, is right or wrong; 
 In the bright muse though thousand charms conspire , 
 Her Voice is all these tuneful fools admire; 
 Who haunt Parnassus but to please their ear, 
 Not mend their minds; as some to Church repair, 
 Not for the doctrine, but the music there. 
 These equal syllables alone require, 
 Though oft the ear the open vowels tire ; 
 While expletives their feeble aid do join, 
 And ten low words oft creep in one dull line: 
 W T hile they ring round the same unvaried chimes, 
 With sure returns of still expected rhymes; 
 Where'er you iind "the cooling western breeze," 
 In the next line it " whispers through the trees ;" 
 
28 
 
 ir crystal streams "with pleasing murmurs creep," 
 
 The reader's threatened (not in vain) with w sleep : " 
 
 Then at the last and only couplet fraught 
 
 With some unmeaning thing, they call a Thought, 
 
 A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 
 
 Which, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 
 
 Leave such to tune their own dull rhymes^ and know 
 What's roundly smoothe , or languishingly slow; 
 And praise the easy vigor of a line 
 
 WhereDenham's(ajstrengthandWaller's(6)sweetness join. 
 True ease in writing comes from Art not chance, 
 As those move easiest who have learned to dance; 
 *Tis not enough no harshness gives offence — 
 The Sound must seem an echo to the Sense: 
 Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows , 
 And the smoothe stream in smoother numbers flows; 
 But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 
 The hoarse, rough verse should, like the torrent , roar; 
 When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
 The line too labors, and the words move slow; 
 Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain , 
 Flies o'er the unbending corn , and skims along the main. 
 Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, 
 And bid alternate passions fall and rise I 
 While, at each change, the son of Lybian Jove 
 Now burns with glory, and then melts with love ; 
 Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, 
 Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: 
 Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, 
 And the World's victor stood subdued by Sound ! 
 The power of Music all our hearts allow , 
 And what Timotheus was , is Dryden (c) now. &c. 
 
 (a) Denham is one of the writer's that improved our taste, and ad- 
 vanced our language , and whom we ought therefore to read with gra- 
 titude , though , having done much , he left much to do. Johnson. 
 
 (b) Waller was rather smoothe than strong ; of "the full resound- 
 ing line," which Pope attributes to Dryden, he has given very few 
 exantples ; but it cannot be denied that he added something to our 
 elegance of diction, and something to our propriety of thought. 
 
 Johnson. 
 
 (c) Denham and Waller improved our versification , and Dryden per- 
 fected it. Phior. 
 
 Every English generation must mention Dryden with Reverence as a 
 Critic and a Poet. From his Prose, however, Dryden derives only his 
 accidental and secondary praise j lh« veneration with which his mine i$ 
 
29 
 
 Some , foreign writers, some, our own despise; 
 The Ancients only, or the Moderns prize: 
 Thus wit, like faith, by each man is applied 
 To One smalt Sect , and all are damned beside. &c. 
 
 Some ne'er advance a judgement of their own, 
 But catch the spreading notion of the town; 
 They reason and conclude by Precedent, 
 And own (a) stale nonsense , which they ne'er invent. 
 
 Some judge of authors' Names , not Works , and then 
 Nor praise nor blame the Writings , but the Men. &c# 
 
 The vulgar , thus , through imitation err; 
 As oft the Learned, by being singular: 
 So much they hate the crowd , that if the throng 
 By chance go right, they purposely go wrong. &e. 
 
 Some praise at morning what they blame at night, 
 But always think the last opinion right. &c. 
 
 Some , valuing those of their own side, or mind, 
 Still make themselves the measure of mankind: 
 Fondly we think we honor merit, then, 
 When we but praise ourselves in other men. &c. 
 
 Be thou the First true merit to befriend; 
 
 His praise is lost who stays till all commend. &c* 
 
 Canto III. 
 
 Be silent always , when you doubt your sense; 
 
 And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence: 
 Some positive , persisting fops we know , v 
 Who, if once wrong, will needs be always so ; 
 But you, with pleasure, own your errors past, 
 And make each day a critique on the last, 
 
 'Tis not enough your counsel still be True; 
 
 Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do; 
 
 Men must be taught as if you taught thein not , 
 
 And things unknown proposed as things forgot. &c. • 
 
 pronounced by every cnltivator of English literature, is paid lo him as 
 he refined the language , imptoved the sentiments , and tuned the num- 
 bers of English Poetry. He had more music than Waller, moie vigor 
 than Denhamj and more nature than Cowley. 
 
 Deoham was born in i6t5, and died in 16G8; Cowley b. 1618, d» 
 1667; Waller b. i6o5, d. 1687$ and Dryden b. i65i, d. 1701, 
 
 (a) Own , totteigencn. 
 
3o 
 
 ''Nature's chief Master-piece is writing Well." 
 
 Such was Roscommon, (a) not more learned than good, 
 
 "With manners generous as his noble blood; 
 
 To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known , 
 
 And every author's merit — but his own. 
 
 Such late was Walsh, (6) the muses judge and Friend, 
 
 Who justlyknew to blame or to commend; 
 
 To failings mild, but zealous for desert; 
 
 The clearest head , and the sincerest heart. 
 
 This humble praise, lamented Shade! receive, — 
 
 This praise, at least, a Grateful muse may give: 
 
 The muse , whose early voice you taught to sing, 
 
 Prescribed her heights , and pruned her tender wing : 
 
 Her Guide now lost , no more attempts to rise , 
 
 But in low numbers short excursions tries ; 
 
 Content, if hence the Unlearned their wants may view, 
 
 The Learned reflect on what before they knew: 
 
 Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame; 
 
 Still pleased to Praise, yet not afraid to Blame: 
 
 Averse, alike, to flatter or offend; 
 
 Not free from faults , nor yet too vain to mend. 
 
 •Pope. 
 
 [a) Of Roscommon's works , the judgement of the public seems to 
 l»e right. He is elegant, but not great; he never labors after exquisite 
 beauties, and he seldom falls into gross faults. His versification is 
 smoothe, but rarely vigorous; and his rhymes are remarkably exact. He 
 improved taste, if he did not enlarge knowledge, and may be numbered 
 among the benefactors to English literature. Johnson. 
 
 (b) Walsh is the best Critic in the nation. Dhyden. 
 Roscommon b« 
 
 Chesterfield, b. 1694 ; d. 1773. 
 
 Chesterfield's Letters to his Son are translated into different languages; 
 and various are the opinions respecting them. I am one of those 
 who think highly, very highly of them — as a whole : for there are 
 parts which are censurable , immoral, abominable; parts which render 
 them altogether unlit for general perusal. In passing judgement on these 
 Letters, the critic should (I.) never lose sight of their not having been 
 written for the Public eye, (II.) of the Age of his Son when each parti- 
 cular Letter was penned, (III.) of the Son's habits and acquirements, (IV.) 
 of the immediate object of his Education, (V.) of the Licentiousness of 
 the age in which he lived, and, (VI.) of the Questionableness of several 
 vile Letters which have been incorporated since the publication of Docls- 
 ley's Edition, 1774 » in Two Volumes Quarto. In my humble opinion , 
 these Letters — with the exception of the immoral passages , in the se- 
 cond volume — ought to be placed in the hands of all liberally educated 
 Youth, They contain much general instruction ; are replete with useful 
 
3i 
 
 lessons on Men and Manners; they unveil numerous stratagems of the 
 Human heart; and constantly tend to make mankind Agreeable to each 
 other : they embody so much worldly wisdom that every attentive reader 
 may add something to his stock of knowledge by perusing them ; and 
 even the unthinking themselves, must be profited , however indolently 
 they may read them, 
 
 From Lord CHESTERFIELD to Ids Son. / 
 
 {The Son in his Seventeenth Year,') 
 
 London, September the 27th, O. S, 1749. 
 Dear Boy, 
 
 A vulgar, ordinary way of thinking, acting, or speak- 
 ing , implies a low education , and a habit of low company. 
 Young people contract it at School, or among Servants, 
 with whom they are too often used to converse; but after 
 they frequent Good-company , they must want attention 
 and observation very much, if they do not lay it quite 
 aside. And , indeed , if they do not, Good-company will 
 be very apt to lay them aside. The various kinds of Vul- 
 garisms are infinite; I cannot pretend to point them out 
 to you; but I will give some samples, by which you may 
 guess at the rest. 
 
 A Vulgar man is captious and jealous , eager and impet- 
 uous about trifles. He suspects himself to be slighted , thinks 
 everything that is said is meant at him; if the Company 
 happens to laugh , he is persuaded they laugh at him ; he 
 grows angry and testy, says something very impertinent, 
 and draws himself into a scrape , by showing what he calls 
 a proper spirit , and asserting himself. A man of Fashion 
 does not suppose himself to be either the sole or principal 
 object of the thoughts , looks , or words of the Company ; 
 and never suspects that he is either slighted or laughed at, 
 unless he is conscious that he deserves it. And if (which 
 very seldom happens) the Company is absurd or ill-bred 
 enough to do either, he does not care two-pence — unless 
 the insult be so gross and plain as to require satisfaction 
 of another kind. As he is above Trifles, he is never vehe- 
 ment and eager about them ; and wherever they are con- 
 cerned, rather acquiesces than wrangles. A Vulgar man's 
 Conversation always savors strongly of the lowness of his 
 Education and Company. It turns, chiefly, upon his Do- 
 mestic affairs; his servants, the excellent order he keeps 
 in his own family, and the little anecdotes of the neigh- 
 
32 
 
 bourhood; all which he relates with emphasis, as interest- 
 ing matters. He is a Man-gossip, 
 
 Vulgarism in Language is the next, and distinguishing 
 characteristic of Bad-company, and a Bad-education. A 
 man of Fashion avoids nothing with more care than that. 
 Proverbial expressions, and trite sayings, are the flowers 
 of the rhetoric of a Vulgar man. Would he say, that Men 
 differ in their Tastes < — he both supports and adorns that 
 opinion , by the "good old saying", as he respectfully calls 
 it, that What is one man's Meat is another man's Poison, 
 If anybody attempts being "smart" (as he calls it) upon 
 him -r he gives them Tit for Tat , aye, that he does He 
 has always some favorite word for the time being, which, 
 for the sake of using often , he commonly abuses — such 
 as vastly angry, vastly kind, vastly handsome, and vastly 
 ugly. Lven his Pronunciation of Proper words carries 
 "the mark of the beast" along with it: he calls the earth, 
 yearth ; he is oblieged not obliged to you , he goes to 
 "wards, andnot/^arrt F s such a place. He sometimes affects 
 Hard words, byway of ornament, which he always man- 
 gles. &c. A man of Fashion never has recourse to Proverbs, 
 and vulgar Aphorisms; uses neither favorite words nor 
 hard words; but takes great care to speak very Correctly 
 and Grammatically, and to pronounce properly — that is, 
 according to the Usage of the Best Companies, 
 
 An awkward Address , ungraceful Attitudes and Ac- 
 tions , and a certain Left-hand edness (if 1 may use that 
 word) loudly proclaim Low-education and Low-company; 
 for it is impossible to suppose that a man can have fre- 
 quented good-company, without having caught something, 
 at least, of their air and motions. A new-raised man is 
 distinguished in a Regiment by his Awkwardness; but he 
 must be impenetrably dull, if, in a month or two's time, 
 he cannot perform, at least, the common manual exercise, 
 and look like a Soldier. The very Accoutrements of a man 
 of fashion are grievous incumbrances to a Vulgar man. He 
 is at a loss what to do with his Hat when it is not upon 
 his head; his Cane (if unfortunately he wears one) is at 
 perpetual war with every Cup of tea or coffee he drinks; 
 destroys them first and thrn accompanies them in their 
 fall. His sword is formidable only to his own legs, which 
 would possibly carry him fast enough out of the way of 
 any sword but his own. His Clothes fit him so ill, and 
 constrain him so much , that he seems rather their prison- 
 er than their proprietor. Ue Presents himself in company 
 like a Criminal in a court of justice — his very Air con- 
 
53 
 
 dermis him; and people of Fashion will no more connect 
 themselves with the one , than people of Character with 
 the other. This repulse drives and sinks him into Low- 
 company — a gulph from whence no man , after a cer- 
 tain age, ever emerged. 
 
 Les Manieres nobles et aisees , la Toumure (Tun Jiomme 
 de condition , le Ton de la bonne compagnie , les Graces , 
 le je ne sguis quoi , qui plait, are necessary to adorn and 
 introduce your intrinsic merit and knowledge , as the Po- 
 lish to the Diamond, which, without that polish, would 
 never be worn, whatever it might weigh. Do not imagine 
 that these Accomplishments are only useful with Women; 
 they are much more so with Men. In a Public- assembly 
 what an advantage has a Graceful speaker, with Genteel 
 motions, a Handsome figure, and a Liberal air, over one 
 who shall speak full as much good sense, but destitute 
 of these ornaments ! in Business how prevalent are the 
 Graces — how detrimental is the want of them! By the help 
 of these I have known some men refuse favors less offen- 
 sively than others granted them. The utility of them in 
 Courts, and Negociations , is inconceivable. You gain 
 the Hearts, and, consequently, the Secrets, of nine in 
 ten, that you have to do with, in spite even of their 
 Prudence; which will, nine times in ten, be the Dupe of 
 their hearts and of their senses. Consider the importance 
 of these things as they deserve , and you will not lose one 
 moment in the puTsuit of them. 
 
 You are travelling now in a country once so famous 
 both for Arts and Arms , that (however degenerated at 
 present) it still deserves your attention and reflection. 
 View it therefore with care, compare its former with its 
 present state, and examine into the causes of its rise, and 
 its decay. Consider it classically and politically , and do 
 not -run through it , as too many of your young countrymen 
 do, musically, and (to use a ridiculous word) knick-knack* 
 ically. No Piping nor .Fiddling, Ibeseechyou; nodayslost 
 in poring upon almost imperceptible Intaglios and Campos.* 
 and do not become a Virtuoso of small wares. Form a 
 taste of Painting, Sculpture, and Architecture, if you 
 please , by a careful examination of the works of the best 
 ancient and modern artists; those are Liberal-arts, and a 
 real taste and knowledge of them become a Man of Fashion 
 very well. But, beyond certain bounds , the Man of Tasts 
 finds , and the Frivolous Virtuoso begins. Stc, 
 
 P 3 
 
54 
 
 Pitt b. 1759; d. 1806. 
 See an Account of Canning among the Pieces after the VII Lecture. 
 
 Eulogy on PITT. 
 
 If hushed the loud whirlwind that ruffled the deep, 
 The Sky if no longer dark tempests deform; 
 
 When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep? 
 No j here's to the Pilot that weathered the storm. 
 
 At the footstool of Power let Flattery fawn, 
 Let Fashion her idols extol to the skies ; 
 
 To virtue, in humble retirement withdrawn, 
 Unblamed may the accent of gratitude rise. 
 
 And shall not His memory to Britons be dear, 
 
 "Whose example with envy all nations behold j 
 
 A Statesman unbiased by interest or fear , 
 
 By power uncorrupted , untainted by gold ? 
 
 Who, when terror and doubt through the universe reigned , 
 While rapine and treason their ensigns unfurled, 
 
 The heart and the hopes of his Country maintained, 
 
 And One kingdom preserved 'midst the wrecks of the world? 
 
 Unheeding, unthankful, we bask in the blaze, 
 
 While the beams of the sun in full majesty shine j 
 
 When he sinks into twilight with fondness we gaze, 
 And mark the mild lustre that gilds his decline — 
 
 So , Pitt ! when the course of thy greatness is o'er, 
 Thy talents, thy virtues, we fondly recal ; 
 
 Now justly we praise thee, whom lost we deplore, 
 Admired in thy zenith, beloved in thy fall. 
 
 O, take then, for dangers by wisdom repelled, 
 For evils by courage and constancy bravedj 
 
 .0, take , for a throne by thy counsels upheld, 
 
 The thanks of a j)eople thy firmness has saved. 
 
 And oh! if again the rude whirlwind should rise, 
 
 The dawning of peace should fresh darkness deform ; 
 
 The regrets of the good, and the fears of the wise, 
 Shall turn to the Pilot that weathered the storm. 
 
 Canning. 
 
35 
 
 Mrs. Chapone b. 1727; d. 1801. 
 
 Mrs. . CHAPONE'S Letters on the Improvement of the Mind, originally de- 
 signed for the use of her Niece only, but published, in 1775, at the 
 suggestion of Mrs. Montague, ought to be placed in the Library of 
 every young lady., 
 
 Some account of the Manner in which a 
 
 Modern Lady of Fashion 
 
 Spends her Time, 
 
 If a Modern Lady of Fashion were called upon to account 
 for the Disposition of her Time , I imagine her defence 
 would run in ibis style — 
 
 " I cannot, you know, be out of ihe world, nor act 
 differently from every body in it. The hours are every 
 where late — consequently , 1 rise late. I have scarcely 
 breakfasted before morning visits begin, or Mis time to go 
 to ail auction, or a concert, or to take a little exercise 
 for my health. Dressing my hair is a long operation, but 
 one cannot appear with a head unlike everybody else. 
 One must sometimes go to a play, or an opera; though I 
 own it hurries one to death. Then , what wilh necessary 
 visits, the perpetual engagements to card-parties at private 
 houses , and attendance on public assemblies — to which 
 all persons of fashion subscribe — the evenings you see, 
 are fully disposed of. What time then can I possibly have 
 for what you call domestic duties? You talk of the offi- 
 ces and enjoyments of friendship — alas , I have no hours 
 left for friends! I must see them in a crowd, or not at 
 all. As to cultivating the friendship of my Husband , we 
 are very civil when we meet, but we are both of us too 
 much engaged to spend much time with each other: and 
 with regard to my Daughters , I have given them a French- 
 governess, and proper masters — I cannot do more for 
 them. You tell me, 1 should instruct my servants «-— but 
 I have not time to inform myself, much less can 1 under- 
 take anything of that sort for them; 1 am not even able 
 to guess what they do with themselves the greatest part 
 of the twentyfour hours. I go to church, if possible, 
 once on a Sunday , and , then some of my servants attend 
 me; and if they will not mind what the Minister says, 
 how can I help it ! The management of our fortune, as far 
 
36 
 
 as I am concerned , I must leave to the steward and house- 
 keeper — for I find I can barely snatch a quarter of an 
 hour just to look over the bill of fare when I am to have 
 Company, that they may not send up anything frightful or 
 oldfashioned. Respecting the christian duty of Charity, I 
 can assure you I am not illnatured; and — considering that 
 the great expense of being always dressed for company, 
 losses at cards, subscriptions, and public spectacles , leave 
 me very little to dispose of — I am ready enough to give 
 my money when I meet with a miserable object. You say, 
 I should inquire out such, inform myself thoroughly of 
 their cases, make an acquaintance with the poor of my 
 neighbourhood, and plan out the best methods of relieving 
 the unfortunate and assisting the industrious — but this 
 supposes much more time, and much more money, than I 
 have to bestow. I have had hopes , indeed, that my sum- 
 mers in the country would have afforded me more lei- 
 sure; but we stay pretty late in town : and then we gener- 
 ally pass several weeks at one or other of the water- 
 drinking-places , where every moment is spent in public; 
 and, for the few months , in which we reside at our own 
 seat, our house is always full, with a succession of com- 
 pany, to whose amusement, one is obliged to dedicate 
 every hour of the day." 
 
 Such is the Account of that Time which was given you 
 to prepare and educate yourself for Eternity! Yet. you 
 believe in the immortality of the soul, and a future state 
 of rewards and punishments. Ask your own heart what 
 rewards you deserve , or what kind of felicity you are 
 fitted to enjoy? Which of those faculties or affections, 
 that Heaven can be supposed to gratify, have you culti- 
 vated and improved? If, in that eternal world, the stores 
 of knowledge should be laid open before you, have 
 you preserved that thirst of knowledge , or that taste for 
 truth , which is to be indulged with endless information ? 
 If, in the society of saints and angels, the purest benevo- 
 lence and most cordial love is to constitute your hap- 
 piness , where is the Heart that should enjoy this delight- 
 ful intercourse of affection ? Has yours been exercised and 
 refined to a proper capacity for it , during your state of 
 discipline, by the energies of generous friendship, by the 
 meltings of parental fondness , or by that union of heart 
 and soul, that mixed exertion of perfect friendship and 
 ineflable tenderness , which approaches nearest to the full 
 satisfaction of our nature, in the bands of conjugal love ? 
 Alas! you scarce know you have a heart, except when you 
 
37 
 
 feel it swell with pride, or flutter with vanity. Has your 
 piety and gratitude to the Source of all Good been exercis- 
 ed and strengthened by constant acts of praise and thanks- 
 giving ? Has it been nourished by frequent meditation, and 
 silent recollection of all the wonders he hath done for us, 
 till it burst forth in fervent prayer and praise? 1 fear that 
 Decency rather than Devotion carries you once a week to 
 the place of public worship; and, that, for the rest of the 
 week, your thoughts and time are so very differently fill- 
 ed up, that the idea of a Ruler of the Universe can but 
 seldom occur, and then, more as an object of terror, 
 than of hope and joy. How then shall a soul so dead to 
 divine love, so lost to all but the most childish pursuits, 
 be able to exalt and enlarge itself to a capacity for that 
 bliss which we are encouraged to hope for , in a more 
 intimate perception of the Divine Presence, in contemplat- 
 ing more nearly the perfections of our Creator , and in 
 pouring out before his throne our ardent gratitude, love, 
 and adoration ! What kind of training is the life you have 
 passed through, for such an Immortality! 
 
 Chapohe. 
 
 Montgomery b. 177 1 ; yet Living. 
 The Joy of Grief. 
 
 Sweet the hour of Tribulation, 
 When the heart can freely sigh ; 
 
 And the tear of resignation 
 
 Twinkles in the mournful eye. 
 
 Have you felt a kind emotion 
 
 Tremble through your troubled breast, 
 Soft as evening o'er the ocean 
 
 When she charms the waves to rest? 
 
 Have you lost a friend , or brother? 
 
 Heard a father's parting breath? 
 Gazed upon a lifeless mother , 
 
 Till she seemed to wake from death? 
 
 Have you felt a spouse expiring 
 In your arms , before ) r our view ? 
 
 Watched the lovely soul retiring 
 from her eyes that broke on you ? 
 
38 
 
 Did not Grief then grow romantic , 
 Raving on remembered bliss? 
 
 Did you not, with, fervor frantic, 
 Kiss the lips that, felt no kiss ? 
 
 Yes! but, when you had resigned her, 
 Life and you were reconciled j 
 
 Anna left — she left behind her , 
 One, one dear, one only Child. 
 
 But before the green moss, peeping, 
 His poor mother's grave arrayed, 
 
 In that grave the infant , sleeping , 
 On the mother's lap was laid. 
 
 Horror then , your heart congealing 9 
 Chilled you with intense despair; 
 
 Can you call to mind that feeling? 
 No; — there was no Feeling there. 
 
 From that gloomy trance of sorrow, 
 When you woke to pangs unknown, 
 
 How unwelcome was the morrow! 
 For it rose on You alone. 
 
 Sunk in self-consuming anguish , 
 Can the poor heart always ake ? 
 
 No; the tortured nerve will languish, 
 Or the strings of life must break. 
 
 O'er the yielding brow of Sadness 
 One faint smile of comfort stole; 
 
 One soft pang of tender gladness 
 Exquisitely thrilled your soul. 
 
 While the wounds of wo are healing, 
 While the heart is all resigned, 
 
 'Tis the solemn feast of feeling — 
 *Tis the Sabbath of the mind I 
 
 Pensive memory then retraces 
 Scenes of bliss for ever fled; 
 
 Lives in former times and places, 
 Holds communion with the Dead. 
 
 And when night's prophetic slumbers 
 Rend the veil to mortal eyes, 
 
 From their tombs the sainted numbers 
 Of our lost companions rise. 
 
59 
 
 You have seen a friend,! a brother, 
 
 Heard a dear dead father speak; 
 Proved the fondness of a mother , 
 
 Felt her tears upon your cheek. 
 
 Dreams of love your Grief beguiling, 
 ' You have clasped a consort's charms: 
 And received your infant, smiling, 
 From hits mother's sacred arms. 
 
 Trembling, pale, and agonizing, 
 
 While you mourned the vision gone, 
 
 Bright the Morning-Star arising 
 
 Opened heaven, from whence it shone. 
 
 Thither all your wishes bending, 
 
 Rose in ecstacy sublime; 
 Thither all your hopes ascending , 
 
 Triumped over Death and Time. 
 
 Thus afflicted, bruised, and broken, 
 Have you known such Sweet Relief? 
 
 Yes, my friend — and by this token , 
 You have felt the " Joy of Grief ^ 
 
 Montgomery. 
 
 Locke b. i632j d. 1704; 
 
 Locke's Works are read by few, though every one considers it ne- 
 cessary to appear acquainted with his Writings. There is too much 
 thought in Locke to render him agreeable to the generality of readers! 
 The number of those who can be interested in his Writings , must be 
 limited to that class of readers who have learned to think — and to 
 think deliberately; not as Rousseau, Diderot, and Helvetius have done 
 — hastily and wildly ; for it has been publicly made known hy 
 Simmonds , whose knowledge of the two languages and indisputable 
 ability of passing judgement on such questions , render his authority 
 conclusive, that these three Writers " have exaggerated Locke." 
 Kor should this writer ever be read in Translations by those who are 
 capable of comprehending English. 
 
 Species of Spirits. 
 
 It is not impossible to conceive , nor repugnant to rea- 
 son , that there may be many Species of Spirits , as much 
 separated and diversified one from another, by distinct 
 
4o 
 
 properties , wliereof we have no ideas , as the species of 
 sensible things are distinguished one from another , by quali- 
 ties , which we know , and observe in them. That there 
 should be more Species of Intelligent creatures above us , 
 than there are of sensible and material below us, is prob- 
 able to me from hence , that in all the visible corporeal 
 world, we see no chasrn or gaps. All quite down from 
 us, the descent is by easy steps, and a continued series 
 of things , that in each remove differ very little one from 
 the other. There are fishes that have wings, and are 
 not strangers to the airy region : and there are some 
 birds, that are inhabitants of the water, whose blood is 
 cold as fishes , and their flesh so like in taste , that the 
 scrupulous are allowed them on fish«days. There are 
 animals so near of kin both to birds and beasts , that they 
 are in the middle between both: amphibious animals link 
 the terrestrial and aquatic together; seals live at land 
 and at sea, and porpoises have the warm blood and en- 
 trails of a hog, not to mention what is confidently re- 
 ported of mermaids, or seamen. There are some brutes, 
 that seem to have as much knowledge and reason, aa 
 some that are called men : and the animal and vegetable 
 kingdoms are so nearly joined, that if you will take the 
 lowest of one, and the highest of the other, there will 
 scarce be perceived any great difference between them ; 
 and so on, till we come to the lowest and the most 
 inorganical parts of matter, we shall find every where, 
 that the several species are linked together, and differ 
 but in almost insensible degrees. And when we consid- 
 er the infinite power and wisdom of the Maker, we 
 have reason to think, that it is suitable to the mag- 
 nificent harmony of the universe , and the great design 
 and infinite goodness of the architect, that the Species 
 of creatures should also , by gentle degrees , ascend up- 
 ward from us, toward his infinite perfection, as we see 
 they gradually descend from us downwards; which, if 
 it be probable, we have reason then to be persuaded, 
 that there are far more Species of Creatures above us, 
 than there are beneath , we being in degrees of perfec- 
 tion, much more remote from the infinite being of God, 
 than we are from the lowest state of being, and that 
 which approaches nearest to nothing. 
 
 Locke. 
 
41 
 
 Note* The folio wldg Verses Lave not only been attributed to the 
 pen of Lord Byron, but are actually inserted among his Works, by 
 some of the French editors. I remember having read an able dis- 
 quisition upon the subject, in The Times , some years ago, which 
 convinced me that they are the composition of Charles Wolfe — and 
 1 have, in the confidence of my memory, changed several words, 
 which were pointed out in that Criticism as belonging to the Reverend 
 author, in contradistinction to other words contained in the Copy 
 attributed to his Lordship. 
 
 On the Burial of Sir JOHN MOORE; 
 Who fell , at the Battle of Corunna , in Spain, in 1808. 
 
 Not a drum was heard , not a funeral note , 
 As his Corpse to the rampart we hurried; 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewel shot, 
 O'er the grave where our Hero we buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly, at dead of night, 
 The sods with our bayonets turning, 
 By the straggling moonbeam's dusky light, 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin encldsed his breast , 
 Not in sheet, nor in shroud , we bound him; 
 But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest, 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 Few, and short, were the prayers we said, 
 And we spake not a word of sorrow; 
 But we mournfully gazed on the face of the dead, 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow : 
 
 We thought , as we hollowed his confined bed 
 
 And smoothed down his narrow pillow, 
 
 That the fo and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 
 
 While we should be far on the billow. 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the Spirit that's gone, 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; 
 But nothing he'll reck , if they let him sleep on 
 In the grave where his Soldiers have laid him. 
 
 Not half of our heavy task was done 
 When the bell tolled the hour for retiring; 
 And we heard the distant and random gun 
 Which the fo was sullenly firing. 
 
4* 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down , 
 From the Field of his Fame, fresh and gory; 
 We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, 
 But we left him — • alone with his Glory. 
 
 Rev: Mr, Wolfe, 
 
 On TATE'S Alteration 
 
 of 
 
 SHAKESPEARE'S Tragedy of King Lear. 
 
 The great critic, Dr. Johnson, says, t€ Cordelia , from 
 the time of Tate, has always retired with victory and 
 felicity. And , if my sensations could add anything to 
 the general suffrage, I might relate, I was, many years 
 ago, so shocked by Cordelia's death, that I know not 
 whether I ever endured to read again the last Scenes of 
 the play till I undertook to revise them as an editor." 
 
 Gen % Obs, on Shakespeare's Plays, 
 
 Notwithstanding Johnson declares in favor of Tate's 
 alteration, I. must say, with Addison, u King Lear is an 
 admirable Tragedy, as Shakespeare wrote it; but as it is 
 reformed, according to the chimerical notion of poetical 
 justice, in my humble opinion it has lost half its beauty." 
 
 Spectator , No. 40. 
 
 Schlegel and Hazlitt alike condemn the " happy ending," 
 as it is commonly called; and I am desirous of adding my 
 disapprobation to theirs: for I have seen King Lear with 
 Tate's alteration, in different theatres, and was invari- 
 ably disgusted with it; I have seen it also according to the 
 original text — at Drury-lane, where Kean gave Shake- 
 speare to the very letter — and was gratified. But that I 
 may not seem to cast Johnson's judgement aside for the 
 mere honor of daring to differ with so able a critic, muck 
 less for contradiction's sake , I shall transcribe a para- 
 graph from the writings of an acute observer, which ap- 
 pears to me unanswerable. 
 
 " The Lear of Shakespeare cannot be Acted. The con- 
 temptible machinery with which they mimic the storm 
 which he goes out in, is not more inadequate to represent 
 
43 
 
 the horrors of the real elements, than any actor cau he 
 to represent Lear. The greatness of Lear is not in cor- 
 poral, dimension, but in intellectual; the explosions of 
 his passions are terrible as a volcano : they are storms 
 turning up and disclosing to the bottom that rich sea, his 
 mind , with all its vast riches. It is his Mind which is 
 laid bare. This case of flesh and blood seems too insigni- 
 ficant to be thought on; even as he himself neglects it; 
 On the stage we see nothing but corporal infirmities and 
 weakness, the impotence of rage; while we read it, we 
 see not Lear , but we are Lear; — we are in his mind; 
 we are sustained by a grandeur, which baffles the malice 
 of daughters and storms; in the aberrations of his reason, 
 we discover a mighty irregular power of reasoning, im- 
 methodised from the ordinary purposes of life, but exert- 
 ing its powers , as the wind blows where it listeth , at 
 will, on the corruptions and abuses of mankind. What 
 have looks or tones to do with that sublime identification 
 of his Age with that of the Heavens themselves , when in 
 his reproaches to them, for conniving at the injustice of 
 his children , he reminds them that they themselves are 
 Old! "What gesture shall we appropriate to this? What 
 has the voice, or the eye, to do with such things? But 
 the Play is beyond all Art, as the tamperings with it 
 show: it is too hard and stony: it must have Love scenes, 
 and a happy ending. It is not enough that Cordelia is a 
 daughter, she must shine as a lover too. Tate has put 
 his hook in the nostrils of this Liviathan, for Garrick and 
 his followers, the showmen of the scene, to draw it about 
 more easily. A happy ending ! — as if the living martyr- 
 dom that Lear had gone through — the flaying of his feel- 
 ings alive , did not make a fair dismissal from the stage 
 of life the only decorous thing for him. If he is to live 
 and be happy after, if he could sustain this world's bur- 
 den after, why all this pudder and preparation — why 
 torment us with all this unnecessary sympathy? As if the 
 childish pleasure of getting his gilt robes and sceptre 
 again, could tempt him to act over again his misused 
 station — as if , at his years and with his experience, 
 any thing was left but to die." 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 Ten years ago, I should have thought Mr. Lamb's par- 
 agraph as ridiculous as I now think it excellent — 1 
 mean in matter, not in manner, for it is very unhappily 
 expressed. Since I have become a little better acquainted 
 with Shakespeare, and have been at the pains to acquire 
 
44 
 
 a little of the Art of Thinking — for, till very recently, 
 I was contented to let others think for me — I cannot 
 persuade myself that Shakespeare's Lear can be personated 
 by any actor whatever. Garrick I never saw , John Philip 
 Kemble I never saw, but I have seen Kean, and Others, 
 in Lear ; and have been highly gratified by Kean's per- 
 sonation of the character; yet I never saw Shakespeare's 
 King Lear till I beheld him in Amsterdam , where 1 saw 
 him — "in my mind's eye." 
 
 B. S. N. 
 
 King LEAR'S Soliloquy 9 
 
 in the Storm. 
 
 Blow winds , and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! 
 You cataracts , and hurricanoes , spout 
 Till you have drenched our steeples , drowned the cocks I 
 You sulphurous and thought-executing (a) fires, 
 Singe my white head ! and thou all-shaking thunder 
 Strike flat the thick rotundity o* the world! 
 Crack nature's mould, all germins spill at once, 
 That make ingrateful man ! 
 
 Fool. O nuncle , court holy-water in a dry house is better than this 
 rain-water out o' door. Good nuncle , in , and ask thy daughter's 
 blessing: here's a night pities neither wise men nor fools. 
 
 Rumble thy bellyful ! Spit , fire ! Spout , rain ! 
 
 Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my Daughters! 
 
 I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness, 
 
 I never gave you kingdoms, called you children, 
 
 You owe me no subscription ; (&) why then , let fall 
 
 Your horrible pleasure? Here 1 stand, your slave; 
 
 A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man — 
 
 But yet , I call you servile ministers , 
 
 That have with two pernicious (c) daughters joined 
 
 Your high-engendered battles 'gainst a head 
 
 So old and white as this. 0,0, 'tis foul! 
 
 Kent. Alas , Sir , are you here ? things that love night 
 Love not such nights as th,ese; the wrathful skies 
 Gallow the very wanderers of the dark , 
 And make them keep their caves: since I was a man, 
 
 (a) Thought-executing, snel als de gedachten* 
 
 (£) Subscription, gehoorzaamheid , onderdanigheid. 
 
 (c) Pernicious, fell j onmenschelyk , snood, wreed* 
 
45 
 
 Such sheets of fire , such bursts of horrid thunder , 
 Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never 
 Remember to have heard: man's nature cannot carry 
 The affliction , nor the fear. 
 
 Let the great Gods , 
 That keep this dreadful pother (a) o'er our heads, 
 Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, 
 That hast within thee undivulged crimes 
 Unwhipped of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand; 
 Thou perjure, and thou similar of virtue, 
 That art incestuous. Caitiff to pieces shake, 
 That under covert and convenient seeming 
 Hast practised on man's life! Close pent-up (b) guilts, 
 Bive your concealing continents ! and cry 
 These dreadful Summoners grace. I am a man 
 More sinned against , than sinning. 
 
 Shakespeare's King Lear, Act. III. 
 
 (a) Pother, gebulder. (b) Pent-op, opgasloten, verborgen* 
 
LECTURE III. 
 
 Historical account continued , down to the 
 Present Day. 
 
 Addison b. 1672; d. 1719. 
 
 Character of ADDISON, as a Writer. 
 
 1 
 
 It is not uncommon for those who have grown wise by 
 the labor of others, to add a little of their own, and 
 overlook their masters. Addison is now despised by some 
 who, perhaps, would never have seen his defects, but 
 by the lights which he afforded them. That he always 
 wrote as he would think it necessary to write now, can- 
 not be affirmed ; his instructions were such as the charac- 
 ters of his readers made proper. That general knowledge 
 which now circulates in common talk, was in his time 
 rarely to be found. Men not professing learning were not 
 ashamed of ignorance; and, in the female world, any 
 acquaintance with books was distinguished only to be 
 censured. His purpose was to infuse literary curiositv, 
 by gentle and unsuspected conveyance, into the gay, the 
 idle, and the wealthy; he therefore presented knowledge 
 in the most alluring form: not lofty and austere, but 
 accessible and familiar. When he showed them their de- 
 fects , he showed them likewise that they might easily be 
 supplied. His attempt succeeded; enquiry was awakened, 
 and comprehension expanded. An emulation of intellectual 
 elegance was excited, and from his time to our own, life 
 has been gradually exalted, and conversation purified and 
 enlarged. 
 
 Dry den had, not many years before, scattered criticism 
 over his Prefaces with very little parsimony [a) but, though, 
 he some-times condescended to be some-what familiar, 
 his manner was , in general , too scholastic for those who 
 had yet their rudiments to learn, and found it not easy 
 to understand their master. His observations were framed 
 rather for those that were learning to write, than for 
 those that read only to talk. 
 
 (a) With very litlle parsimony, pretty liberally, plentifully} niet 
 harig , ruim. 
 
47 
 
 An in st meter like Addison was now wanting } whose 
 remarks being superficial, (a) might be easily understood , 
 and being just , might prepare the mind for more attain- 
 ments. Had he presented Paradise Lost to the public with 
 all the pomp of system and severity of science, the criti- 
 cism would perhaps have been admired, and the poem still 
 have been neglected; but by the blandishments of gentle- 
 ness and facility he has made Milton a universal favorite , 
 with whom readers of every class think it necessary to 
 be pleased. 
 
 Before the profound observers of the present race re- 
 pose too securely on the consciousness of their superior- 
 ity to Addison, let them consider his Remarks on Ovid; 
 in which may be found specimens of criticism sufficiently 
 subtle and refined: let them peruse likewise his Essays 
 on Wit , and on the Pleasures of Imagination, in which 
 he founds art on the base of nature, and draws the prin- 
 ciples of invention from dispositions inherent in the mind 
 of man , with skill and elegance ; such as his contemners 
 will not easily attain. 
 
 As a describer of life and manners, lie must be allowed 
 to stand perhaps the first of the first rank. His humor, 
 which, as Steele observes, is peculiar to himself, is so 
 happily diffused , as to give the grace of novelty to domestic 
 scenes and daily occurrences. He never " outsteps the 
 modesty of nature," nor raises merriment or wonder by 
 the violation of truth. His figures neither divert by dis- 
 tortion , nor amaze by aggravation. He copies life with 
 so much fidelity, that he can be hardly said to invent; 
 yet bis exhibitions have an air so much original, that it 
 is difficult to suppose them not merely the product of 
 imagination. 
 
 As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confidently fol- 
 lowed. His religion has nothing in it enthusiastic or su- 
 perstitious : he appears neither weakly credulous, nor 
 wantonly sceptical; his morality is neither dangerously 
 lax nor impracticably rigid. All the enchantment of fancy, 
 and all the cogency of argument , are employed to recom- 
 mend to the reader his real interest , — the care of pleas- 
 ing the Author of his being. Truth is shown sometimes 
 as the phantom of a vision, sometimes attracts regard in 
 the robes of fancy, and sometimes steps forth in the con- 
 fidence of reason. She wears a thousand dresses , and in 
 all is pleasing. 
 
 His Prose is the model of the middle style; on grave 
 (a) Superficial, not profound. 
 
48 
 
 subjects not formal, on light occasions not grovelling, 
 pure without scrupulosity, and exact without apparent 
 elaboration j always equable, and always easy, without 
 glowing words or pointed sentences. Addison never devi- 
 ates from his track to snatch a grace; he seeks no ambi- 
 tious ornaments, and tries no hazardous innovations. His 
 page is always luminous, but never blazes in -unexpected 
 splendor. 
 
 It was, apparently, his principal endeavour to avoid 
 all harshness and severity of diction; he is therefore some- 
 times verbose in his transitions and connections , and 
 sometimes descends too much to the language of conver- 
 sation ; yet if his language had been less idiomatical , it 
 might have lost somewhat of its genuine Anglicism. What 
 he attempted, he performed; he is never feeble , and he 
 did not wish to be energetic; he is never rapid , and he 
 never stagnates. His sentences have neither studied am- 
 plitude, nor affected brevity: his periods, though not 
 -diligently rounded, are voluble and easy. Whoever wishes 
 to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and 
 elegant but not ostentatious , must give his days and 
 nights to the volumes of Addison* 
 
 JoHNSOtf. 
 
 — There is one who , to judge from the Dramatic Sketch he has 
 
 given us in Manfred , must he considered as a match for J£sch\lus , 
 even in his sublimest moods of Horror* 
 
 I Scott. 
 
 MANFRED'S Nocturnal Soliloquy* 
 
 The Stars are forth , the Moon above the tops 
 Of the snow-shining mountains — Beautiful ! 
 1 linger yet with Nature, for the Night 
 Hath been to me a more familiar face 
 Than that of Man; and in her Starry shade 
 Of dim and solitary loveliness , 
 I learned the language of another world. 
 I do remember me, that, in my youth, 
 "When I was wandering, upon such a night 
 I stood within the Coliseum's wall , 
 'Midst the chief Relics of almighty Rome; 
 ' The Trees, which grew along the broken arches, 
 Waved dark in the blue midnight; and the Stars 
 
4 9 
 
 Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar, 
 
 The Watch-dog hayed beyond the Tiber; and, 
 
 More near , from out the Cesars' palace , came 
 
 The Owl's long cry; and, interruptedly , 
 
 Of distant Sentinels the fitful song 
 
 Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
 
 Some Cypresses , beyond the time-worn breach , 
 
 Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
 
 "Within a bowshot ; where the Cesars dwelt , 
 
 And dwell the tuneless birds of night , amidst 
 
 A grove which springs through levelled battlements , 
 
 And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, 
 
 Ivy usurps the Laurel's place of growth j 
 
 But the Gladiators' bloody Circus stands — - 
 
 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection! 
 
 "While Cesar's chambers , and the Augustan halls , 
 
 Grovel on earth , in indistinct decay. 
 
 And Thou didst shine, thou rolling Moon, upon 
 
 All this , and cast a wide and tender light , 
 
 Which softened down the hoar austerity 
 
 Of rugged Desolation, and filled up, 
 
 As 'twere, anew, the gaps of centuries; 
 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so , 
 
 And making that which was not — till the place 
 
 Became Religion, and the heart ran o'er 
 
 With silent Worship of the great of old ! 
 
 The dead , but sceptered Sovereigns , who still rule 
 
 Our spirits from their urns. 
 
 • Twa* such a Night — 
 ' Tis strange that I recal it at this time! 
 But I have found our thoughts take widest flight 
 E'en at the moment when they should array 
 Themselves in pensive order. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 January a5th, 1818. Drove at midnight to see the Coliseum by 
 Moonlight; — but what can I say of the Coliseum ? it must be .wn; 
 to describe it, I should have thought impossible, if I had not read 
 Manfred. To see it aright , as the Poet of the North tells us of the 
 fair Melrose, one must '< Go visit it by the pale Moonlight." The 
 stillness of night, the -whispering echoes, the moonlight shadows, and 
 the aweful grandeur of the impending ruins , form a scene of roman- 
 tic sublimity, such as Byron alone can describe as it deserves. His 
 description is the very thing itself; but what cannot He do on such 
 a subject, the touch of whose pen, like the wand of Moses , can 
 produce waters even from the barren rock ! 
 
 A man should go alone to enjoy , in full perfection , all the en- 
 chantment of this moonlight scene ; and if it do not excite in him 
 emotions that he never felt before — let him hasten home, eat his 
 
 4 
 
do 
 
 snppef * say his prayers , and thank Heaven that he has not one single 
 grain of romance or enthusiasm in his whole composition. 
 
 Jan. 27th. Escaped from the noisy crowd of the Corso, to the 
 silent solitude of the Coliseum. Considering the depredations which 
 have for so many ages heen committed upon this pile, it is wonder- 
 ful that so much remains. It must have been a noble sight , to be- 
 hold this vast Amphitheatre filled with Spectators. The very lowest 
 Computation allows that it would certainly contain Eighty thousand. 
 
 Henry Matthews, 
 
 Henry viii b. 1490; crowned i5ogj d. 1547* 
 Queen ANNE SULLEN to HENRY Vllh 
 
 Sir, 
 
 Your grace's displeasure and my imprisonment are things 
 so strange unto me, as what to write, or what to excuse , 
 I am altogether ignorant. "Whereas you send unto me 
 (willing me to confess a truth, and so obtain your favor) 
 by such a one whom you know to be my ancient professed 
 enemy; I no sooner received this message by him , (a) than 
 I rightly conceived your meaning; and if, as you say, 
 confessing a truth indeed, may procure my safety, I shall , 
 with all willingness and duty, perform your command. 
 
 But let not your grace ever imagine , that your poor 
 wife, will ever be brought to acknowledge a fault, where 
 not so much as a thought thereof preceded. And, to speak 
 a truth, never prince had wife more loyal in all duty, 
 and in all true affection, than you have ever found in 
 Anne Bullen; with which name and place I could willingly 
 have contented myself, if God and your grace's pleasure 
 had been so pleased. Neither did I at any time so far 
 forget myself in my exaltation or received queenship , but 
 that I always looked for such an alteration as now I find} 
 for the ground of my preferment being on no surer foun- 
 dation than your grace's fancy, the least alteration, I 
 knew , was fit and sufficient to draw that fancy to some 
 other subject. You have chosen me from a low estate to 
 be your queen and companion — far beyond my desert 
 and desire. If, then, you found me worthy of such hon- 
 or, good your grace , let not any light fancy or bad coun- 
 sel of my enemies withdraw your princely favor from me; 
 neither let that stain, that unworthy stain, of a disloyal 
 
 (a) Duke of Norfolk- 
 
heart towards your good grace, ever cast so foul a blot 
 on your most dutiful wife and the infant princess, your 
 daughter. Try me , good king , but let me have a lawful 
 trial; and let not my sworn enemies sit as my accusers 
 and judges; yea, let me receive an open trial, (for my 
 truth shall fear no shame ,) then shall you see either my 
 innocence cleared , your suspicion and conscience satis- 
 lied, the ignominy and slander of the world stopped, or 
 my guilt openly declared. So that whatsoever God or You 
 may determine of me , your grace may be freed from an 
 open censure, and, my offence being so lawfully proved, 
 your grace is at liberty, both before God and man, not 
 only to execute worthy punishment on me , as an unlaw- 
 ful wife , but to follow your affection^ already settled on 
 that party for whose sake I am now as I am , Avhose 
 name (b) I could some good while since have pointed unto 
 your grace ; being not ignorant of my suspicion therein. 
 But , if you have already determined of me , and that not 
 only my death , but an infamous slander must bring you 
 the enjoying of your desired happiness, then I desire of 
 God that He will pardon your great sin therein, and like- 
 wise my enemies, the instruments thereof; and that He 
 will not call you to a strict account for your unprincely 
 and cruel usage of me , at his general Judgement-seat , where 
 both you and myself must shortly appear, and in whose 
 judgement, 1 doubt not (whatsoever the world may think 
 of me) my Innocence shall be openly known and suffi- 
 ciently cleared. My last, and only request, shall be , that 
 myself may only bear the burden of your grace's displea- 
 sure ; and that it may not touch the innocent souls of 
 those poor gentlemen, (a) who, as I understand, are 
 likewise in strait imprisonment for my sake. If ever I 
 found favor in your sight, if ever the name of Anne Bul- 
 len hath been pleasing in your eyes, then let me obtain 
 this request ; and I will so leave to trouble your grace 
 any farther, with my earnest prayers to the Trinity to 
 have your grace in His good keeping, and to direct you 
 in all your actions. 
 
 From my doleful prison in the Tower, the 6th of 
 May. \b) 
 
 Your most loyal and ever faithful wife, 
 
 Anne Bullen. 
 
 fa) Lady Jane Seymour. 
 
 (b) Messieurs Norris , Weston, Breton, and Smeton, who were all 
 executed. (c) In i536. 
 
52 
 
 Tlie Morning Hymn, is written in imitation of one of those Psalms 
 Where , in the overflowings of gratitude and praise , the Psalmist calls 
 not only upon the angels , hut upon the most conspicuous parts of 
 the inanimate creation , to join with him in extolling their common 
 Maker. Invocations of this nature fill the mind with glorious ideas 
 of God's works , and awaken that divine enthusiasm which is so nat- 
 ural to devotion: But if this calling upon the dead parts of nature i9 
 at all times a proper kind of worship , it was in a particular manner 
 suitable to our first parents , who had the Creation fresh upon their 
 minds , and had not seen the various dispensations of Providence , 
 nor , consequently , could he acquainted with those many topics of 
 praise which might afford matter to the devotions of their posterity.' 
 I need not remark the beautiful Spirit of Poetry which runs through 
 this whole Hymn , nor the Holiness of that Resolution with which 
 it concludes. 
 
 Addison 
 
 Morning Hymn. 
 
 These are thy glorious works, Parent of good! 
 Almighty! Thine this universal frame — 
 Thus wonderous fair — Thyself how wonderous then! 
 Unspeakable — who sit'st above these heavens 
 . To us invisible, or but dimly seen 
 
 In these thy lower works ; yet these declare 
 
 Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 
 
 Speak ye 1 who best can tell, ye sons of light , 
 
 Angels — for ye behold Him, and with songs 
 
 And choral symphonies , day without night, 
 
 Circle his throne rejoicing: ye in Heaven! 
 
 On Earth! join all ye Creatures — to extol 
 
 Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end. 
 
 Fairest of Stars! last in the train of night, 
 
 If better thou belong not to the dawn , 
 
 Sure pledge of day , that crown'st the smiling morn 
 
 "With thy bright circlet, praise Him in thy sphere, 
 
 "While day arises , that sweet hour of prime. 
 
 Thou Sun! of this great world both Eye and Soul, 
 
 Acknowledge Him thy greater — sound His praise 
 
 In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, 
 
 And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fallest, 
 
 Moon! that now meet'st the orient sun, now fliest 
 
 Willi the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies — 
 
 And ye Five other wandering Fires! that move 
 
 In mystic dance , not without song , resound 
 
 His praise, who out of darkness called up light* 
 
 Air! and ye Elements! the eldest birth 
 
 Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run 
 
 Ferpetual circle, multiform, and mix, 
 
63 
 
 And nourish all things , let your ceaseless change 
 
 Vary to our great Maker still new praise. 
 
 Ye Mists ! and Exhalations ! that now rise 
 
 From hill or steaming lake, dusky or grey, 
 
 Till the Sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold , 
 
 In honor to the world's great Author rise — 
 
 Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky, 
 
 Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers — 
 
 Rising, or falling, still advance His praise. 
 
 His praise, ye Winds! that from four quarters blow, 
 
 Breathe, soft or loud: and wave your tops, ye Pines! 
 
 With every Plant ! in sign of worship wave. 
 
 Fountains! and ye that warble, as ye flow, 
 
 Melodious Murmurs ! warbling tune His praise. 
 
 Join voices , all ye Living Souls! ye Birds! 
 
 That, singing, up to heaven's gate ascend, 
 
 Bear on your wings and in your notes His praise. 
 
 Ye that in Waters glide ! and ye that walk 
 
 The Earth! and stately tread, or lowly creep, 
 
 Witness if I be silent , morn or even , 
 
 To hill or valley , fountain or fresh shade , 
 
 Made vocal by my song, and taught His praise. 
 
 Hail , Universal Lord! be bounteous still 
 To give us only good; and if the night 
 Have gathered aught of evil, or concealed, 
 llisper.se it ! as now light dispels the dark. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 Satirical Wit. 
 
 Trust me ! this unwary Pleasantry of thine will , soon- 
 er or later, bring thee into scrapes and difficulties, which 
 no After-wit can extricate thee out of. In these sallies , 
 too oft I see , it happens , that the person laughed at con- 
 siders himself in the light of a person injured, with all 
 the rights of such a situation belonging to him ; and when 
 thou viewest him in that light too, and reckonest upon 
 his friends , his family , his kindred , and allies — and muster- 
 est up with them the many recruits which will list under 
 him, from a sense of common danger — 'tis no extravagant 
 arithmetic to say, that for every ten Jokes, thou hast got 
 a. hundred enemies; and, till thou hast gone on, andrais- 
 ed a swarm of wasps about thy ears, and art half stung to 
 
54 
 
 death by tliem , thou wilt never be convinced that it is so* 
 I cannot suspect it in the man whom 1 esteem, that 
 there is the least spur from spleen , or malevolence of in- 
 tent , in these sallies. I believe and know them to betrue- 
 ly honest and sportive; but consider — fools cannot dis- 
 tinguish this, and knaves will not; and thou knowest not 
 what it is, either to provoke the one, or to make merry 
 with the other : for whenever they associate for mutual 
 defence, depend upon it I they will carry on the war in 
 such a manner against thee, my dear friend, as to make 
 thee heartily sick of it — • and of thy life too. 
 
 Revenge, from some baneful corner, shall level a tale 
 of dishonor at thee, which no innocence of heart or integ- 
 rity of conduct shall set right. The fortunes of thy house 
 shall totter — thy character , which led the way to them , 
 shall bleed on every side — thy faith questioned— thy works 
 belied — thy wit forgotten — thy learning trampled on ! To 
 wind up the last scene of thy tragedy — Cruelty and Cow- 
 ardice , twin-ruffians , hired and set on , by Malice , in 
 the dark, shall strike together at all thy Infirmities and 
 Mistakes — the best of us , my friend , lie open there ! and 
 trust me, when, to gratify a private appetite, it is once re- 
 solved upon, that an innocent and a helpless creature shall 
 be sacrificed, it is an easy matter to pick up sticks enow, 
 from any thicket where it has strayed , to make a fire to 
 
 offer it up with. 
 
 Sterne, 
 
 The Beggar and the Divinei 
 
 In some good books one reads of a Divine , 
 "Whose memorable case deserves a line; 
 "Who, to serve God the best and shortest way, 
 Prayed, for eight years together, every day, 
 That in the midst of Doctrines and of Rules, 
 However taught and practised by the Schools, 
 He would be pleased to bring him to a Man 
 Prepared to teach him the Compendious plan. 
 
 He was himself a Doctor , and well read 
 In all the points to which Divines were bred ; 
 Nevertheless , he thought, that what concerned 
 The most illiterate as well as learned , 
 
55 
 
 To Know and Practise , must he something still 
 More independent on sucli kind of skill: 
 True Christian worship had, within its root, 
 Some simpler secret , clear of all dispute; 
 "Which, by a Living proof that he might know, 
 He prayed for some Practitioner to show. 
 
 One day, possessed with an intense concern 
 
 About the Lesson which he sought to learn, 
 
 He heard a Voice , that sounded in his ears — 
 
 u Thou hast been praying for a Man eight years --* 
 
 Go to the Porch of yonder Church , and find 
 
 A Man , prepared , according to thy mind ! " 
 
 Away he went to the appointed ground — 
 
 When , at the entrance of the Church , he found 
 
 A poor old Beggar, with his feet full sore, 
 
 And not worth two-pence all the cloaths he wore : 
 
 Surprised, to see an object so forlorn — 
 
 " My friend," said he, " I wish thee a good morn—" 
 
 ' Tliank thee ! * replied the Beggar , * but a bad 
 
 I don't remember that I ever had.' 
 
 Sure he mistakes, the Doctor thought, the phrpse — 
 
 " Good fortune, friend, befal thee all thy days?" 
 
 1 Me,' said the Beggar, ' many days befal, 
 
 But none of them unfortunate at all — ' 
 
 " God bless thee! answer plainly, I request — " 
 
 ' Why, plainly then , 1 never was unblessed ! \ 
 
 €t Never! thou speakest in a mystic strain, 
 
 Which, more at large, I wish thee to explain " 
 
 'With all my heart! — Thou first didst condescend 
 To wish me, kindly, a " good morning", friend; 
 And 1 replied , that I remembered not 
 A bad one ever to to have been my lot; 
 For let the morning turn out how it will, 
 I praise my God for every new one still : 
 If 1 am pinched with hunger, or with cold, 
 It does not make me to let go my hold; 
 
 Still I praise God Hail , rain, or snow , I take 
 
 This blessed Cordial, which has power to make 
 The foulest morning , to my thinking , fair ; 
 For cold and hunger yield to praise and prayer. 
 Men pity me , as wretched, or despise; 
 But, whilst I hold this noble exercise, 
 It cheers my heart to such a due degree, 
 That every morning is still good to me.' 
 
56 
 
 ( Thou didst , moreover , wish me " lucky days" — 
 
 And I , by reason of continual praise , 
 
 Said that I had none else; for come what would, 
 
 On any day, I knew it must be good, 
 
 Because God sent it; sweet or bitter , joy 
 
 Or grief, by this angelical employ, 
 
 Of praising Him , my heart was at its rest , 
 
 And took whatever happened for the best — 
 
 So that my own experience might say, 
 
 It never knew of an unlucky day.' 
 
 ' Then didst thou pray — " God bless thee " — and I said, 
 
 I never was unblessed; for being led, 
 
 By the Good Spirit of imparted grace , 
 
 To praise His name, and ever to embiace 
 
 His Righteous Will, regarding that alone, 
 
 With total resignation of my own , 
 
 I never could, in such a state as this, 
 
 Complain for want of happiness or bliss; 
 
 Resolved, in all things, that the Will Divine, 
 
 The Source of all True Blessing , should be mine.' 
 
 The Doctor, learning, from the Beggar's case, 
 
 Such wonderous instance of the Power of Grace, 
 
 Proposed a question — with intent, to try 
 
 The happy Mendicant's direct reply — 
 
 " What wouldst thou say," said he, u should God think fit 
 
 To cast thee down to the Infernal Pit?" 
 
 * He cast me down ! He send me into Hell ! 
 
 No! — He loves Me, and I love Him too well — 
 
 But, put the case , he should — I have two arms 
 
 That will defend me from all Hellish harms — 
 
 The one Humility , the other Love — 
 
 These I would throw below Him and above — 
 
 One under his Humanity I'd place, 
 
 His Deity the other should embrace ; 
 
 With both together so to hold Him fast , 
 
 That He should go wherever He would cast — 
 
 And then, whatever thou shalt call the sphere, 
 
 "Hell"— if thou wilt ! 'tis Heaven if He be there.' 
 
 Thus was a great Divine, whom some have thought 
 
 To be the justly famed Taulerus , taught 
 
 The holy art , for which he used to pray — 
 
 That to serve God the most compendious way , 
 
 Was to possess a loving , humble mind, 
 
 Still praising Him, and to His Will resigned, 
 
 Byjiom* 
 
57 
 
 Duelling. 
 
 Duelling as a Punishment is absurd; because it is an 
 equal chance, whether the punishment fall on the offender 
 or the person offended. Nor is it much better as a Repar- 
 ation ; it being difficult to explain in what satisfaction 
 consists, or how it tends to undo the Injury, or to afford 
 a compensation for the Damage already sustained. 
 
 The truth is , it is not considered as either. A law of 
 Honor having annexed the imputation of Cowardice to Pa- 
 tience under affront, Challenges are given and accepted 
 with no other design than to prevent or wipe off this sus- 
 picion ; without malice against the adversary , generally 
 without a wish to destroy him, or any other concern than 
 to preserve the Duellist's own reputation and reception 
 in the world. 
 
 The unreasonableness of this Rule of Manners is one 
 consideration; the duty and conduct of individuals, while 
 such a rule exists , is another. 
 
 As to which, the proper and single question is this — 
 Whether a regard for our own Reputation is, or is not, 
 sufficient to justify the taking away the Life of another ? 
 
 Murder is forbidden — and wherever Human-life is de- 
 liberately taken away, otherwise than by public authority, 
 there is Murder. The value and security of human-life 
 make this rule necessary ; for 1 do not see what other idea 
 or definition of Murder can be admitted, which will not let 
 in so much private violence , as to render society a scene 
 of peril and bloodshed. 
 
 Jf unauthorised laws of honor be allowed to create ex- 
 ceptions to divine prohibitions — there is an end of all 
 Morality, as founded in the Will of the Deity; andthe obli- 
 gation of every duty, may at one time or other, be dis- 
 charged by the caprice and fluctuations of Fashion. 
 
 " But a sense of shame is so much Torture; and no relief 
 " presents itself otherwise than by an attempt upon the 
 " Life of our adversary." What then ? The Distress which 
 men suffer by the want of Money is oftentimes extreme, 
 and no resource can be discovered but that of removing a 
 Life, which stands between the distressed person and his 
 inheritance. The motive in this case is as urgent, and 
 the means much the same , as in the former : yet this case 
 finds no advocate. 
 
 Take away the circumstance of the Duellist's exposing 
 his own life, aud it becomes assassination; add this cir- 
 
58 
 
 cnmstancc, and what difference does it make? None but 
 this — that fewer, perhaps, will imitate the example, 
 and Hurnan~life will be somewhat, more safe, when it can- 
 not be attacked without equal danger to the aggressor's 
 own. Experience, however, proves that there is fortitude 
 enough in most men to undertake this hazard ; and were 
 it otherwise , the defence , at best , would be only that 
 which a Highwayman or Housebreaker might plead , whose 
 attempt had been so daring and desperate , that few were 
 Jikely to repeat the same. 
 
 In expostulating with the Duellist , I all along suppose his 
 Adversary to fall: which supposition I am at liberty to 
 make; because , if he have no right to kill his adversary, 
 he has no right to attempt it. 
 
 In return , I forbear from applying to the case of Duel- 
 ling the Christian principle of the forgiveness of injuries ; 
 because it is impossible to suppose the injury to be forgiv-* 
 en, and the Duellist to act intirely from a concern for 
 his own reputation : where this is not the case , the guilt 
 of Duelling is manifest, and is greater. 
 
 In this view it seems unnecessary to distinguish be- 
 tween him who gives , and him who accepts a Challenge; 
 for, on the one hand, they incur an equal hazard of des- 
 troying Life; and, on the other, both act upon the same 
 persuasion , that what they do is necessary , in order to 
 recover or preserve the good opinion of the world. 
 
 Public opinion is not easily controlled by civil institu- 
 tions : for which reason I question whether any Regula- 
 tions can be contrived, of sufficient force, to suppress or 
 change the rule of honor , which stigmatizes all scruples 
 about Duelling with the reproach of Cowardice. 
 
 The insufficiency of the Redress which the Law of the 
 Land affords, for those Injuries which chiefly affect a 
 man in his sensibility and reputation , tempts many to re- 
 dress themselves, Prosecutions for such offences, by the 
 trifling Damages that are recovered, serve only to make 
 the sufferer more ridiculous — this ought to be rem- 
 edied. 
 
 For the Army , where the point of honor is cultivated 
 with exquisite attention and refinement , I would establish 
 a Court of Honor, with a Power of awarding those sub- 
 missions and acknowledgements , which it is generally the 
 purpose of a Challenge to obtain ; and it might grow into 
 a Fashion, with persons of rank, of all professions , to 
 refer their quarrels to this Tribunal. 
 
 Duelling, as the Law now stands, can seldom be over- 
 
59 
 
 taken by Legal Punishment. The Challenge , Appointment , 
 and other previous circumstances, which indicate the in- 
 tention with which the Combatants met, being suppressed , 
 nothing appears to a Court of Justice , but the actual 
 rencounter ; and if a person be slain when actually fight- 
 ing with his adversary, the Law deems his Death no- 
 thing more than man-slaughter. 
 
 Paley's Mor, and Prac, Philosophy, 
 
 Pope began bis Version of the Iliad in 1712 , his twenty-fifth year; 
 and concluded it in 1718 , his thirtieth year. 
 
 It is certainly the noblest Version of poetry the -world has ever seen ; 
 and its publication must therefore be considered as one of the great 
 eyents in the annals of Learning; 
 
 Johnson. 
 
 2 he Parting of HECTOR and ANDROMACHE. 
 
 Silent the warrior smiled , and , pleased , resigned 
 
 To tender passions all his mighty mind : 
 
 His beauteous princess cast a mournful look, 
 
 Hung on his hand, and then , dejected, spoke; 
 
 Her bosom labored with a boding sigh , 
 
 And the big tear stood trembling in her eye — 
 
 " Too daring prince ! ah , whither dost thou run ? 
 Ah , too forgetful of thy wife and sonl 
 And thinkest thou not how wretched we shall be? 
 A widow I , a helpless orphan he ! 
 For sure such courage length of life denies , 
 And thou must fall , thy virtue's sacrifice. 
 Greece in her single heroes strove in vain — 
 Now hosts oppose Thee , and thou must be slain! 
 
 Oh, grant me, gods! ere Hector meets his doom, 
 
 All I can ask of heaven , an early tomb I 
 
 So shall my days in one sad tenor run, 
 
 And end, with sorrows, as they first begun. 
 
 No parent now remains, my griefs to share, 
 
 No father's aid , no mother's tender care ! 
 
 The fierce Achilles wrapped our walls in fire, 
 
 Laid Thebe waste, and slew my warlike sire! 
 
 His fate compassion in the victor bred — 
 
 Stern as he was, he yet revered the dead; 
 
 His radiant arms preserved from lioslile spoil, 
 
6o 
 
 And laid him decent on the funeral pile; 
 
 Then raised a mountain where his bones were burned— 
 
 The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorned. 
 
 Jove's sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow 
 
 A barren shade, and in his honor grow. 
 
 By the same arm my seven brave brothers fell, 
 
 In one sad day beheld the gates of hell ; 
 
 While the fat herds and snowy flocks they fed, 
 
 Amid their fields, the hapless heroes bled! 
 
 My mother lived to bear the victor's bands, 
 
 The queen of Hippoplacia's sylvan lands: 
 
 Redeemed too late , she scarce beheld again 
 
 Her pleasing empire and her native plain , 
 
 "When ah ! oppressed by life-consuming wo , 
 
 She fell a victim to Diana's bow. 
 
 Yet while my Hector still survives, I see 
 
 My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee. 
 
 Alas! my parents , brothers, kindred, all, 
 
 Once more will perish if my Hector fall ! 
 
 Thy wife, thy infant , in thy danger share: 
 
 Oh prove a husband's and a father's care ! 
 
 That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy 
 
 "Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Tro}' ; 
 
 Thou, from this tower defend the important post; 
 
 There Agamemnon points his dreadful host; 
 
 That pass Tydides , Ajax, strive to gain; 
 
 And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train. 
 
 Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given, 
 
 Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven — 
 
 Let others in the field their arms employ, 
 
 But stay my Hector here , and guard his Troy." 
 
 The chief replied : 'That post shall be my care, 
 Nor that alone, but all the works of war. 
 How would the sons of Troy, in arms renowned, 
 And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the 
 Attaint the lustre of my former name, ground, 
 
 Should Hector basely quit the field of fame! 
 My early youth was bred to martial pains , 
 My soul impels me to the embattled plains; 
 Let me be foremost to defend the throne, 
 And guard my father's glories, and my own! 
 
 'Yet come it will , the day decreed by fates — 
 (How rny heart trembles while my tongue relates !) 
 The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend, 
 And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end! 
 And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, 
 
6i 
 
 My mother's death, (the ruin of my kind!) 
 
 Not Priam's hoary hairs defiled with gore , 
 
 Not all my brothers gasping on the shore , 
 
 As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread: 
 
 I see thee, trembling, weaping , captive led — 
 
 In Argive looms our battles to design , 
 
 And woes , of which so large a part was thine! 
 
 To bear the victor's hard commands, or bring 
 
 The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring. 
 
 There , while you groan beneath the load of life ,' 
 
 They cry , u Behold the mighty Hector's wife I" 
 
 Some haughty Greek , who lives thy tears to see ,' 
 
 Embitters all thy woes by naming me. 
 
 The thoughts of glory past , and present shame, 
 
 A thousand griefs shall waken at the Name ; 
 
 May I lie cold before that dreadful day, 
 
 Pressed with a load of monumental clay! 
 
 Thy Hector, wrapped in everlasting sleep , 
 
 Shall neither hear thee sigh , nor see thee weep!' 
 
 Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy 
 Stretched his fond arms to clasp his lovely boy: 
 The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, 
 Scared at the dazzling helm , and nodding crest : 
 AVith secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, 
 And Hector hasted to relieve his child; 
 The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, 
 And placed the beaming helmet on the ground ; 
 Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air, 
 Thus to the gods preferred a father's prayer — 
 
 * O Thou, 'whose glory fills the ethereal throne, 
 And all ye Deathless-Powers ! protect my son! 
 Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, 
 To guard the Trojans , to defend the crown; 
 Against his country's foes the war to wage, 
 And rise the Hector of the future age! 
 So when triumphant from successful toils 
 Of heroes slain , he bears the reeking spoils , 
 "Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim ," 
 And say, This Chief transcends his Father's fame ! 
 While, pleased amidst the general shouts of Troy, 
 His mother's conscious heart o'erilows with joy!'. 
 
 He spoke , and fondly gazing on her charms , 
 Piestored the pleasing burden to her arms ; 
 Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid , 
 Hushed to repose, and with a smile surveyed: 
 The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear, 
 
62 
 
 She mingled with the smile a tender tear. 
 
 The softened chief with kind compassion viewed , 
 
 And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued — 
 
 'Andromache I my soul's far better part, 
 "Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart ? 
 No hostile hand can antedate my doom, 
 Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb : 
 Fixed is the term to all the race of earth , 
 And — such the hard condition of our birth — 
 No force can then resist , no flight can save , 
 All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. 
 No more ! — but hasten to thy tasks at home , 
 There guide the spindle and direct the loom: 
 Me glory summons to the martial scene , 
 The field of combat is the sphere for Men! 
 "Where heroes war , the foremost place 1 claim — • 
 The first in danger, as the first in fame!' 
 
 Thus having said , the glorious chief resumes 
 His towery helmet, black with shading plumes: 
 His princess parts with a prophetic sigh — 
 Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, 
 That streamed at every look: then, moving slow, 
 Sought her own palace , and indulged her wo. 
 There, while her tears deplored the godlike man, 
 Through all her train the soft infection ran ; 
 The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, 
 And mourned the living Hector , as the dead. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 Finite and Infinite. 
 
 I. Finite , or what has an end , compared with Infinite 
 or what has no end, is nothing. A hundred millions of 
 years compared with Eternity, are nothing. II. There 
 is more proportion betwixt the least Finite and the great- 
 est Finite, than there is between a hundred millions of 
 years and Eternity. Because the least Finite makes part 
 of the greatest; whereas the greatest Finite makes no part 
 of Infinite. An hour makes part of a hundred millions 
 of years; because a hundred millions of years are only 
 an hour repeated a certain number of times : whereas , a 
 hundred millions of years make no part of Eternity ; and 
 Eternity is not a hundred millions of years repeated a 
 
63 
 
 certain number of times. III. With regard to Infinite, 
 the least or greatest Finite are the same thing. "With re- 
 gard to Eternity, an hour or a hundred millions of years 
 are the same thing. So are the duration of the life of man 
 and the duration of the world itself; because both of thein 
 are nothing: and nothing admits not of more or less. 
 
 All this being granted, I now suppose God to grant you 
 but a Quarter of an Hour to live, wherein to secure an 
 Eternity of happiness and avoid an Eternity of misery ; 
 and at the same time to reveal to ycu , that the World 
 itself should come to an end an Hour after your death — 
 I ask you, on this supposition, What account would you 
 make of the World and its judgements? What account 
 would you make of the pains or the pleasures you might 
 experience during your life ? With what care would you 
 think yourselves obliged to employ yourselves every mo- 
 ment of your life , to prepare for Death? O , fools that you 
 are! Do you not perceive, that, with respect to God, 
 ■with respect to Eternity, the supposition I have just mads 
 is, indeed, a reality! that the duration of your life, com- 
 pared to Eternity, is less than a Quarter of an Hour, and 
 the duration of the universe less than an Hour? 
 
 I make another supposition — If you had a Hundred 
 years to live, and for your support the whole of this pe- 
 riod, must only have what you could carry away in 
 the space of an Hour from a treasury of gold and silver 
 coin , the entrance to which should be open during that 
 hour — I ask, in what you would employ the hour? In 
 sleeping, walking, feasting, diversion? Doubtless not; 
 but in amassing riches, and even in loading yourself with 
 gold in preference to silver. O, fools that we are' we 
 must exist to all Eternity, and during this Eternity, we 
 shall only have the reward secured in Time , and during 
 the short space of our life : and yet we employ not all our 
 time in endeavouring to obtain a great reward ! 
 
 But you will say to me — "during Life it is necessary to 
 sleep, to drink, to eat, and take some slight recreation." 
 I grant it; but what hinders, that, like St Paul, you may 
 do all for the Love of God, and thereby obtain a recom- 
 pense for all? 
 
 It must be confessed, that the Passions are so lively, 
 and opportunities so seducing , that it is a wonder there 
 should be one Righteous man upon earth ; nevertheless 
 there are such: and this is the effect of the Mercy of 
 God and the Grace of the Redeemer — on the other hand, 
 Death, Judgement, and Eternity, are truths so aweful, 
 
64 
 
 that it is astonishing that there should be one obstinate 
 Sinner upon earth; such, however, is the effect of forget- 
 ting these great truths. Let us then raeditale , watch , 
 and pray, that we maybe of the number of the Righte- 
 ous in Time and Eternity. 
 
 Evangelical Mag, for Aug. 1811. 
 
 OTHELLO'S Apology. 
 
 Duke. What , in your own part , can you say to this ? 
 
 Othello, Most patent, grave, and reverend, Signiors— 
 
 My very noble, and approved, good, Masters — 
 
 That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, 
 
 It is most true; true, I have married her — 
 
 The very head and front of my offending 
 
 Hath this extent; no more. Rude am I in speech, 
 
 And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace; 
 
 For since these arms of mine had seven-years' pith , 
 
 Till now some nine moons wasted , they have used 
 
 Their dearest action in the tented field; 
 
 And little of this great world can I speak, 
 
 More than pertains to feats of broils and battles ; 
 
 And, therefore, little shall 1 grace my cause 
 
 In speaking for myself. Yet, by your patience, 
 
 I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver, 
 
 Of my whole course of love ; what Drugs , what Charms f 
 
 What Conjurations, and what mighty Magic — 
 
 For such proceedings I am charged withal — 
 
 I won his Daughter with. 
 
 ' Brabantio. A maiden never bold ; &c. 
 
 — -with some dram conjured to this effect , 
 He wrought upon her. 
 Duke. To vouch this , is no proof; &c. 
 Senator, F»ut , Othello , speak — 
 
 Did you, by indirect and forced courses, 
 Subdue and poison this young maid's affections? 
 Or came it by request , and such fair question , 
 As soul to soul affordeth ? 
 Othello. I do beseech you, 
 
 Send for the Lady &c. 
 Duke. Fetch Desdemona hither. 
 Othello, Ancient , conduct them ; &c. 
 
 And till she come , as truely as to Heaven 
 I do confess the vices of my blood , 
 So justly I'll to your grave ears present 
 How I did thrive in this fair lady's Love,; 
 And she in mine, 
 Duke, Say it , Othello. 
 
65 
 
 Vchello. Her father loved me, oft invited me; 
 
 Still questioning me the story of my life 
 
 From year to year ; the battles , sieges , fortunes , 
 
 That I'd passed. 
 
 I ran it through , e'en from my boyish days 
 
 To the very moment that he bade me tell it: 
 
 Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances , 
 
 Of moving accidents, by flood and field; 
 
 Of hair-breadth 'scapes in the imminent, deadly breach ; 
 
 Of being taken by the insolent fo , 
 
 And sold to slavery : of my redemption thence ; 
 
 Of battles bravely, hardly fought; of victories 
 
 O'er which the conquerors mourned so many fell : 
 
 Sometimes I told the story of a siege, 
 
 [Wherein I had to combat plagues, and famine, 
 
 Soldiers unpaid — fearful to fight , 
 
 Yet bold in dangerous mutiny. All these to hear 
 
 Would Desdemona seriously incline : 
 
 But oft the house afFairs would draw her thence, 
 
 Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 
 
 She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear, 
 
 Devour up my discourse; which I observing 
 
 Took once a pliant hour, and found good means 
 
 To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart , 
 
 That I would all my pilgrimage dilate; 
 
 Whereof by parcels she had something heard, 
 
 But not distinctively. I did consent , 
 
 And often did beguile her of her tears, 
 
 When I related some distressful stroke 
 
 That my youth suffered. My story being done , 
 
 She gave me for my pains a world of sighs: 
 
 She swore, in faith, — 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 
 
 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful — 
 
 She wished she had not heard it — yet she wished 
 
 That Heaven had made her such a man ; — she thanked me 
 
 And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, 
 
 I should but teach him how to tell my story, 
 
 And that would woo her. On this hint I spake •— 
 
 She loved me for the dangers I had passed; 
 
 And I loved her that she did pity them ! 
 
 This , only, is the witchcraft I have used. 
 
 Here comes the Lady ; let her witness it. 
 
 Shakespeari, 
 
LECTURE IV. 
 
 An Historical account of English Composition. 
 
 Byron b. 1788; d. 1824: Scott b. 1771. 
 
 JKote. The following Essay was written just before Lord Byron's death. 
 
 BYRON and SCOTT 
 Contrasted* 
 
 Lord Byron and Sir Walter Scott are, among writers 
 now living, the two, who would carry away a majority of 
 suffrages as the greatest geniuses of the Age* The former 
 would, perhaps, obtain the preference with the line gen- 
 tlemen and ladies (squeamishness apart) — the latter with 
 the critics and the vulgar. We shall treat of them in the 
 same connection, partly on account of their distinguished 
 pre-eminence , and partly because they afford a complete 
 contrast to each other. Jn their Poetry, in their Prose, 
 in their Politics, and in their Tempers, no two men can 
 be more unlike. 
 
 If Sir Walter Scott may be thought by some to have been 
 
 " Born universal heir to all humanity," 
 
 it is plain Lord Byron can set up no such pretention. He 
 is, in a striking degree, the creature of his Own Will. lie 
 holds no communion with his kindj but stands alone , with- 
 out mate or fellow — 
 
 '* As if a man were author of himself, 
 Aud owned no other kin." 
 
 He is like a solitary peak, all access to which is cut 
 off, not more by elevation than distance. He is seated on 
 a lofty eminence, cloud-capped, or reflecting the last 
 rays of setting suns; and in his poetical moods, reminds 
 us of the fabled Titans , retired to a ridgy steep , playing 
 on their pan's-pipes , and taking up ordinary men and 
 things in their hands with haughty indifference. He rais- 
 es his subject to himself, or tramples on it: he neither 
 stoops to , nor loses himself in it, lie exists not by sym- 
 
6 7 
 
 pathy , but by antipathy. He scorns all things , even 
 himself. Nature must come to him to sit for her picture 
 — he does not go to her. She must consult his time, 
 his convenience, and his humor; and wear a sombre or a 
 fantastic garb , or his Lordship turns his back upon her. 
 There is no ease , no unaffected simplicity of manner , no 
 golden-mean. All is strained or petulent in the extreme. 
 His thoughts are sphered and crystalline; his style " proud- 
 er than when blue Iris bends"; his sph'it fiery , impatient, 
 wayward, indefatigable. Instead of taking his impressions 
 from without, in entire and almost unimpaired masses, 
 he moulds them according to his own temperament, 
 and heats the materials of his imagination in the furnace 
 of his passions. 
 
 Lord Byron's verse glows like a flame , consuming every 
 thing in its way; Sir Walter Scott's glides like a river , 
 clear, gentle, harmless. The poetry of the former scorches, 
 that of the latter scarcely warms. The light of the 
 one proceeds from an internal source , ensanguined, sul- 
 len, fixed; the other reflects the hues of heaven , or the 
 face of nature , glancing vivid and various. The produc- 
 tions of the Northern Bard have the rust and the fresh- 
 ness of antiquity about them; those of the Noble Poet cease 
 to startle from their extreme ambition f novelty, both 
 in style and matter. &c. 
 
 Lord Byron, who, in his politics, is a liberal, in his 
 genius is haughty and aristocratic: Sir Walter Scott, who 
 is an aristocrat in principle, is popular in his writings, 
 and is fas it were) equally servile to nature and to opin- 
 ion. The genius of Sir Walter is essentially imitative , or 
 u denotes a foregone conclusion:" that of Lord Byron is 
 self-dependent; or at least requires no aid, is governed 
 by no law, but the impulses of its own will. &c. We 
 had rather be Sir Walter Scott (meaning thereby the Au- 
 thor of JVaverley) than Lord Byron, a hundred times 
 over. &c. Sir Walter gives us Man as he is , or as he 
 was, in almost every variety of situation , action, and 
 feeling: Lord Byron makes man after his Ownlmage, wo- 
 man after his Own Heart ; the one is a capricious tyrant , 
 the other a yielding slave ; he gives us^ the misantrophe 
 and the voluptuary by turns ; and with these two char- 
 acters , burning or melting in their own fires, he makes 
 out everlasting centos of Himself. &c. In this point of 
 view , the Author of Waverly is one of the greatest- teach- 
 ers of Morality that ever lived, by emancipating the 
 m^nd from petty , narrow, bigoted prejudices: Lord Byron 
 
68 
 
 is the greatest pamperer of those prejudices , by seeming 
 to think that there is nothing else worth encouraging but 
 the seeds or the full luxuriant growth of dogmatism and 
 self-conceit. In reading the Scotch Novels, we never 
 think about the Author , except from a feeling of curios- 
 ity respecting our unknown benefactor : in reading Lord 
 Byron's works, he himself is never absent from our minds. 
 The coloring of Lord Byron's style, however rich and 
 dipped in Tyrian dyes, is, nevertheless , opaque — is in 
 itself an object of delight and wonder: Sir Walter Scott's 
 is perfectly transparent. &c. Or to sum up the distinction 
 in one word — Sir Walter Scott is the most dramatic 
 writer now living; and Lord Byron the least so. It would 
 be difficult to imagine that the Author of Waverley is , 
 in the smallest degree , a -pedant; as it would be hard to 
 persuade ourselves that the Author of Childe Harold and 
 Don Juan is not a coxcomb , though a provoking and sub- 
 lime one. In this decided preference given to Sir Walter 
 Scott over Lord Byron, we distinctly include the Prose- 
 works of the former; for we do not think his Poetry alone , 
 by any means , entitles him to precedence. Sir Walter in 
 his poetry, though pleasing and natural, is a comparative 
 trifler: it is in his anonymous productions that he has 
 shown himself What Lc la : 
 
 Intensity is the great and prominent distinction of Lord 
 Byron's writings. He seldom gets beyond force of style, 
 nor has he produced any regular work, or masterly whole. 
 He does not prepare any plan beforehand , nor revise and 
 Tetouch what he has written, with polished accuracy. &c. 
 He composes (as he himself has said^ whether he is in the 
 bath , in his study , or on horseback — he writes as habi- 
 tually as others talk or think — and whether we have the 
 inspiration of the muse or not , we always find the spirit 
 of the Man of Genius breathing in his verse. He grapples 
 with his subject, and moves, penetrates, and animates it, 
 by the electric force of his own feelings. He is often mo- 
 notonous , extravagant, offensive; but he is never dull, 
 or tedious — except when he writes Prose. &c. 
 
 Lord Byron has strength and elevation enough to fill up 
 the mould of our classical and time-hallowed recollec- 
 tions , and to rekindle the earliest aspirations of the mind 
 after greatness and true glory with a pen of fire. The 
 names of Tasso , Ariosto, Dante, Cincinnatus, Cesar, 
 and Scipio , lose nothing of their pomp, or their lustre, 
 in his hands; and when he begins and continues a strain 
 of panegyric on such subjects, we indeed sit down with 
 
69 
 
 him to a banquet of rich praise , brooding over imperish- 
 able glories , 
 
 "Till Contemplation has her fill." &ci 
 
 Lord Byron hallows in order to desecrate ; takes a plea- 
 sure in defacing the images of beauty his hands have wrought , 
 and raises our hopes and our belief in Goodness to hea- 
 ven, only to dash them to the earth again, and break them 
 in pieces the more effectually from the very height they 
 have fallen. Our enthusiasm for genius or virtue is thus 
 turned into a jest, by the very person who has kindled it, 
 and who thus fatally quenches the sparks of both. It is 
 not that Lord Byron is sometimes serious and sometimes 
 trifling , sometimes profligate and sometimes moral — but 
 ■when he is most serious and most moral , he is only pre- 
 paring to mortify the unsuspecting reader, by putting a 
 pitiful hoax upon him. This is a most unaccountable anom- 
 aly. &c. There is no taint in the writings of the Author 
 of Waverley, all is fair, and natural, and abeveboard ; he 
 never outrages the public mind; he introduces no anoma- 
 lous character; broaches no staggering opinion. &c. 
 
 We do not like Sir Walter's gratuitous servility : we like 
 Lord Byron's preposterous liberalism little better. He 
 may affect the principles of equality , but he resumes his 
 privilege of peerage, upon occasion. His Lordship has 
 made great offers of service to the Greeks — Money and 
 Horses. He is at present in Cephalonia , waiting the event! 
 
 We had written thus far when News came of the Death 
 of Lord Byron, and put an end at once to a strain of 
 somewhat peevish invective, which was intended to meet 
 his eye , not to insult his memory. Had we known that 
 we were writing his Epitaph , we must have done it with 
 a different feeling. As it is, We think it better and more 
 like himself, to let what we had written stand, than to 
 take up our leaden shafts, and try to melt them into 
 "tears of sensibility ", or mould them into dull praise, 
 and an affected show of candor. &c. 
 
 Lord Byron is dead ! he also died a Martyr to his zeal 
 in the cause of Freedom — for the last, best hopes of 
 man. Let that be his excuse and his epitaph. 
 
 Hazlitt. 
 
7 o 
 
 The Grave. 
 
 There is a calm for those who weej?, 
 A rest for weary Pilgrims found ; 
 They softly lie, and sweetly sleep, 
 
 Low in the ground. 
 
 The storm that wrecks the winter sky 
 No more disturbs their deep repose , 
 Than summer-evening's latest sigh, 
 
 That shuts the rose. 
 
 I long to lay this painful head, 
 And aking heart, beneath the soil; 
 To slumber in that dreamless bed , 
 
 From all my toil. 
 
 For Misery stole me at my birth , 
 And cast me helpless oh the wild — 
 I perish! O, my mother earth, 
 
 Take home thy child ! 
 
 On thy dear lap these limbs reclined, 
 Shall gently moulder into thee; 
 Nor leave one wretched trace behind 
 
 Resembling me. 
 
 Hark! a strange sound affrights my ear; 
 My pulse, my brain runs wild — I rave-! 
 Ah ! who art Thou , whose voice I hear ? 
 
 u I am the Grave! 
 
 il The Grave, that never spake before, 
 Hath found at length a tongue to chide : 
 O listen ! I will speak no more : — 
 
 Be silent, Pride! 
 
 u Art thou a Wretch of hope forlorn , 
 The victim of consuming care? 
 Is thy distracted Conscience torn 
 
 By fell despair ? 
 
 ¥ Do foul misdeeds of former times 
 Wring with remorse thy guilty breast ? 
 Do ghosts of unforgiven crimes 
 
 Murder thy Rest? 
 
7 1 
 
 " Lashed by the furies of the mind , 
 
 From Wrath and Vengeance wouldst thou flee ? 
 
 Ah I think not, hope not, Fool! to find 
 
 A Friend in Me — > 
 
 u By all the terrors of the Tomb , 
 (Beyond the power of tongue to tell ,) 
 By the dread Secrets of my womb , 
 
 By Death, and Hell, 
 
 " I charge thee , Live ! — repent and pray ; 
 
 In dust thy infamy deplore ; 
 
 There yet is Mercy j — go thy way , 
 
 And Sin no more. 
 
 u Art thou a Mourner? Hast thou known 
 The joy of Innocent delights , 
 Endearing days , for ever flown , 
 
 And tranquil nights ? 
 
 €t O , Live ! — and deeply cherish still 
 The sweet Remembrance of the past: 
 Rely on Heaven's unchanging Will 
 
 For Peace at last. 
 
 t( Art thou a Wanderer? Hast thou seen 
 O'erwhelming tempests drown thy bark? 
 A shipwrecked sufferer hast thou been — 
 
 Misfortune's mark? 
 
 11 Though long of winds and waves the sport, 
 
 Condemned in wretchedness to roam , 
 
 Live ! — thou shalt reach a sheltering port , 
 
 A quiet Home, 
 
 u To Friendship didst thou trust thy fame , 
 And was thy Friend a deadly Fo , 
 Who stole into thy breast, to aim 
 
 A surer blow ? 
 
 u Live! — and repine not o'er his loss, 
 A loss unworthy to be told ; 
 Thou hadst mistaken sordid dross 
 
 For friendship's gold: 
 
 u Seek the true Treasure , seldom found, 
 Of Power the fiercest griefs to calm , 
 To soothe the bosom's deepest Wound, 
 
 With Heavenly balm. 
 
72 
 
 " Did Woman's charms thy youth beguile J 
 And did the Fair-One faithless prove? 
 Hath she betrayed thee with a smile , 
 
 And sold thy Love ? 
 
 u Live ! — - 'twas a false bewildering fire : 
 Too often Love's insidious dart 
 Jhrills the fond soul with wild desire , 
 
 But kills the heart. 
 
 " Thou yet shalt know, how sweet, how dear, 
 To gaze on listening Beauty's eye ; 
 .To ask — and pause, in hope and fear , 
 
 Till she reply. 
 
 u A nobler flame shall warm thy breast, 
 
 A brighter maiden faithful prove ; 
 
 Thy youth, thy age, shall yet be blessed 
 
 In Woman's love. 
 
 u Whate'er thy lot , whoe'er thou be — 
 Confess thy folly , kiss the rod — 
 And in thy chastening sorrows see 
 
 The Hand of God. 
 
 ." A bruised Reed he will not break j 
 
 Afflictions all his children feel; 
 
 He wounds them for his' Mercy's sake, 
 
 He wounds to heal. 
 
 t€ Humbled beneath his mighty hand, 
 
 Prostrate his Providence adore : 
 
 fTis done! — Arise! He bids thee stand 
 
 To fall no more. 
 
 Now Traveller , in the vale of tears , 
 
 To realms of Everlasting light, 
 
 Through Time's dark wilderness of years , 
 
 Pursue thy flight. 
 
 < c Tliere is a Calm for those who weep, 
 
 A Rest for weary Pilgrims found; 
 
 And while their mouldering Ashes sleep 
 
 Low in the ground, 
 
 f * The Soul, of origin divine, 
 
 God's glorious Image , freed from clay , 
 
 In Heaven's eternal sphere shall shine, 
 
 A Star of Day ! 
 
7 3 
 
 " The sun is but a Spark of fire, 
 A transient meteor in the sky , 
 The Soul , Immortal as its Sire , 
 
 Shall Never die." 
 
 Montgomery. 
 
 From Lord CHESTERFIELD to his Son. 
 (The Son in his Seventeenth Year.') 
 
 London, November the 3d, O. S. 1749. 
 Dear Boy, 
 
 From the time that you have had life , it has been the 
 principal and favorite object of mine , to make you as 
 Perfect, as the imperfections of human nature will allow : 
 in this view, I have grudged no pains nor expense in 
 your Education, convinced that Education, more than 
 Nature , is the cause of that great difference which we see 
 in the Characters of men. While yon were a Child , I en- 
 deavoured to form your Heart habitually to Virtue and 
 Honor, before your Understanding was capable of showing 
 you their beauty and utility. Those Principles, which, 
 you then got, like your Grammar Rules, only by Rote, 
 are now, I am persuaded, fixed and confirmed by Reason. 
 And indeed they are so plain and clear, that they require 
 but a very moderate degree of understanding, either to 
 comprehend or practise them. Lord Shaftesbury says , 
 very prettily, that he would be Virtuous for his own 
 sake , though nobody were to know it ; as he would be 
 Clean for his own sake , though nobody were to see him. 
 I have, therefore, since you have had the use of your 
 Reason, never written to you upon those subjects: they 
 speak best for themselves; and I should, now, just as 
 soon think of warning you gravely not to fall into the 
 Dirt or the Fire, as into Dishonor or Vice. This view 
 of mine, I consider as fully attained. My next object 
 was, sound and useful Learning. My own care first, 
 Mr. Harte's afterwards , and of late (I will own it to your 
 praise) your own application , have more than answered 
 my expectations in that particular ; and , I have reason to 
 believe, will answer even my wishes. All that remains for 
 me then to wish, to recommend, to inculcate, to order, 
 
7 4 
 
 and to insist upon, is, Good-breeding; without which, all 
 your other qualifications will be lame, unadorned, and, 
 to a certain degree, unavailing. And here I fear t and have 
 much reason to believe, that you are greatly deficient* 
 The remainder of this Letter, therefore, shall be (and 
 it will not be the last by a great many) upon that subject. 
 A friend [a) of yours and mine has very justly defined 
 Good-breeding to be, the result of much good-sense , some 
 good-nature , and a little self-denial for the sake of others, 
 and with a view to obtain the same indulgence from them. 
 Taking this for granted, (as I think it cannot be disputed,) 
 it is astonishing to me, that any body, who has good- 
 sense and good-nature (and I believe you have both) can 
 essentially fail in Good-breeding. As to the modes of it , 
 indeed, they vary according to persons , and places , and 
 circumstances ; and are only to be acquired by observation 
 and experience, but the substance of it is everywhere , and 
 eternally th« same. Good maimers are, to particular 
 societies , what good morals are to society in general -— 
 their cement, and their security. And, as the Laws are 
 enacted to enforce good morals, or at least prevent the 
 ill effects of bad ones , so there are certain Rules of civil- 
 ity, universally implied and received, to enforce good 
 manners, and punish bad ones. And, indeed, there 
 seems to me to be less difference, both between the crimes 
 and between the punishments, than at first one would 
 imagine. The Immoral ma" ? who invades another man's 
 property, is justly handed for it ; and the Ill-bred man , 
 who, by his ill-manners, invades and disturbs the quiet 
 and comforts of private life , is , by common consent , as 
 justly banished society. Mutual complaisances, attentions, 
 and sacrifices of little conveniencies , are as natural an 
 implied compact between civilised people, as protection 
 and obedience are between Kings and Subjects: whoever, 
 in either case, violates that compact, justly forfeits all 
 advantages arising from it. For my own part, I really 
 think, that, next to the consciousness of doing a good 
 action, that of doing a civil one is the most pleasing: and 
 the epithet which I should covet the most, next to that 
 of Aristides, would be that of Well-bred. Thus much for 
 Good-breeding in general. I will now consider some of the 
 various modes and degrees of it. 
 
 Very few, scarcely any, are wanting in the respect 
 which they should show to those whom they acknowledge to 
 
 (a) Lord Bolingbroket 
 
75 
 
 be infinitely their superiors ; such as Crowned-Heads , 
 Princes , and Public persons of distinguished and eminent 
 posts. It is the manner of showing that respect which is differ- 
 ent. The man of Fashion , and of the World, express itin 
 its fullest extent ; but naturally , easily , and without con- 
 cern : whereas , a man who is not used to keep Good-com- 
 pany, expresses it awkwardly; one sees that he is not used 
 to it, and that it costs him a great deal: but I never saw 
 the worst-bred man living, guilty of lolling, whistling, 
 scratching his head, and such like indecencies, in com- 
 pany that he respected. In such companies , therefore , 
 the only point to be attended to, is, to show that respect, 
 which everybody means to show , in an easy, unembarrass- 
 ed , and graceful manner. This is what Observation and 
 Experience must teach yott. 
 
 In mixed Companies, whoever is admitted to make a part 
 of them , is , for the time , at least, supposed to be iipon a 
 looting of equality with the rest; and, consequently, as 
 there is no one principal object of awe and respect, peo- 
 ple are apt to take a greater latitude in their behaviour, 
 and to be less upon their guard ; and so they may, pro- 
 vided it be within certain bounds , which are upon no 
 occasion to be transgressed. But;, upon these occasions, 
 though no one is entitled to distinguished marks of re- 
 spect, every one claims, and very justly, every mark of 
 Civility and Good-breeding. Ease is allowed, but Care- 
 lessness and Negligence are strictly forbidden. If a man 
 accosts you , and talks to you ever so dully or frivolously, 
 it is worse than Rudeness , it is Brutality, to show him , 
 by manifest inattention to what he says , that you think 
 him a fool or a blockhead , and not worth hearing. It is 
 much more so with regard to Women ; who of whatever 
 rank they are, are entitled, in consideration of their Sex , not 
 only to an attentive , but an officious Good-breeding from 
 men. Their little wants , likings , dislikes , preferences , 
 antipathies, fancies, whims, and even irnpertinencies , 
 must be officiously attended to, flattered, and, if possible, 
 guessed at and anticipated, by a Well-bred man. You must 
 never usurp to yourself those conveniencies and agremens 
 which are of common right — such as the best places , the 
 best dishes, &c; but, on the contrary, always decline them 
 yourself, and offer them to others; who, in their turns, 
 will offer them to you: so that, upon the whofe, you 
 will, in your turn, enjoy your share of your common 
 right. It would be endless for me to enumerate all the 
 particular instances in which a Well-bred man shows his 
 
7 6 
 
 Good-breeding in* Good-company; and it would be inju-* 
 rious to you to suppose, that your own Good-sense will 
 not point them o»t to you; and then your own Good- 
 nature will recommend, and your Self-interest enforce the 
 practice. 
 
 There is a third sort of Good-breeding , in which people 
 are the most apt to fail, from a very mistaken notion 
 that they cannot fail at all. I mean, with regard to 
 one's most familiar friends and acquaintances , or those 
 who really are our inferiors ; and there , undoubtedly, a 
 greater degree of Ease is not only allowed, but proper, 
 and contributes much to the comforts of a private social 
 life. But that ease and freedom have their bounds too, 
 which must by no means be violated. A certain degree of 
 Negligence and Carelessness becomes injurious and insult- 
 ing, from the real or supposed inferiority of the persons: 
 and that delightful liberty of Conversation among a few 
 friends , is soon destroyed , as Liberty often has been , by 
 being carried to licentiousness. But example explains 
 tilings best, and I will put a pretty strong case — Suppose 
 you and I alone together; I believe you will allow that 
 I have as good a right to unlimited freedom in your com- 
 pany, as either you or I can possibly have in any other; 
 and 1 am apt to believe , too , that you would indulge me 
 in that freedom, as far as any body would. But, not- 
 withstanding this, do you imagine that I should think 
 there were no bounds to that freedom? I assure you, I 
 should not think so; and I take myself to be as much tied 
 down by a certain degree of Good-manners , to you , as by 
 other degrees of them to other people. Were I to yawn 
 extremely, snore, &c. , in your company, I should think 
 that I behaved myself to you like a Beast, and should not 
 expect that you would care to frequent me. No — the 
 most familiar and intimate habitudes , connections, and 
 friendships, require a degree of Good-breeding, both to 
 preserve and cement them. &c. The best of us have our 
 bad sides; and it is as Imprudent, as it is Ill-bred, to 
 exhibit them. I shall certainly not use ceremony with 
 you; it would be misplaced between us: but I shall cer- 
 tainly observe that degree of Good-breeding with you, 
 which is, in the first place , decent; and which, I am sure, 
 is absolutely necessary to make us like one another's com- 
 pany long. 
 
 I will say no moie, now, upon this important subject 
 of Good-breeding; upon which l have already dwelt too 
 long, it may be, for one Lelter; and upon which I shall 
 
77 
 
 frequently refresh your memory hereafter : but I will con- 
 clude with these Axioms -— 
 
 That the deepest Learning, without Good-breeding , is 
 unwelcome and tiresome Pedantry, and of use nowhere 
 bat in a man's own closet: and, consequently, of little or 
 no use at all. 
 
 That a man who is not perfectly Well-bred, is unfit 
 for Good-company, and unwelcome in it; will dislike 
 it soon , afterwards renounce it , and be reduced to soli- 
 tude, or, what is worse, Low and Bad-Company. 
 
 That a man who is not Well-bred , is full as unfit for 
 Business as for Company. 
 
 Make then my dear child, I conjure you, Good-breeding 
 the great object of your thoughts and actions, at least 
 half the day. Observe carefully the behaviour and man- 
 ners of those who are distinguished by their Good- breed- 
 ing; imitate, nay, endeavour to excel, that you may at 
 least reach them ; and be convinced that Good-breeding is , 
 to all Worldly qualifications, what Charity is to all Chris- 
 tian virtues. Observe how it adorns merit, and how often 
 it covers the want of it. May you wear it to adorn , and 
 not to cover you! Adieu. 
 
 Cowper b. 1731; d. 1800, 
 
 The Poems of William Cowper, I recommend to all readers , male 
 and female ; young, middle-aged , or old. They may be had in a variety 
 of Editions — Whittinghani's Cabinet Library Edition , in Two Volumes , 
 price Three Guilders and Fifty Cents , is both plain and neat* 
 
 B. S. N. 
 
 On My Mother's Picture. 
 
 O that those lips had language ! Life has passed 
 
 With me but roughly, since I heard Thee last. 
 
 Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me: 
 
 Voice only fails , else how distinct they say , 
 
 " Grieve not my Child, chase all thy fears away!" 
 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes — 
 
 (Blessed be the Art that can immortalize, 
 
 The Art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
 
 To quench it!) — here shines on me still the same; 
 
7« 
 
 Faithful Remembrancer of one so dear, 
 O, welcome guest! though unexpected here: 
 Who bidst me honor , with an artless Song , 
 Affectionate , a Mother lost so long — 
 I will obey, not willingly alone, 
 But gladly, as the precept were her own: 
 And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
 Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
 Shall steep me in Elysian revery, 
 A momentary dream, that Thou art She. 
 
 My Mother! W-hen I learned that thou wast dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
 Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing Son, 
 Wretch, even then, life's journey just begun? 
 Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a Kiss •— 
 Perhaps a Tear , if souls can weep in bliss — 
 Ah, that Maternal smile! it answers — Yes. 
 I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
 A long , long sigh , and wept a last adieu. 
 But was it such? it was! where thou art gone 
 Adieus and Farewels are a sound unknown: 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 The parting-word shall pass my lips no more ! 
 Thy maidens grieved themselves at my concern, 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return: 
 What ardently I wished, I long believed ; 
 And, disappointed still, was still deceived: 
 By expectation every day beguiled, 
 Dupe of Tomorrow even from a child. 
 Thus many a sad tomorrow came and went ; 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
 I learned, at last, submission to my lot, 
 But, though I less deplored thee — ne'er forgot. 
 
 Where once we dwelt our Name is heard no more; 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; 
 And where the gardener, Robin, day by day, 
 Drew me to school along the public way, 
 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 
 'Tis now become a history little known, 
 That once we called the Pastoral-House our own. 
 Short-lifed possession ! but the* record , fair, 
 My memory keeps of all thy kindness there , 
 Still outlives many a slorm, that has effaced 
 
79 
 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced — 
 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
 
 That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; 
 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
 
 The biscuit, or confectionary plum ; 
 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed , 
 
 By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed; 
 
 All this — and , more endearing still than all , 
 
 Thy constant flow of love , that knew no fall ; 
 
 "Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks , 
 
 That humor interposed too often makes; 
 
 All this still legible in memory's page, 
 
 And still to be so to my latest age , 
 
 Adds joy to duty , makes me glad to pay 
 
 Such, honors to thee as my Numbers may; 
 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere , 
 
 Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. 
 
 Could Time , his flight reversed , restore the hours 
 When , playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers , 
 The violet, the pink , and jassamine, 
 I pricked them into paper with a pin — 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
 Wouldst softly speak , and stroke my head , and smile ,) 
 Could those few pleasant days again appear , 
 Might one wish bring them — Would 1 wish them here? 
 I would not trust my heart! the dear delight 
 Seems so to be desired, perhaps, I might — 
 But, no! what here we call our life is such, 
 So little to be loved, and thou so much, 
 That I should ill requite thee , to constrain 
 Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 
 
 Thou as a gallant bark from Albion's coast , 
 (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,) 
 Shoots into port, at some well-havened isle, 
 Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile, 
 There sits quiescent on the floods , that show 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 
 While airs, impregnated with incense, play 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; 
 So thou , with sails — how swift ! — hast reached the shore 
 « Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar: " 
 And thy loved Consort on the dangerous tide 
 Of life , long since hast anchored at thy side. 
 But me ! scarce hoping to attain that rest, 
 Always from port withheld , always distressed — 
 Me! howling blasts drive devious, tempes t- tossed , 
 
8o 
 
 Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost; 
 And day by day some current's thwarting force 
 Sets me more distant from a prosperous course ! 
 Yet, O! the thought, that Thou art safe! — and He! 
 That thought, is Joy! arrive what may to Me. 
 
 My boast is not , that 1 derive my birth 
 From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; (a) 
 But higher far my proud pretensions rise — - 
 The son of parents passed into the skies ! 
 
 And now farewel ■ Time, unrevoked, has run 
 
 His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. 
 By Contemplation's help , not sought in vain , 
 I seem to have lived my Childhood o'er again; 
 To have renewed the joys that once were mine^ 
 "Without the sin of violating thine : 
 And while the wings of Fancy still are free , 
 And I can view This mimic show of thee, 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft — 
 'Thyself removed — thy Power to soothe me left. 
 
 Cowpeiu 
 
 (a) Cowper was of Royal descent , by both Father and Mother. 
 
 An Extract , from an Old Book. 
 
 Guilt and Unbelief create all our Fears ; make us wea- 
 ry of the day, and watch in the night; our sleep short, 
 the night long ; our dreams troublesome , our watchings 
 painful; a pale face, a thoughtful, desponding, perplex- 
 ed heart; shut up Heaven itself against us, make the God 
 of Truth a liar: Faith opens Heaven, glorifies God, for- 
 tifies , confirms the heart , and establishes us ; fills us with 
 courage and acquiescence in Him; holds our hearts in a 
 holy tranquillity amidst all the unequal motions of this 
 life; will make us stand upright even among the ruins of 
 the great fall of the old building of Nature, when Heaven 
 and Earth shall tremble and shrink, hasting to a Dissolu- 
 tion. He is sure to be fed, who is able to believe: find out 
 the word , and God will find out the deed: tell Him what 
 lie hath said, and He will make it good. He never yet 
 was worse than his word , or compounded for less than 
 due with any whom his Promise made his Creditor. Josh- 
 ua throws down the gantlet , and challenges all Israel to 
 show but the one thing God had failed them in , of all the 
 
8i 
 
 good things He had spoke concerning them. Faith is the 
 substance of things not seen; doubts not of Food, though 
 we see no Corn; despairs not of Cloaths , though we have 
 no Flax; wants not a Sacrifice, though we have no Herd. 
 Faith loves no disputes, hates all doubtful reasonings, 
 banishes all carnal objections, sets not providences against 
 Promises, triumphs over all seeming contradictions, looks 
 upon the greatest impediments as difficulties which cannot 
 check, but only magnify, Almightiness. There is no ques- 
 tion left, where God's Promise is engaged; there are no 
 objections against Faith , nothing impossible to him that 
 can believe: no Desert without Provision; no Dungeon 
 without Light; no Fiery -trial without Comfort; no Val- 
 ley-of-Tears without a Door-of-Hope. Never fear , saith 
 Faith, to urge the Promises, to put the Bond in suit; thou 
 hast law on thy side; Bills and Bonds must be paid; a 
 good Man will be as good as his word — much more a 
 good God: He that was so free as to make it, will be so 
 faithful as to make it good. Why then do we stumble at 
 every Straw? Why are we of doubtful Minds? and Why 
 do thoughts arise in our Hearts ? We will then, be dis- 
 trustful , when we have a want He cannot supply; a dan- 
 ger He cannot prevent, or remove; a disease He cannot 
 heal, or mitigate; an enemy He cannot overcome, or re- 
 concile; a red-sea He cannot dry up , or divide; a wall 
 He cannot throw down, or help us over, who sways the 
 Sceptre of the Universe, and lets loose, or binds up the 
 Creature's Influences at his pleasure: keeps the. Lions from 
 eating one Prophet, and the Fish from digesting another; 
 the Fire from touching three captives in a burning furnace ; 
 supplies the Israelites forty years, where they neither 
 sow nor reap , toil , beg , nor steal ; alters the course of 
 Nature and the Hearts of Men; removes all impediments 
 for their succor, defence, advantage; clothes the naked 
 trees; recovers the verdure of the forlorn earth; exalts 
 the setting sun in its beauty and brightness; spreads every 
 day a table where all may reach convenient food; in the 
 time of famine plants a cornfield in the bottom of a bar- 
 rel of meal, for Elijah, and an olive-yard in a cruse, 
 for the Widow of Sereptah; fills empty Naomi with a 
 famous offspring; gives Amaziah much more than he had 
 parted with to the army of Israel, and Job double for 
 what he took from him ; restores to his penitents what 
 the locusts and catterpillars had eaten; accomplishes his 
 Promise of incredible plenty in Samaria, and rains it 
 not from Heaven neither; recompenses to his people the 
 
 6 
 
82 
 
 comfort of health and liberty, which sickness had im- 
 paired; of relations and friends, which the grave had 
 devoured ; of houses and estates , which the lire had con- 
 sumed; builds his Temple against all plots and scan- 
 dals , weapons and oppositions ; discomfits the Philistines 
 by Jonathan and his Armor-Bearer; delivers Asa with a 
 handful, in comparison of a thousand thousand; Hezi- 
 kiah from Senacherib ; Jeosaphat from the children of Am- 
 nion , Moab , and Mount Sier — there's none saved by 
 the multitude of a Host — subdues the mightiest prince 
 by an army mustered of his meanest creatures ; routs an 
 innumerable host, with a few trumpets, lamps, and pit- 
 chers, likelier to fright Children than Armed-Men; dis- 
 countenances any design, if his Eye be but against it; if 
 He but hiss, his enemies come with speed, and revenge 
 his quarrel against themselves; let Him but arise and His 
 enemies are scattered; with the turning of His hand, He 
 turns them into hell. Not a creature in Heaven , Earth , 
 or Hell , but have an ear to hear Him , and stand ready 
 pressed, at His commission, to perform His pleasure, 
 when He lifts up His ensign against His enemies, for His 
 friends. "What can stand before a Creating-Power? Who 
 can resist, or oppose Almlghtlness? He can do what He 
 will ; and will do for His faithful children what is best , 
 according to His infinite wisdom and goodness ! 
 
 Henceforth, then, I will employ the time I have been 
 used to spend in disquieting thoughts, about things that 
 disturbed me, in acts of Love and Praise, Submission 
 and Resignation , Faith and Confidence in God. 1 can- 
 not want , or abound , but from Thee who gavest before 
 Thou takest , and takest but what thou gavest* Give me 
 what Thou wilt, so thou give me Contentment with it. 
 Frame my heart to my estate, so shall 1 have an estate 
 to my heart ; and not want when I have least — because 
 as free from desire as superfluity. 
 
 Pieligion teaches us to be without that, which others 
 know not how to want ; and an ability to be Content 
 with a little, is to be more truely rich, than the having 
 much without being satisfied. I should be much ashamed 
 any should be found more Content , among all those that 
 have less. Had I store, I would not impoverish myself 
 by covetousness ; now poor, I will not make a little less, 
 by murmuring, but enrich myself by Content — so I 
 have enough, with less trouble and danger, duty and 
 reckoning, I shall never pay for what 1 have; 1 hold 
 all in Capite: I have all with the love and favor of 
 
83 
 
 a reconciled God, with a blessing, with the pardon of my 
 sins, with a thankful heart, and a pledge of Eternal mer- 
 cies. "While others grumble in looking on great men's 
 Estates, I'll tremble to think on their Accounts, and study- 
 more how to give a good one of my Little, than how to 
 make it more. Plentiful provisions have large bills of ac- 
 counts ; God's bounty sets all his gilts on ihefile: the worst 
 servant confessed, though he employed not his talent. 
 Have I not more than I can give a good account of my 
 spending well? Are not my receipts great enough already? 
 Must I complain that I have not more to answer for? Rich 
 men, like Sumpter horses, travel all day under the bur- 
 den of some rich treasure, at night lie down — in a foul 
 stable with galled backs — in the grave with galled, dis- 
 tressed Consciences. Many, at the Great-Day, will rejoice 
 they had no more ; while others shall wish they had not 
 had so much* 
 
 An infallible Way to Contentment. 
 
 The Pilgrim. 
 
 There is a path, pursued by few, 
 A way not pleasing to the view, 
 
 A narrow , lonely road ; 
 Through hidden snares and open foes —- 
 That path the Christian Pilgrim goes; 
 
 It leads to his abode. 
 
 But many a river flows between , 
 And rocks and mountains intervene, 
 
 And countries yet unknown; 
 And many a desert, wild and rude, 
 ^With thorns and briers thickly strewed,' 
 
 He travels through — alone. 
 
 At times, the distant landscape, bright, 
 In varied beauty, meets the sight, 
 
 And glistens in the beam j 
 But soon involved, in deeper shades, 
 The scene so fair in prospect, fades \ 
 
 Gone — . like a morning dream! 
 
84 
 
 Yet , here and there a spot appears 
 Refreshing, pleasant, sweet; which cheers 
 
 And animates the mind : 
 Shadow of better things to come; 
 Faint type of that Eternal Home \ 
 
 He journeys on to find. 
 
 And now, to ford the stream he wends, 
 And now, the rocky steep ascends, 
 
 A painful, rugged way! 
 "Where neither moon nor star appear: 
 And faint with toil, and filled with fear, 
 
 He longs for break of day. 
 
 And is the Christian thus bereft , 
 In weakness and in darkness , left 
 
 To labor, strive, and fight? 
 To breathe the deep and heavy sigh , 
 With earnest, fall, uplifted eye, 
 
 To turn in vain for light ? 
 
 No ; — He who called him forth , to tread 
 The Pilgrim path, hath richly shed 
 
 His blood — to mark the way; 
 And He who called him to the field, 
 Gave to his follower sword and shield, 
 
 And armor , for the fray ! 
 
 Salvation's casque the Pilgrim bears; 
 
 His breastplate, Faith and Love, he wears 
 
 In Righteousness complete; 
 The dreary desert he must pass ! 
 But shoes, of iron and of brass, 
 
 Support and guard his feet. 
 
 Gird up thy strength, thou trembling heart! 
 Nor let thy confidence depart! 
 
 The thorns once formed a crown — 
 Which He who trod this way before 
 Upon his sacred forehead bore, 
 
 That thou mightst tread them down* 
 
 What , though the night succeed to day, 
 Should this a traveller dismay 
 
 Who carries light within? 
 What though thou canst not see, yet trusts 
 [Walking by Faith alone, the just 
 
 Shall still the Kingdom win ! 
 
85 
 
 Let then thy tearful heart be strong — - 
 However dark , however long , 
 
 Thy Pilgrimage appears; 
 Thy every want shall be supplied ; 
 In every strait, a heavenly guide, 
 
 Although unseen, is near. 
 
 He is the lion , and the dove ; 
 
 His arm is power , his voice is love ! 
 
 Thy strength and peace derive 
 From Him who puts thy foes to flight ; 
 And still preserves thee, day and night — 
 
 Preserves thy soul alive : 
 
 He to the river says — "be dry" -— 
 The stream divides , the waters fly, 
 
 And leave a passage free; 
 The mountain sinks into a plain — 
 All that opposes Him, is vain! 
 
 And He hath chosen Thee. 
 
 Not by thy wisdom , nor thy might , 
 But by His Spirit in the fight, 
 
 Thy arm shall overcome ; 
 In triumph reach the promised land , 
 L Weak as thou art — for his right hand, 
 
 Shall bring thee safely Home. 
 
 Then shalt thou in His presence rest, 
 
 Shalt hear His voice pronounce thee — « "blessed'* 
 
 From Him receive the crown : 
 Sorrow and sighing fled away, 
 Thy sun, in that bright, glorious day, 
 
 Shall not again go down. 
 
 Far more than conqueror , at last ; 
 Thy trouble and thy warfare past 
 
 Shall never come to mind ; 
 Thou shalt rejoice, O child of Grace ! 
 And in the vision of His face 
 
 Thy recompense shalt find. 
 
 O Thou! the Christian Pilgrim's Lord, 
 His portion and his high reward , 
 
 Thou great supreme I AM ! 
 Lo, cheered by Thee, our songs we bring , 
 And through the long night-season, sing 
 
 f 4 Salvation to the Lamb!". 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
86 
 
 Franklin b. 1706J; d. 1790. 
 
 Franklin is dead ! The Genius who freed America , and poured 
 a copious stream of knowledge throughout Europe, is returned into 
 the bosom of the Divinity. 
 
 Antiquity would have raised Altars to that vast and mighty Genius ^ 
 who , for the advantage of Human-kind , embracing Earth and Heav- 
 en in his ideas , could tame the rage of Thunder and of Despotism. 
 France, enlightened and free, owes at least some testimony of re- 
 membrance and regret to one of the greatest men who ever served 
 the cause of Philosophy and of Liberty. 
 
 Ml&ABEAU. 
 
 Advice to a Young Tradesman ; 
 
 Written anno 1748, by 
 Doctor Benjamin Franklinl 
 
 To my Friend , A. B. 
 
 As you have desired it of me , I "write the following 
 Hints , which have been of service to me, and may, if ob- 
 served , be so to you. 
 
 Remember that Time is Money. He that can earn Ten 
 shillings a-day by his labor, and goes abroad, or sits idle 
 one half of that day, though he spend but Sixpence during 
 his diversion or idleness, ought not to reckon that the only 
 expense; he has really spent, or rather thrown away, Five 
 shillings besides. 
 
 Remember that Credit is Money. If a man lets his 
 money lie in my hands after it is due, he gives me the 
 interest, or so much as I can make of it during that time. 
 This amounts to a considerable sum where a man has good 
 and large credit , and makes good use of it. 
 
 Remember that Money is of a prolific generating nature. 
 Money can beget Money; and its offspring can beget morej 
 and so on. Five Shillings turned, is Six; turned again, it 
 is Seven and Threepence ; and so on, till it becomes a Hun- 
 dred Pounds. The more there is of it, the more it pro- 
 duces every turning , so that the profits rise quicker and 
 quicker. He that kills a breeding Sow, destroys all her 
 offspring to the thousandth generation. He that murders 
 a Crown , destroys all that it might have produced — even 
 scores of Pounds. 
 
 Remember that Six Pounds a-year is but a Groat a-day. 
 For this little sum, (which may be daily wasted either in 
 time or expense 9 unperceivedj a man of Credit may, on 
 
8 7 
 
 his own security, have the constant possession and use of 
 a Hundred Pounds. So much in stock, briskly turned by 
 an industrious man, produces great advantage. 
 
 Remember this saying — The good Paymaster is Lord 
 of another man's Purse — He that is known to pay punc- 
 tually and exactly to the time he promises, may at any 
 time,, and on any occasion, raise all the Money his friends 
 can spare. This is sometimes of great use. After industry 
 and frugality, nothing contributes more to the raising of a 
 young man in the world , than punctuality and justice in 
 all his dealings: therefore never keep borrowed money an 
 hour beyond the time you promised , lest a disappointment 
 shut up your friend's purse for ever. 
 
 The most trifling actions that affect a man's Credit, are 
 to be regarded. The sound of your hammer at Five in the 
 morning, or Nine at night, heard by a Creditor, makes 
 him easy Six-months longer; but if he sees you at a Bil- 
 liard-table , or hears your voice at a Tavern , when you 
 should be at Work, 'he sends for his money the next day; 
 demands it before he can receive it in a lump. 
 
 It shows , besides, that you are mindful of what you 
 owe ; it makes you appear a careful as well as an honest 
 man, and that still increases your Credit. 
 
 Beware of thinking all is your own that you possess , 
 and of living accordingly. It is a mistake that many peo- 
 ple, who have Credit, fall into. To prevent this, keep an 
 exact account, for some time, both of your Expenses and 
 your Income. If you take the pains at first to mention 
 particulars it will have this good effect — you will dis- 
 cover how wonderfully small trifling expenses mount up 
 to large sums, and will discern what might have been, and 
 may for the future be saved, without occasioning any 
 great inconvenience. 
 
 In short , the JVay to Wealth , if you desire it , is as 
 plain as the way to market. It depends chiefly on two 
 words — industry and frugality — — that is, waste neither 
 Time nor Money, but make the best use of both. Without 
 industry and frugality nothing will do , and with them 
 everything. He that gets all he can honestly, and saves 
 all he gets (necessary expenses excepted) will certainly 
 become Rich — if that Being, who governs the world, to 
 whom all should look for a blessing on their honest en- 
 deavours , doth not , in His wise providence , otherwise 
 determine. 
 
 An Old Tradesman, 
 
88 
 
 Thomson b. 1700; d. 1748. 
 
 It is said by Lord Lyttleton, in the Prologue to Thomson's 
 posthumous play, that his Works contained — 
 
 "No line which, dying, he could wish to blot." 
 
 Domestic Love. 
 
 O nappy they! the happiest of their kind, 
 
 "Whom gentler stars unite; and, in one fate, 
 
 Their hearts , their fortunes , and their beings blend. 
 
 5 Tis not the coarser tie of human laws, 
 
 Unnatural oft , arid foreign to the mind , 
 
 That binds their peace; but Harmony itself, 
 
 Attuning all their passions into Love ; 
 
 "Where friendship full exerts her softest power, 
 
 Perfect esteem, enlivened by desire 
 
 Ineffable, and sympathy of soul; 
 
 Thought meeting Thought , and Will preventing Will , 
 
 With boundless confidence : for naught but Love 
 
 Can answer Love , and render bliss secure. 
 
 Let him — ungenerous ! who , alone intent 
 
 To bless Himself, from sordid parents buys 
 
 The loathing Virgin , in eternal care , 
 
 "Well-merited , consume his nights and days : 
 
 Let barbarous nations , whose inhuman love 
 
 Is wild desire, fierce as the suns they feel; 
 
 Let eastern tyrants from the light of heaven 
 
 Seclude their bosom-slaves, meanly possessed 
 
 Of a mere lifeless , violated form ; 
 
 "While those whom Love cements in holy faith, 
 
 And equal transport , free as nature live , 
 
 Disdaining fear. What is the World to them ,• 
 
 Its pomp, its pleasures, and its nonsense all, 
 
 Who in each other clasp whatever fair 
 
 High fancy forms, and lavish hearts can wish? «— 
 
 Something than Beauty dearer , should they look 
 
 Or on the Mind, or mind-ill umined-face — 
 
 Truth , goodness , honor, harmony, and — Love! 
 
 The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven. 
 
 Mean time a smiling offspring rises round, 
 
 And mingles both their graces. By degrees, 
 
 The human blossom blows : and every day, 
 
 Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm — 
 
 The father's lustre , and the mother's bloom. 
 
 Then Infant reason grows apace, and calls 
 
89 
 
 For the kind hand of an assiduous care. 
 Delightful task! to rear the tender thought, 
 To teacli the young idea how to shoot , 
 To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, 
 To breathe the enlivening spirit, and to fix 
 The generous purpose in the glowing breast. 
 Oh speak the joy, ye whom the sudden tear 
 Surprises often, while you look around, 
 And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss ! 
 All various nature pressing on the heart ~— 
 An elegant sufficiency, content, 
 Retirement , rural quiet , friendship , books / 
 Ease and alternate labor, useful life , 
 Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven! 
 These are the matchless joys of virtuous Love; 
 And thus their moments fly. The seasons , thus , 
 As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll, 
 Still find them happy; and consenting Spring 
 Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads; 
 Till evening comes at last , serene and mild ; 
 "When, after the long vernal-day of life, 
 Enamored more, as more resemblance swells 
 With many a proof of recollected love , 
 Together down they sink in social sleep ; 
 Together freed , their gentle spirits fly 
 To scenes where Love and Bliss immortal reign; 
 
 Thomson. 
 
 On Taxing America. 
 Sir, 
 The present Ministers, I acknowledge, are men of fair 
 Characters, and such as I am happy to see engaged in his 
 Majesty's service : but I cannot trust them with entire 
 confidence. Confidence, Sir, is a plant of slow growth in 
 an Aged bosom — Youth is the season of credulity. By 
 comparing events with each other, reasoning from effects 
 to causes, methinks I plainly discover the traces of an 
 over-ruling Influence. I have had the honor to serve the 
 Crown; and could I have submitted to Influence, I might 
 still have continued to serve; but I would not be respon- 
 sible for Others. I have no local attachments. It is in- 
 different to me , whether a man was rocked in his cradle 
 
9<> 
 
 on this side, or that side the Tweed, (a) I countenanced 
 and protected Merit, wherever it was to be found. It is 
 my boast, that I was the first Minister who sought for 
 it in the Mountains of the North — I called it forth , and 
 drew into your service, a hardy and intrepid race of men, 
 who were once dreaded as the inveterate Foes of the State. 
 "When I ceased to serve his Majesty as a Minister, it 
 was not the country of the man, by which I was moved , 
 but the man of the country who held Principles incompat- 
 ible with Freedom. It is a long time, Mr. Speaker, since 
 I have attended in Parliament. When the resolution was 
 taken, in this House, to Tax America, I was ill in bed. 
 If I could have endured to have been carried in my bed — 
 so great was the agitation of my mind , for the consequen- 
 ses — I would have solicited some kind hand to have laid 
 me down on this floor, to have borne my Testimony 
 against it. It is my opinion, that this Kingdom has JSo 
 lilght to lay a Tax upon the Colonies. At the same time 
 I assert the authority of this kingdom to be sovereign and 
 supreme , in every circumstance of Government and Legis- 
 lation whatsoever. Taxation is no part of the governing 
 or legislative power: the Taxes are a voluntary gift and 
 grant of the Commons alone. The concurrence of the 
 Peers and the Crown, is necessary only as a Form of Law. 
 This House represents the Commons of Great Britain. 
 When in this House we give and grant, therefore, we give 
 and grant what is our own; but can we give and grant 
 the property of the Commons of America? It is an absurd- 
 ity in terms I There is an idea in some , that the Colo- 
 nies are virtually represented in this House — I would fain 
 know by whom? The idea of virtual representation , is 
 the most contemptible that ever entered into the head of 
 man: it does not deserve a serious refutation. The com- 
 mons of America, represented in their several Assemblies, 
 have invariably exercised this constitutional right, of giv- 
 ing and granting their own Money : they would have been 
 Slaves, if they had not enjoyed it. At the same time, 
 this Kingdom has ever possessed the power of Legislative 
 and Commercial control. The Colonies acknowledge your 
 Authority in all things — with the sole exception, that 
 you shall not take the Money out of their Pockets, without 
 their consent, 
 
 Chatham, 
 
 (a) The river Tweed runs beiween England and Scotland. 
 
9* 
 
 MACBETH' S Soliloquy. 
 
 Is this a Dagger , which I see before me , 
 
 The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch (a) thee— - 
 
 I have thee not — and yet I see thee still. 
 
 Art thou not, fatal vision! sensible 
 
 To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but 
 
 A Dagger of the mind; a false creation, 
 
 Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? 
 
 I see thee yet — in form as palpable 
 
 As this which now I draw. {Drawing his Dagger?) 
 
 Thou marshalest me the way that I was going , 
 
 And such an Instrument I was to use. 
 
 My Eyes are made the fools o' the Other senses — 
 
 Or else, worth all the rest! I see thee still; 
 
 And on thy blade, (b) and dudgeon, (c) gouts of blood, 
 
 "Which was not so before. There's no such thing ! 
 
 It is the bloody business which informs 
 
 Thus to my eyes. Now o'er one half the world 
 
 Nature seems dead, and wicked (d) dreams abuse 
 
 The curtained sleep; now Witchcraft celebrates 
 
 Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered Murder, 
 
 Alarumed by his sentinel, the Wolf, 
 
 "Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, 
 
 "With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design 
 
 Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, 
 
 Hear not my steps , which way they walk , for fear 
 
 The very stones prate of my where-about , (e) 
 
 And take the present horror from the time, 
 
 Which now suits with it. Whilst I threat, he lives; 
 
 Words to the heat of Deeds too cold breath gives. 
 
 I go, and it is done; the Bell invites me. {Bell rings,) 
 
 Hear it not, Duncan! for it is a knell (f) 
 
 That summons thee to Heaven, or to Hell. 
 
 Shakespeare, 
 
 (a) Clutch, grasp, gripe; grypen. (b) Blade, lemmer. 
 
 (c) Dudgeon, handle, haftj handvatsel , heft. 
 
 \d) Wicked, troublesome, bad, evilj evil in effect, as medicinal 
 
 things are called virtuous. 
 (e) Prate of my where-about — lest the very stones should tell, not 
 
 oily where I am, but what 1 am about. 
 (/} Knell, Doodklok. 
 
LECTURE V. 
 
 An Examination of Compositions , in Prose, 
 
 JOHNSON. 
 
 Of all the men distinguished in this or any other age, 
 Dr. Johnson has left upon posterity the strongest and 
 most vivid impression, so far as person, manners, dispo- 
 sition , and conversation are concerned. We do but name 
 him, or open a book which he has written, and the sound 
 and action recal to the imagination at once his form , 
 his merits , his peculiarities, nay, the very uncouthness 
 of his gestures , and the deep impressive tone of his voice. 
 "VVe learn not only What he said, but How he said it, and 
 have, at the same time, a shrewd guess of the secret mo- 
 tive Why he did so, and Whether he spoke in sport or in 
 anger, in the desire of conviction, or for the love of 
 debate. It was said of a noted wag , that his bons-mots did 
 not give full satisfaction when published, because he could 
 not print his face. But with respect to Dr. Johnson , this 
 has been in some degree accomplished; and although the 
 greater part of the present generation never saw him , yet 
 he is , in our mind's eye, a personification as lively as that 
 of Siddons in Lady Macbeth, or Kemble in Cardinal 
 Wolsey. 
 
 All this, as the world well knows, arises from Johnson 
 having found in James Bos well such a biographer, as no 
 man but himself ever had , or ever deserved to have. The 
 performance which chiefly resembles it in structure, is 
 in the life of the philosopher Demophon , in Lucian ; but 
 that slight sketch is far inferior in detail and in vivacity 
 to Boswell's Life of Johnson, which, considering the 
 eminent persons to whom it relates , the quantity of mis- 
 cellaneous information and entertaining gossip which it 
 brings together, may be termed, without exception, the 
 best parlour-window book that ever was written. &c. 
 
 Johnson's laborious and distinguished career terminated 
 in 1783, when virtue was deprived of a steady supporter, 
 society of a brilliant ornament, and literature of a successful 
 cultivator. The latter part of his life was honored with 
 
95 
 
 general applause, for none was more fortunate in obtain- 
 ing and preserving the friendship of the wise and the 
 worthy. Thus loved and Generated, Johnson might have 
 been pronounced happy. But heaven, in whose eyes 
 strength is weakness, permitted his faculties to be clouded 
 occasionally with that morbid affection 'of the spirits , 
 which disgraced his talents by prejudices, and his man- 
 ners by rudeness. 
 
 When we consider the rank which Dr. Johnson held, 
 not only in literature , but in society , we cannot help 
 figuring him to ourselves as the benevolent giant of some 
 fairy tale, whose kindnesses and courtesies are still min- 
 gled with a part of the rugged ferocity imputed to the fa- 
 bulous Sons of Anak, or rather, perhaps , like a Roman 
 Dictator , fetched from his farm , whose wisdom and he- 
 roism still relished of his rustic occupation. And there 
 were times when, with all his wisdom, and all his wit, 
 this rudeness of disposition , and the sacrifices and sub- 
 missions which he unsparingly exacted, were so great, 
 that even Mrs. Thrale seems, at length, to have thought 
 that the honor of being Johnson's hostess was almost 
 counterbalanced by the tax which he exacted on her time 
 and patience. 
 
 The cause of those deficiencies in temper and manners, 
 was no ignorance of what was to be done in society, or 
 how far each individual ought to suppress his own wishes 
 in favor of those with whom he associates; for, theoreti- 
 cally, no man understood the rules of good breeding better 
 than Dr. Johnson, or could act more exactly in conformity 
 with them, when the high rank of those with whom he 
 was in company for the time required that he should do 
 so. But during the greater part of his life, he had been 
 in a great measure a stranger to the higher society, in 
 which such restraint became necessary; and it may be 
 fairly presumed , that the indulgence of a variety of little 
 selfish peculiarities , which it is the object of good breed- 
 ing to suppress , became thus familiar to him. The con- 
 sciousness of his own mental superiority in most compan- 
 ies which he frequented, contributed to his dogmatism; 
 and when he had attained his eminence as a dictator in 
 literature, like other potentates, he was not averse to a 
 display of his authority: resembling, in this particular, 
 Swift ; and one or two other men of genius, who have had 
 the bad taste to imagine that their talents elevated them 
 above observance of the common rules of society. It must 
 also be remarked, that in Johnson's time the Literary 
 
9* 
 
 society of London was much more confined than at pre-; 
 sent, and that he sat the Jupiter of a little circle, prompt, 
 on the slightest contradiction, to lanch the thunders of 
 rebuke and sarcasm. He was, in a word, despotic; and 
 despotism will occasionally lead the best dispositions 
 into unbecoming abuse of power. It is not likely that any 
 one will again enjoy, or have an opportunity of abusing, 
 the singular degree of submission which was rendered to 
 Johnson by all arround him. The unreserved communi- 
 cations of friends, rather than the spleen of enemies, 
 have occasioned his character being exposed in all its sha- 
 dows , as well as its lights. But those, when summed 
 and counted , amount only to a few narrow-minded pre- 
 judices concerning country and party, from which few ar- 
 dent tempers remain entirely free , and some violences and 
 solecisms in manners, which left his talents, morals, and 
 
 benevolence, alike unimpeachable. « , TT _ 
 
 A Sir W. Scott. 
 
 London, Feb. 1823. 
 
 Thirty-eight years are now elapsed since the death of 
 Dr. Johnson; during which , his character and talents have 
 been scrutinized with a severity unprecedented in literary 
 biography. There never, indeed, was a man of distinc- 
 tion of whom more may be known by those who have had 
 no opportunity of personal acquaintance : and perhaps ne- 
 ver was a man whose failings , after having heen exposed 
 by imprudence or exaggerated by malice, were sooner for- 
 gotten in the esteem excited by his superior talents and 
 steady virtues. 
 
 His early works came slowly into notice. They owed 
 nothing to the tricks of popularity now so common j but 
 their intrinsic merit gradually acquired for them a firm 
 establishment. During his life, his individual pieces were 
 frequently reprinted; and since his death, Six large edi- 
 tions of his collected works have been bought up by the 
 Public. A Seventh, which has been loudly called for, 
 is now completed, and with the recommendation of very- 
 important additions. What Lord Chesterfield said of 
 Swift, may be as truely applied to our author, "Whoever 
 in the three kingdoms has any books at all, has Johnson.'* 
 
 Allx. Chalmers. 
 
 Adver* t» Johnson's JVorhs. 
 
95 
 
 As a man, Dr. Johnson stands displayed in open day- 
 light. Nothing remains undiscovered. Whatever he said 
 is known ; and without allowing him the usual privilege of 
 hazarding sentiments , and advancing positions , for mere 
 amusement or the pleasure of discussion, Criticism has 
 endeavoured to make him answerable for what, perhaps, 
 he never seriously thought. His diary , which has been 
 printed, discovers still more. We have before us the 
 very Heart of the man , with all his inward consiousness. 
 And yet neither in the open paths of life, nor in his 
 secret recesses, has any one vice been discovered. 
 
 Arthur Murphy. 
 
 The "Farewel" that Byron wrote , and that set so many tender- 
 hearted white handkerchiefs in motion, only resulted from his poetical 
 power of assuming an imaginary position , and taking pity on himself 
 in the shape of another man. He had no love for the object of it, or 
 he would never have written upon her in so different a style afterwards. 
 There never was a greater instance of Lord Byron's Authorship and 
 love of Publicity than his Farc-Thee-JVell. He sat down to imagine 
 what a Husband might say, who had really loved his Wife , to a Wife 
 who had really loved him ; and he said it so well , that one regrets 
 he had not been encouraged , when younger , to feel the genuine pas- 
 sion. But the Verses were nothing more. _ „ 
 
 When we know that Eliza, to whom Sterne wrote such sentimen- 
 tal , such affectionate Letters , was killed through his brutality towards 
 her — when we know that Shaw's ill usage was the cause of Emma's 
 death , to whose Memory he penned the most affecting Monody in 
 the English language , we need not be surprised at Byron's having 
 been able to compose the following fine verses , without feeling a 
 particle of the sentiment they contain. And when we are informed , 
 that, at the very time the noble author was issuing Fare-Thee-JVell 
 into the world, he was busy in the composition of amorous verses to 
 his kept Mistress, who can give him credit for sincerity of affection? 
 
 B, S. N. 
 
 Fare Thee Well 
 
 Alas they had been friends in Youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above : 
 And life is thorny; and youth is vain: 
 And to be wrath with one we Love, 
 Doth work like madness in the brain : 
 
 
96 
 
 But never either found another 
 
 To free the hollow heart from paining — 
 
 They stood aloof , the scars remaining , 
 
 Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder; 
 
 A dreary sea now flows between, 
 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
 
 Shall wholly do away I ween, 
 
 The marks of that which once hath been. 
 
 Coleridge's Chnstabel 
 
 Fare Thee Well! and if for ever, 
 
 Still for ever, fare thee well: 
 E'en though unforgiving , never 
 
 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
 Would that breast were bared before thee 
 
 Where thy head so oft hath lain , 
 While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
 Which thou ne'er canst know again : 
 Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
 
 Every inmost thought could show! 
 Then thou wouldst at last discover 
 
 'Twas not well to spurn it so. 
 Though the World for this commend thee — 
 
 Though it smile upon the blow , 
 E'en its praises must offend thee, 
 
 Founded on another's wo 
 
 Though my many faults defaced me , 
 
 Could no other arm be found 
 Than the one which once embraced me , 
 
 To inflict a cureless wound? 
 Yet , oh yet, thyself deceive not! 
 Love may sink by slow decay, 
 But, by sudden wrench, believe not 
 
 Hearts can thus be torn away ! 
 Still thy own its life retaineth — 
 
 Still must mine , though bleeding beat ; 
 And the undying thought which paineth, 
 
 Is « — that we no more may meet. 
 These are words of deeper sorrow 
 
 Than the wail above the Dead; 
 Both shall live , but every morrow . 
 
 Wake us from a widowed bed. 
 And when thou wouldst solace gather,' 
 When our Child's first accents flow, 
 Wilt thou teach her to say — lt Father ! ". 
 Though his care she must forego ? 
 
. 97 
 
 "When her iittle hands shall press thee , 
 
 When her lip to thine is pressed , 
 Think of Him whose prayer shall bless thee, 
 
 Think of him thy love has blessed! 
 Should her lineaments resemble 
 
 Those thou never more mayest see, 
 Then , thy heart will softly tremble 
 
 With a pulse yet true to me. 
 All my faults , perchance, thou knowest , 
 
 All my madness none can know; 
 All my hopes , where'er thou goest , 
 
 "Whither, yet with thee they go. 
 Every feeling has been shaken ; 
 
 Pride, which not a World could bow, 
 Bows to Thee — by thee forsaken , 
 
 E'en my soul forsakes me now! 
 But 'lis done — all words are idle — 
 Words from me are vainer still; 
 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 Force their way, without the will- 
 
 Fare thee well! — thus disunited, 
 Torn from every nearer tie, 
 
 Seared in heart , andlone , and blighted , 
 More than this 1 scarce can die. 
 
 Byk'on. 
 
 Sensibility, 
 
 Dear Sensibility! source inexhausted of all that's precious 
 in our joys, or costly in our sorrows ! Thou chainest thy 
 martyr down upon his bed of straw , and 'tis Thou who 
 liftest him up to Heaven. Eternal fountain of our feel- 
 ings — Mis here 1 trace Thee! and this is thy l< divinity 
 which stirs within me"; not that, in some sad and sicken- 
 ing moments, "ray soul shrinks back upon herself, and 
 startles at destruction" — mere pomp of words ! — but 
 that I feel some generous joys and generous cares beyond 
 myself, all comes from Thee , great — great Sensorium of 
 the world, which vibrates if a hair of our head, but falls 
 upon the ground in the remotest desert of thy creation. 
 Touched with Thee, Eugenius draws my curtain when I 
 languish; hears my tale of sjmiptoms , and blames the 
 weather for the disorder of his nerves. Thou givestapor- 
 
 7 
 
98 
 
 tion of it sometimes to the roughest peasant who traverses 
 the bleakest mountains — he finds the lacerated Lamb 
 of another's flock — — this moment I beheld him , leaning 
 with his head against his crook, with pitious inclination, 
 looking down upon it — ft Oh had I come one moment 
 sooner — it bleeds to death ! " — his gentle heart bleeds 
 with it. Peace to thee, generous swain ! I see thou walk- 
 est off with anguish — but thy joys shall balance it; for 
 happy is thy cottage, and happy is the sharer of it, and 
 happy are the Iambs which sport about yoa. 
 
 Stebne. 
 
 England. 
 
 England ! with all thy faults , I love thee still — 
 
 My Country ! and while yet a nook is left 
 
 Where English minds and manners may be found , 
 
 Shall be constrained to love Thee. Though thy clime 
 
 Be fickle , and thy year most part deformed 
 
 "With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, 
 
 I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies , 
 
 And fields without a flower, for warmer France 
 
 "With all her vines : nor for Ausonia's groves 
 
 Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. 
 
 To shake thy Senate, and, from heights sublime 
 
 Of patriot eloquence, to flash down fire 
 
 Upon thy foes, was never meant my task; 
 
 But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake 
 
 Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart 
 
 As any thunderer there: and I can feel 
 
 Thy follies too; and, with a just disdain, 
 
 Frown at effeminates , whose very looks 
 
 Reflect dishonor on the Land I love. 
 
 How, in the name of soldiership and sense, 
 
 Should England prosper, when such Things, as smooth 
 
 And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er 
 
 With odors i and as profligate as sweet — * 
 
 "Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath , 
 
 And Love when they should Fight — when such as these 
 
 Presume to lay their hand upon the Ark 
 
 Of her magnificent and aweful cause ! 
 
 Time was When it was praise and boast enough 
 
 In every clime, and travel where we might, 
 
99 
 
 That we were born lier Children — Praise enough 
 
 To fill the ambition of a private man , 
 
 That Chatham's language was his Mother-tongue, 
 
 And Wolfe's great name Compatriot with his own. 
 
 Farewel those honors! and farewel, with them, 
 
 The hope of such hereafter i they have fallen — 
 
 Each in his field of glory ; one in Arms , 
 
 And one in Council ■ Wolfe upon the lap 
 
 Of smiling Victory that moment won , 
 
 And Chatham Heart-sick of his Country's shame/ 
 
 They made us many Soldiers. Chatham , still 
 
 Consulting England's happiness, at home, 
 
 Secured it, by an unforgiving frown, 
 
 If any wronged her; Wolfe, where'er he fought, 
 
 Put so much of his Heart into his Act, 
 
 That his example had a magnet force, 
 
 And all were swift to follow Whom all loved. 
 
 Those Suns are set. O rise some other such ! 
 
 Or all that we have left is empty talk 
 
 Of old achievements and despair of new. 
 
 Cowper, 
 
 Young b. 1681; d. 1765. 
 The Death of Altamont. (a) 
 
 The sad evening before the Death of that noble Youth , 
 whose last hours suggested the preceding thoughts , I was 
 with him. No one was there, 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! I have nei- 
 ther Life nor Hope. You both aim at miracles — you 
 would raise the Dead." 
 
 Heaven , I said , was merciful — • 
 
 "Or I could not have been thus guilty! What has it 
 not done to bless and save me ? I have been too strong 
 for Omnipotence! I plucked down ruin I " 
 
 I said the blessed Redeemer — 
 
 "Hold, Hold! you wound me! That is the Roc); on 
 which I split / denied his Name ! 
 
 Refusing to hear anything from me or take anything 
 
 (a) Altamont , was the gay and all-accomplithed , Lord Eustpn, 
 
lOO 
 
 from the Physician, he lay silent, as far as sudden darts 
 of pain would permit, until the Clock struck — then, 
 with vehemence , he exclaimed — - 
 
 "O Time! Time! it is ht' thou shouldst thus strike thy 
 Murderer to the heart. How art thou fled for ever! A 
 
 month! « oh, for a single week! — * I ask not for years, 
 
 though an age were too short for the much I have to do." 
 On my saying, we could not do too much; that Heaven 
 was a Messed place — 
 
 " So much the worse — 'tis lost! 'tis lost! Heaven is, 
 to me, the severest part of Hell 1" 
 Soon after, 1 proposed Prayer — 
 
 "Pray you that can! I never prayed — I cannot pray — 
 nor need 1 ! Is not fleaven on my side already? It closes 
 with my Conscience. Its severest strokes but second my own." 
 His friend being much touched, even to tears, at this—* 
 who could refrain? 1 could not — with a most affection- 
 ate look he said — 
 
 " Keep those tears for thyself. I have undone thee ! 
 Dost thou weep for me? That's cruel! What can pain 
 me more? " 
 
 Here his friend, too much affected, would have left him — 
 "Nay, stay! Thou still mayest Hops; therefore hear 
 me. How madly have I talked — how madly hast thou 
 listened, and believed! (a) But look on my present 
 state , as a full answer to thee, and to mj'self. 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 Suffer. And that, which thus 
 triumphs within the jaws of Mortality, is, douhtless , Im- 
 mortal! and as for a. Deity — no thing less than Almightiness 
 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 very pas- 
 sionately prevented me — 
 
 "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 fragments 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 but half the 
 mountain that is on me, thou wouldst struggle with the 
 Martyr for his stake , and bless Heaven for the flames — 
 
 (a) Allamont is here referring to the past, when he had successfully 
 labored to iustil the principles of Infidelity into the bosom of bis IVjeml. 
 
lOl 
 
 that is not an everlasting flame ! that is not an unquench- 
 able fire ! " 
 
 How were we struck! yet, soon after, still more; when 
 with an eye of distraction , and a face of despair , 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 most indulgent, Lord God! Hell itself is a refuge, if 
 it hide me from thy frown ! ** 
 
 Soon after, his Understanding failed. His terrified imag- 
 ination uttered horrors not to be repeated , or ever for- 
 gotten: and ere the sun arose, the gay, young, noble ingeni- 
 ous , accomplished, and most wretched Altamont — -expired. 
 
 If this is a Man of Pleasure , what is a Man of Pain? 
 How quick, how total, is the transit of these Pkaetonti- 
 ades! In what a dismal gloom they set for ever. How 
 short, alas! the day of their rejoicing. For a moment they 
 glitter, they dazzle: in a moment where are they? Obliv- 
 ion covers their memories ■ ah, would it did! Infamy 
 
 snatches them from Oblivion: in the long-living annals of 
 Infamy their triumphs are recorded. Their sufferings still 
 bleed in the bosom (poor Altamont!) of the heart-stricken 
 friend: for Altamont had a Friend. He might have had 
 many. His transient morning might have \^^^ the dawn 
 of an inmortal day. His Name might have been gloriously 
 enrolled in the records of Eternity. His Memory might 
 have left a sweet fragrance behind it, grateful to the sur- 
 viving friend, salutary to the succeeding generations. With 
 what capacities was he endowed — with what advantages, 
 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 blessed with the best ca- 
 pacity of being right. Young's Centaur. 
 
 John Wesley b. 1703 j d. 1791. 
 
 Charles Wesley b. 1709; d. 1788. 
 
 The Rev. John Wesley, of Arminian celebrity, was the founder of 
 that once despised Christian Sect which has now become the most 
 numerous upon earth; and Charles was his steady and powerful sup- 
 porter : the many able Preachers and celebrated Scholars found 
 among the body of Methodists, have raised Methodism out of that 
 obliquy into which it was cast by the influence of prejudice, bigo- 
 try, and malice. 13. S. N. 
 
102 
 
 On the Death of the 
 Reverend CHARLES WESLEY. 
 
 They tliat be Wise shall shine as the brightness of the Firmament ; 
 and they that tarn many to Righteousness, as the Stars , for ever and ever. 
 
 Daniel XII & 3. 
 
 Be still, ye Winds! ye Zephyrs! cease to blow, 
 Whilst music , most melodious , strikes my ear ; 
 
 Let me , in silent rapture lulled , below 
 The song of triumph , dirge of Angels , hear. 
 
 Some more than common cause — some great event, 
 Hath called these tuneful Seraphim from higli j 
 
 They surely come on Heavenly errand sent , 
 To tend some Prince , and bear him to the sky. 
 
 A Prince indeed ! a Standard-bearer too ! 
 In Britain born , the Poet of his day! 
 
 From Israel's Camp he but this moment flew — 
 Prepare , ye heavenly gates ! to give him way. 
 
 ce Come hither Son ! " — the great Jehovah says , 
 And reaches out to him a golden lyre: 
 
 " Thou sungst my Name on earth , ,in human lays , 
 Now take thy seat amid this tuneful quire!" 
 
 I see, methinks, the whole Harmonic band, 
 A David, Asaph, Moses, full of love, 
 
 In eager expectation ready stand, 
 To welcome Wesley to the Courts above. 
 
 The famed Parnassus with success he trod, 
 And tasted all that Helicon could bring; 
 
 But, not content, he sought the Mount of God ; 
 And there, with rapture, drank a purer spring. 
 
 He culled what sweets famed Oxford e'er could yield , 
 The honey sipped of Academic lore, 
 
 But still he sought a more capacious field; 
 His ardent soul still thirsted after more. 
 
 Ah, Britons! will ye now revere his worth? 
 Your loss, is surely his eternal gain! 
 
 The Hymns he taught you, whilst confined an earth, 
 He sings with Angels , in a nobler strain. 
 
io5 
 
 O tliat a ShreM might from Jris Mantle fall, 
 And some young Briton catch it, as he flies! 
 
 O that his spirit might descend on all! 
 And from his Urn another Phenix rise. 
 
 With all his soul, he sought the Church's weal, 
 The Church of England always near his heart ; 
 
 He had an ardent , yet well-tempered zeal , 
 And kept, till death, a most consistent part. 
 
 Ah ! can I e'er forget the briny tears , 
 Which he, o'er London, oft in pity shed; 
 
 His groans, his sighs, his most pathetic prayers, 
 Which he poured out for that proud City — dead ! 
 
 Tea, Dead in Sins , and glorying in her shame, 
 Though favored with the Gospel's brightest ray; 
 
 Audaciously rejecting Jesu's Name — - 
 The Offers spurning of a gracious day ! 
 
 Posterity shall hear, and long rehearse, 
 The healing virtues of a Saviour's Name — 
 
 Myriads unborn shall sing in Wesley's verse , 
 And still reiterate the pleasing theme, (a) 
 
 Ye faithful souls! who know, and feel your loss , 
 Who mourn a Father , Shepherd , and a Friend ; 
 
 To you He still cries out — "Sustain the Cross! 
 "Make sure the Crown, believing to the end: 
 
 "I'm safely] landed, now, beyond the Flood — 
 'Twas but a moment's passage, calm, serene; 
 
 " Our Saviour led me o'er, and by me stood , 
 "To cheer my heart, and give me peace within: 
 
 "And, since the clog of Flesh is laid aside , . 
 "The Face of God , with extacy, I view; 
 
 "As, when ye pass o'er Jordan's swelling tide, 
 " Without a vail , ye shall behold Him too : 
 
 "And when ye make this happy, happy coast , 
 f'Your Spirits 1 shall meet, with rapturous joy; 
 
 " Then, mingling with the blessed triumphant host, 
 "A whole Eternity in Praise employ !" g Ladv 
 
 (a) Most of the Hymns in Wesley's Collection, "for the Use of 
 ihe people called Methodists/' were composed by his brother Charles ; 
 they bear the stamp of genuine Poetry, and breathe forth the pure spirit 
 of Piety : they merit the perusal of every deaomimitiou of Christinas. 
 
 
io4 
 
 LIE S. 
 
 A Lie is a breach of promise: for whoever seriously 
 addresses his discourse to another, tacitly promises to sneak 
 the Truth , because he knows that the Truth is expected. 
 
 Or the obligation of veracity may be made out from the 
 direct ill consequences of Lying to social happiness. Which 
 consequences consist, either in some specific injury to 
 particular individuals , or in the destruction of that confi- 
 dence Avhich is essential to the intercourse of human life; 
 for which latter reasons , a Life may be pernicious in its 
 general tendency, and therefore criminal, though it pro- 
 duce no particular or visible mischiefs to any one. 
 
 There are Falsehoods which are not Lies; that is, which 
 are not criminal; as — — 
 
 I. Where no one is deceived; which is the case in 
 Parables, Fables, Novels, Jests, Tales to create mirth, 
 Ludicrous-embellishments of a story, where the declared 
 design, of the speaker is not to Inform, but to Divert; 
 Compliments in the subscription of a letter, a servant's 
 Denying his master, a prisoner's pleading Not-guilty, an 
 advocate asserting the Justice of his client's cause. In such 
 instances no Confidence is destroyed, because none was 
 reposed; no Promise to speak the truth is violated, be- 
 cause none was given , nor understood to be given. 
 
 II. Where the person to whom you speak lias no Right 
 to know the truth — or, more properly, where little or 
 no inconveniency results from the want of Confidence in 
 such cases; as where you tell a Falsehood to a Madman, 
 for his own advantage; to a Robber to conceal your pro- 
 perty; to an Assassin, to defeat or to divert him from his 
 purpose. The particular consequence is , by the supposi- 
 tion, beneficial; and, as to the general conseque nee , the 
 worst that can happen is, that the Madman, the Robber, 
 the Assassin, will not Trust you again; Avhich (beside that 
 the first is incapable of deducing regular conclusions from 
 having been once deceived, and the two last not likely to 
 come a second time in your way) is sufficiently compen- 
 sated by the immediate benefit which you propose by the 
 .Falsehood. 
 
 It is upon this principle, that, by the Laws of War, it 
 is allowed to deceive an enemy by feints , false colors , (a) 
 spies, false intelligence, and the like; but by no means in 
 
 (a) There have been some instances of English Ships, as well as 
 others, decoying an Enemy into their power, by counterfeiting signals 
 of distress} an artifice winch ought to be reptobated by the couunou 
 
io5 
 
 treaties, truces, signals of capitulation, or surrender: 
 and the difference is, that the former suppose hostilities 
 to continue, the latter are calculated to terminate or sus- 
 pend thern. In the conduct of War , and whilst the war 
 continues, there is no use, or rather no place, for Confi- 
 dence betwixt the contending parties ; but in whatever re- 
 lates to the termination of War, the most religious fidelity 
 is expected; because, without it, Wars could not cease > nor 
 the Victors be secure, but by the entire destruction of the 
 vanquished* 
 
 Many people indulge, in serious discourse, a habit of 
 Fiction and Exaggeration , in the accounts they give of 
 themselves , of their acquaintance, or of the extraordinary 
 things which they have seen or heard; and so long as the 
 Facts they relate are indifferent, and their narratives, 
 though false, are inoffensive, it may seem superstitions 
 regard to Truth, to censure them merely for Traill's sake. 
 in the first place, it is almost impossible to pronounce 
 beforehand, with certainty, concerning any Lie, that.it is 
 inoffensive. Volat irrevocabile; and collects sometimes 
 accretions in its flight, which intirely change its nature. Jt 
 may owe possibly its mischief to the ofiiciousness or mfs- 
 representalion of those who circulate it; but the mischief 
 is , nevertheless, in some degree, chargeable upon the ori- 
 ginal editor. In the next place , this Liberty in conversa- 
 tion-defeats its own end. Much of the pleasure, and all 
 the benefit of conversation , depends upon our opinion of 
 the speaker's veracity; for which this rule leaves no foun- 
 dation. The Faith indeed of a hearer must be extremely 
 perplexed, Avho considers the speaker, or believes that the 
 speaker considers himself, as under no obligation to adhere 
 to Truth, but according to the particular importance of 
 what he relates. 
 
 But beside and above both these reasons , white Lies 
 always introduce others of a darker complection. 1 have 
 seldom known any one who deserted Truth in trifles , that 
 could be trusted in matters of importance, Nice distinc- 
 tions are out of the question, upon occasions which, like 
 those of Speech, return every hour. The habit , therefore, 
 of Lying , when once formed, is easily extended to serve 
 the designs of Malice or Interest; like all habits, it spreads 
 indeed of itself. 
 
 indignation of mankind: for captures effected through this stratagem , 
 or more properly trick , must necessarily put an end to that promp- 
 titude in affording assistance to Ships in distress which is one of the 
 leading virtues in the seafaring character. 
 
io6 
 
 Pious frauds , as they are improperly enough called , 
 Pretended-inspirations , Forged-books, Counterfeit-miracles, 
 are impositions of a more serious nature. It is possible 
 that they may sometimes, though seldom, have been set 
 up and encouraged, with a design to do Good: but the good 
 they aim at, requires that the belief of them should be 
 perpetual , which is hardly possible ; and the detection of 
 the fraud is sure to disparage the credit of all Pretensions 
 of a like nature. Christianity has suffered more injury 
 from this cause, than from all other causes put together. 
 
 As there may be Falsehoods which are not Lies, so there 
 may be Lies without literal or direct Falsehood. An open- 
 ing is always left for this species of prevarication , when 
 the literal and grammatical signification of a sentence is dif- 
 ferent from the popular and customary meaning. It is the 
 wilful Deceit that makes the Lie ; and we wilfully deceive, 
 when our expressions are not true in the sense in which 
 we believe the hearer to apprehend them : besides that it 
 is absurd to contend for any Sense of Words, in opposi- 
 tion to Usage; for all senses of all words are founded upon 
 usage, and upon nothing else. 
 
 Or a man may Act a Lie; as, by pointing his finger in 
 a wrong direction, when a traveller inquires of him his 
 road; or when a tradesman shuts up his windows, to 
 induce his creditors to believe that he is abroad: for to all 
 moral purposes, and therefore as to veracity, speech and 
 action are the same ; speech being only a mode of action. 
 
 Or, lastly, there may be Lies of Omission, A writer of 
 English-history, who, in his account of the reign of Charles 
 the First, should willingly suppress any evidence of that 
 prince's despotic measures and designs , might be said to 
 Lie; for, by entitling his book a History of England , 
 he engaged to relate the whole truth of the History, or at 
 least all that he knows of it, 
 
 Paley's Philosophy* 
 
 I embrace this opportunity of recommending Paleys Philosophy to 
 the attention of every reader — not as an unobjectionable , a perfect 
 work, hut as a work from which most persons may derive considerable 
 benefit. It may be had in one Volume, 8vo» price / 7 : — 
 
 B. S. N. 
 
107 
 
 Gray b. 1716; d. 177 1. 
 
 Perhaps Mr, Gray was the most learned man in Europe. He was 
 equally acquainted with the elegant and profound parts of Science, 
 and that not superficially, but thoroughly. He knew every branch of 
 History ; both natural and civil ; had read all the original historians 
 of England „ France, and Italy; and was a great antiquarian. Criti- 
 cism, metaphysics, morals, politics, made a principal part of his 
 study; voyages and travels , of all sorts, were his favorite amusements; 
 anjd he had a line taste in painting, prints, architecture, and gardening, 
 
 Temple. 
 
 In the character of bis Elegy I rejoice to concur with the common 
 reader ; for by the common sense of readers uncorrupted with literary 
 prejudices, after all the refinements of subtilty and the dogmatism of 
 learning , must be finally decided all claim to poetical honors. The 
 Church-yard abounds with images which find a mirror in every mind, 
 and with sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo. Had Gray 
 written often thus, it had been vain to blame, and useless to praise him. 
 
 Johnsow. 
 
 How many Dutch Translations there are of the following Elegy, I 
 cannot pretend to say ; I have seen half-a-dozen ; but I have not yet 
 met with one that contains the meaning of the Original : nor did I ever 
 meet with a Foreigner who either understood or comprehended it. 
 Should the accompanying Notes , which tacitly point out the errors in 
 the Translations I have seen, aid the general reader in discovering the 
 beauties of this far-famed Elegy, I shall not regret the labor of com- 
 posing them. R s# N> 
 
 AN ELEGY; 
 
 Written in a Country-Church-Yard, 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the ley, 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 The curfew — the bell that was formerly rung at Sun-set, the time 
 
 appointed for the peasantry to cease from their labor. Tolls the 
 
 knell — to toll , is to ring a single bell ; and knell , is a death-bell : 
 
 hence, tolls the knell, means rings the deatli, the .cjose, the end. 
 
 Parting day — - departing, closing day; 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day : 
 The bell announces that the day is done. 
 Lowing herd — mugient, bellowing cattle; loeijend vee. 
 Lea — ground enclosed , not open. 
 Ley — a field; 
 These definitions are given by our Lexicographers; but, if my mem- 
 ory docs not mislead me, I ! have heard the peasantry use lea for a 
 
io8 
 
 common, a moor, een gemeen veld, cene heij ; while they used ley for 
 a field, an enclosure, only: pronouncing lea a perfect rhyme to 
 sea , and ley rhyming with hay — but the proper pronunciation is lea 
 rhyming with the noun sea, and ley with the verb to see* Some co- 
 pies of this Elegy- have lea , and others ley. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds; 
 Save where the beetle wheels his dron}>- flight , 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds — 
 
 Beetle — a night fly, eene tor t een kever. Drowsy — lethargic ; 
 tinklings — the noise of the bells which are fastened to the necks of 
 Sheep , in order to scare animals of prey ; to lull — to compose tu 
 sleep, to quiet; folds — flocks of sheep: thus, 
 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: 
 And sleepy clinkings compose the distant sheep : 
 En net slaperig geklingel sust de ver-af-zynde hudde* 
 
 Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 Of such as , wandering near her silent bower , 
 Molest her antient, eolitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms , that yew-tree's shade , 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
 Each in his narrow cell , for ever laid , 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 Elms and Yews , Ohn en Ipenboomcn, are almost the only Trees which 
 are planted in Country Churchyards , in England : 
 
 "Cheerless , unsocial plants ! that love to dwell 
 Midst sculls and coffins, epitaphs and worms." 
 
 "Where heaves the turf — where the protuberances of earth show the 
 places where interments have been made; hamlet — village, hec Dorp. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
 The swallow, twittering from her straw-built shed, 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 Twittering — a word expressive of that sharp tremulously intermittc \ 
 noise peculiar to the Swallow; clarion — a trumpet, but here, the 
 Crowing of the Cock ; horn — the Huntsman's bugle, de Jagthoom. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care , 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
 Or climb his knees , Ihe envied kiss to share. 
 
log 
 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 
 
 Noch cle vlytigc huisvjonw zich met hare avond zorgen bczig honden : 
 Pronounce busy, biz'-ze ; and housewife, huz'-wiff. Sire — father. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
 Their harrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 
 How jocund did they drive their teams afield ! 
 How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 
 
 Harvest — oogst; sickle — sikfiel; yield — zwichten; harrow hark; 
 
 stubborn — hard , firm ; glebe — turf, soil , ground , earth ; jocund — - 
 merrily, gayly, blithely, blydelyk, vrolyk ; teams afield — a team , is any 
 number of horses or oxen drawing at the same carriage, waggon f 
 plough , harrow, &c. een gespan ; afield — to the field , naar het veld ,- 
 sturdy stroke — forcible , powerful blow, zware , kragtige slag. 
 
 Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
 Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, 
 The short and simple annals of the Poor, 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
 Await alike the inevitable hour: 
 The paths of glory lead but to the Grave ! 
 
 Nor you, ye proud! impute to these the fault, 
 If memory o'er their tombs no trophies raise, 
 Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault , 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of Praise. 
 
 The long-drawn aisle and fretted vault — - long-drawn — extended ; 
 aisle — the walk in a church ; aisles — passages in churches ; pro- 
 nounce aisle, lie: to fret — to form into raised»work, to ornament; 
 vault — a continued arch ; fretted vault — an ornamented arched ceil- 
 ing , een versierd gcwclfsel , common in Churches throughout England ; 
 the pealing anthem — to peal, is to play solemnly and loud ; an anthem, 
 is a sacred, holy song; here, it is a requiem. 
 
 Can storied urn, or animated bust, 
 Pack to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
 Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust ? 
 Or flattery soothe the dull, cold, ear of Death? 
 Fleeting — transient , here , already fled , gevloden. 
 
 Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 
 Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
 Or waked to extacy the living lyre. 
 
 Might have swayed — had their innate powers been ripened by Education. 
 
110 
 
 Bat Knowledge, to tlieir eyes , her ample page, 
 Rich with the spoils of time , did ne'er unrol j 
 Chill penury repressed their noble rage , 
 And froze the genial current of their soul. 
 
 Chill penury — cold poverty, repressing adversity ; noble rage — 
 vigorous fire, patriotic spirit; genial current — natural inclinations, 
 innate propensity*, 
 
 Full many a gem , of purest ray serene, 
 The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear! 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air! 
 
 Full many a gem — very many gems. It is in the nature of the Ar- 
 ticles to determine or limit the thing spoken of; a determines it to be 
 one single thing of the kind, leaving it still uncertain which ; the de- 
 termines which it is, or, of many, which they are: there is, however , 
 a remarkable exception to this Rule in the use of the Adjectives few 
 and many,, which , though joined with plural Substantives , still admit 
 of the singular Article, a or an; as, a few men , a great many men; 
 "Told of a many thousand warlike French" — 
 "A care-crazed mother of a many children." Shakespeare. 
 The reason of this is manifest from the effect which the Article has 
 in these phrases; it means a small or a great number collectively taken, 
 and thereby gives the idea of a whole , that is, of unity; as a hundred , 
 a thousand ,• denoting an aggregate of many collectively taken ; and 
 therefore the article a is used though joined as an Adjective to a plural 
 Substantive; as, a hundred years ; 
 
 "For harbour at a thousand doors they knocked ; 
 Not one of all the thousand , but was locked." Drydbit. 
 *'And it came to pass, about an eight days after these sayings , 
 he took Peter and John and James, and went up into a 
 mountain to pray. ^ ^ /Y ^ ^ ^ 
 
 This sentence , from the Scriptures , is an example of an obsolete 
 expression , or if not obsolete , vulgar; and even improper ; for such 
 phraseology as, an eight days, has not been reduced by use and con- 
 venience into one collective and compact idea, as is the case with 
 a hundred, a thousand , a score , a dozen , a many, a few, which we are 
 accustomed to consider, on certain occasions, as a simple unity* 
 
 In the following Verses , the Poet has placed the article between the 
 adjective many and a singular noun. 
 
 Full many a gem ~ 
 
 Full many a flower — 
 
 referring to many gems and many jlowers , separately, not collectively* 
 
 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood — 
 Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest — 
 Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 
 
Ill 
 
 The applause of listening senates to command, 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land , 
 Or read their history in a nation's eyes, 
 
 Their Lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 
 Their growing virtues — but their crimes confined; 
 Forbade to wade, through slaughter, to a throne, 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to bide, 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame , 
 Or heap the shrine 3 of luxury and pride, 
 With incense kindled at the muse's flame ! 
 
 Far from the madding-crowd's ignoble strife, 
 Their sober wishes never learned to stray; 
 Along the cool, sequestered vale of life, 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 
 
 Madding-crowd — the inconsiderate, the riotous multitude, com- 
 mon in large towns and cities; sober wishes — temperate, regular, 
 calm, free from inordinate passions; sequestered — retired; tenor — 
 course , Aoers, pad, gang. 
 
 Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, 
 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh , 
 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked , 
 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sight. 
 
 Frail memorial — perishable gravestone * not a marble tombstone , 
 but, frequently, an epitaph on Wood, placed upright at the head 
 of the ^rave. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelled by the unlettered muse , 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist — to Die. 
 
 Many a holy Text — it is customary to carve some passage of 
 Scripture on the gravestone; such as, "Set thy house in order, for thou 
 shah Die and not live"; "Prepare to meet thy God "; &c. 
 
 For who, to dumb forgetfulriess a prey, 
 This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind! 
 
 Warm precincts ■— warm , ardent, glowing; precincts — limit, 
 boundary: longing, lingering look behind — longing — desirous; lin- 
 gering — delaying, hesitating to go, desiring to suspend *he departure. 
 
112 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
 E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries; 
 E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 Fond breast — dear, friendly, affectionate, beloved bosom; relies — 
 leans upon in confidence, depends upon; ashes — the little remain, 
 ing life which exists on the verge of Death. 
 
 For Thee! who, mindful of the unhonored dead, 
 Dost, in these lines, their artless tale relate, 
 If, chance by lonely contemplation led , 
 Some kindred spirit should inquire thy fate, 
 Artless tale — plain, unadorned, simple history. 
 
 Haply , some hoary-headed swain may say — 
 "Oft have I seen him , at the peep of dawn, 
 Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn 5 
 
 Haply — perhaps ; hoary-headed swain — grey-headed boor ; peep 
 of dawn — break of day, aanbrekcn van den dag, 
 
 "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech , 
 Which wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
 His listless length, at noontide, would he stretch, 
 And pore upon the brook that bubbles by; 
 
 Nodding beech — heen en weder bidgende beti&enboom ; listless — 
 heedless, careless, indifferent, void of inclination; pore upon the 
 brook — to pore, is, commonly, to look with great care, with intense- 
 ness , but here it means to gaze unthinkingly , to stare with a vacant 
 mind; brook — rivulet, little stream t ebeekje. 
 
 "Hard by yon wood — now, smiling, as in scorn, 
 Muttering his wayward-fancies, he would rove; 
 Now, drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, 
 Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love: 
 
 Hard by — near to , adjacent , dlgt by; wayward-fancies — peevish- 
 imaginings ; rove — wander, zvveiven, dwalen > drooping — languish- 
 ing with sorrow ; woful — wretched; wan — pale, of languid aj pear- 
 ance , bleek , sleeps; forlorn — deserted, destitute, forsaken; crazed 
 with care — distracted with solicitude , over-whelmed with concern , 
 the intellect impaired with anxiety; crossed — thwarted, disappointed. 
 
 "One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill, 
 Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 
 Another came, nor yet beside the rill, 
 Nor up the lawn , nor at the wood was he: 
 
11J 
 
 Heath — a plant, and also a place overgrown with heath ; another 
 came — another morning arrived ; rill — a streamlet , een beekje. 
 
 "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 
 Slow through the church way-path, I saw him borne; 
 Approach and read — for Thou canst read — the lay, 
 Graved on the stone, beneath yon aged thorn." 
 
 The next — the following day, the third day after the hoary-headed 
 6wain had missed the youth ; dirge — a mournful ditty, a song of 
 lamentation , a funeral anthem ; due — fit , appropriate , geschikt; (It is 
 customary, in the Country, for the attendants upon funerals to sing 
 some Psalm or Hymn, suited to the occasion, while conveying the 
 relics to the Churchyard.) in sad array — clothed in mourning habits. 
 
 The Epitaph, 
 
 Here rests his head , upon the lap of earth , 
 A Youth , to fortune and to fame unknown ; 
 Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, - 
 And melancholy marked him for her own ; 
 
 The lap — de schoot. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; 
 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send — 
 
 He gave to Misery, all he had, a Tear; 
 
 He gained from Heaven, 'twas all he wished, 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. 
 
 Gray. 
 
 p Dread abode — aweful resting-place, venerable in the highest 
 degree in this passage , where the abode is said to be the bosom of 
 bis Father — God I 
 
 I embrace this opportunity of recommending , to the Faix-Sex , the 
 various Works of Mrs. and Miss Taylor ; they will be found not merely 
 pleasing hut instructive. The following Letter is the last in Correspondence, 
 
 Hannah More's, Miss Burney's, Mrs. Chapone's, Mary Brunton's, 
 Miss Edgeworth's , and Mrs. Hofland's Works , are also recommend- 
 ed to those Young Ladies whose understandings lead them to read 
 something superior to the common, trash of which most Novels are 
 composed. 
 
 8 
 
n4 
 
 From a Mother to a Daughter. 
 
 My dear Child, 
 
 It might scarcely seem necessary that I should send you 
 a long epistle, just on the eve of your return Home. But 
 as it is a very important period to you, and a very inter- 
 esting and anxious one to me , you will not be surprised 
 that 1 should wish to improve this last opportunity of ad- 
 monishing you by Letter. 
 
 You are about to leave School , and to part with Her 
 who has supplied a mother's place; who has had the care 
 both of your body and mind: and the manner in which 
 she has acquitted herself, demands your lasting gratitude. 
 A proper expression of it will be gratifying to her feel- 
 ings : let it be such as will at once do credit to hers and 
 to yours. 
 
 You are also to part with your young Companions : 
 from some, with whom you have commenced a friendship 
 that promises to be lasting and advantageous , because it 
 aeems to be founded on esteem. I should, indeed, gener- 
 ally, be very cautious in permitting your continued inter- 
 course with them ; because it is not sufficient that I should 
 be satisfied respecting the young people Themselves, I must 
 loiow, also, something of their Connections, before I 
 could either admit them here, or trust you under the roof 
 of a stranger. As to your friend Grace, I should feel but 
 few scruples ; the character and conduct of a young per- 
 son is no very dubious criterion of those of her connec- 
 tions. Yet in a case so important, something more than 
 conjecture is necessary; and this is supplied by Mrs. W's 
 recommendation: so that you may set your heart at rest 
 on that subject, and indulge the hope of occasional inter-* 
 course with your excellent young friend. 
 
 "While I am upon this subject I may observe, that the 
 first visit of a young lady , on her introduction into life , 
 is of more importance than some people seem to be aware 
 of. Inexperienced, giddy, and elated by the novelty of 
 her situation , she frequently, by the levity of her con- 
 duct, and her childish imprudences, produces an unfavor- 
 able impression upon her friends, which may require years 
 of subsequent prudence and regularity to erase. Also, if 
 great caution is not observed in the choice of her Acquain- 
 tance, she is in danger, from a propensity to imitation, of 
 imbibing false principles, and of acquiring bad habits, 
 which cannot be unlearned again at Home without much 
 
n5 
 
 j 
 
 pain and difficulty. Indeed , there are so many snares be- 
 setting her in this situation , that it is well if she be not 
 entangled in some of them. She is, perhaps, introduced 
 to a variety of strangers; with some of whom she may 
 form hasty intimacies, which afterwards prove undesirable. 
 The efforts which are frequently made to amuse and en- 
 tertain a visiter operate unfavorably, by dissipating the 
 mind, and producing a disrelish for the sober occupations 
 of Home. She is more likely to be flattered for her imagi- 
 nary excellencies, than to be told of her real faults: and 
 the natural consequence of all this, is, that her parents, 
 brothers, and sisters, appear to disadvantage, as they can- 
 not, exclusively, devote themselves to her convenience and 
 pleasure. She forgets, that were she to become an in- 
 mate, instead of an occasional visiter, she would cease 
 to experience those attentions by which she is now distin- 
 guished, and that she would soon have to partake of the 
 regular avocations of the rest of the family. To see people 
 as they are , it is necessary to live with them ; and by so 
 doing, we should frequently discover, that your first-sight 
 favorites are not so much more excellent than our old' 
 friends, as a temporary residence with them had inclined 
 us to suppose. This is a digression j but it may serve at 
 once to moderate your expectations, and to afford a useful 
 hint, whenever such a circumstance as a visit among 
 new friends may take place. 
 
 But you are returning Home. It is a comprehensive 
 word, my dear Laura: upon your right estimation of its 
 value greatly depends your future happiness. It is chiefly 
 there that the lustre of the Female character is discernible ; 
 because home is its proper sphere. Men have much to do 
 with the world without; cur field of action is circum- 
 scribed; yet, to confine ourselves within its humble bounds, 
 and to discharge our duties there, may produce effects 
 equally beneficial and extensive with their wider range. 
 It is no mean art to be able to govern well, and those who 
 have proved most successful in the attainment , are gener- 
 ally such as have themselves submitted to be governed. 
 It is the mistake of some young people returning from 
 school, that they think themselves qualified immediately 
 to take the command; and it is a yet greater mistake in 
 those mothers who submit to it. As well might fi a house 
 be broken down, and without walls," as to be left to the 
 guidance of such a manager. She might not, indeed, 
 like her infant brothers and sisters, fall into the fire, or 
 into the water, — throw down the china, or cut herself 
 
nO 
 
 with knives and scissors; but she may, by her exploits , 
 do what is quite as mischievous in its consequences , 
 though less instantaneous in its effects. But. you my dear 
 Laura , have been trained from your childhood in habits of 
 proper subordination: and I should deem such observa- 
 tions altogether superfluous, were it not sometimes seen, 
 that young persons, at this period , undergo a sudden revo- 
 lution; and from the engaging, meek, and tractable Child, 
 start all at once, into the pert, self-willed, young Lady. 
 I must say, however, that the spirit in which your letters 
 appear to be written, leave me little to fear on this subject. 
 You are returning Home — I was going to say, not for 
 the purpose of enjoying yourself, and taking your pleasure — 
 but to a well-regulated mind , the daily routine of Duty is 
 enjoyment ,* to live a life of usefulness, is a perpetual plea- 
 sure. Nor does affluence itself, where it is enjoyed, ex- 
 empt from this obligation: it rather enhances it. Those 
 who suppose otherwise , totally mistake the Purpose for 
 which it is bestowed; and deprive themselves of the prin- 
 cipal satisfaction it is intended to produce. Besides, they 
 are unprepared for Adversity; unlit to cope with the de- 
 privations to which they are exposed, who hold their 
 wordly possessions , as well as the breath of life , by an 
 uncertain tenure. No legal process can so insure our estates, 
 or secure tliem from accident, as to render them cer- 
 tainly unalienable; or prevent our "riches from taking 
 wings and flying away." We may contemplate with plea- 
 sure the prospect of your Establishment in the world, in 
 the same circumstances of comfort which have attended 
 you hitherto. But we do not forget, that it is the JVorld 
 into which we are sending you: and however well equipped 
 you may be for your journey, we cannot foresee what may 
 befal you in the course of it. And whatever may be your 
 future circumstances, habits of Activity and Economy 
 will prove beneficial, and will be no disparagement to 
 any station you may fill. Jf such had not been our habits, 
 perhaps you might have lacked many advantages which 
 you enjoy at the present moment ; and your future pros- 
 pects might have been clouded in the same degree. Through 
 the kindness of Providence, you are returning to a Com- 
 fortable-home: but remember, it is not a Paradise. Yonr 
 parents have their trials to harrass their spirits , and ruffle 
 their tempers, as well as others: and in proportion to yonr 
 filial affection , you will participate in them , and by the 
 tender sympathy of your deportment, manifest that in 
 all our afflictions you are aillicled." Indeed, my dear, 
 
ii 7 
 
 there can be no temporal alleviation of our sorrows, equal 
 to that which arises from this source: the cordials admin- 
 istered by the tender hands of affectionate children , pos- 
 sess the happiest efficacy. If some young persons were 
 aware of this, surely they would be more frequent in 
 the application of them. 
 
 O, my dear Laura, what a blessing you may prove to 
 us! especially to me, your Mother, Shall I find in my 
 beloved child, as she rises to maturity, the confidential 
 Friend, with whom I may take sweet counsel; and on 
 whose bosom, as she once did on mine, I may repose all 
 my cares? — One, who will be indulgent to my Infirmi- 
 ties , attentive to my Wants , and who will plant the vale 
 of life, into which I am gradually descending, with many 
 a flower, such as she can gather, here and there, from the 
 wilderness around ? AVhat a delightful sight it is , (and 
 surely a natural one) when a Mother and Daughter dwell 
 together in unity! It is like the precious ointment, which 
 descended down the vestments of Aaron , and exhaled a. 
 fragrant odor all around. 
 
 Well, you are returning to "your father's house :". 
 and this, in a higher sense, may, 1 trust, be said of us* 
 The World is the great school wherein we are each re- 
 ceiving our education ; and the prosperity and adversity 
 which we experience, are the means whereby the great 
 Governor trains us for a maturer state. When "He visits 
 our transgressions with the rod, and our iniquities with 
 stripes," it is for our final benefit: for He does not "wil- 
 lingly afflict the children of men." When He smiles upon 
 tts by his providence, when He entrusts us with various 
 talents, it is to prove us, whether we will use them for 
 his glory and the good of our fellow creatures. Otherwise 
 he may deprive us of them intirely; or, what is worse, 
 continue them without his Blessing; and desist from fa- 
 therly correction , saying, "Why should they be smitten 
 any more ? — they will yet revolt." 
 
 We have a task assigned us; and the day of our dis- 
 mission from it, although to us unknown, is immutably 
 fixed by Him, who has " the keys of Death.'* May Divine 
 Grace so prepare our dear Laura , that when she is sum- 
 moned home by her heavenly Father, she may obey the 
 call without reluctance; and earnestly longing, as she 
 now is, to return to the abode of her Earthly parent, 
 may she then feel a still greater "desire to depart and 
 io be with Christ, which is far better!" 
 
 Your affectionate Mother.'. 
 
Il8 
 
 Hkhry Vth's Address to his Soldiers, 
 On St. Crispin' s-day-y at Agincourt. 
 
 Act IV; Scene III, 
 
 The English Camp. 
 
 Enter the English Host ; (a) Gloster, Bedford, Exeter , 
 Salisbury and WiisxMORELA.KD. 
 
 Glos. Where is the king? 
 
 Bed. The king himself 
 
 Is rode to see the Battle, (b) 
 
 West. Of fighting men 
 
 They have full threescore thousand. 
 
 Ex.- That's Five to One; (c) besides, they all are fresh.- 
 
 Sal. God's Arm strike with us ! 'Tis a fearful odds. 
 God be wi' ye princes all ! I'll to my charge : 
 If no more we meet, till we meet in heaven, 
 Then joyfully, my noble lord of Bedford — 
 My dear lord Gloster — and my good lord Exeter — 
 And my kind kinsman — warriors all — adieu ! 
 
 Bed. Farewel , good Salisbury ; and good-luck go with thee I 
 
 Ex. Farewel , kind lord ; fight valiantly today — 
 And yet I do thee wrong, to mind thee of it, 
 For thou art framed of the firm truth of valor. (Exit Sal* 
 
 Bed. He is as full of valor as of kindnessj " 
 Princely in both. 
 
 West, O that we now had here (Enter King Henry. 
 
 But one Ten thousand of those men in England , 
 That do no work today I 
 
 King Henry. What's lie that wishes so ? 
 
 My cousin Westmoreland! No, my fair cousin — 
 If we are marked to Die , we are enow 
 To do our country loss ; and if to Live , 
 The fewer men the greater share of honor. 
 
 (a) Host — army, heir, legen 
 
 (bj Battle — a body of forces, or division of an army; here, the 
 main body, as distinct from the van and rear. 
 
 (c) That's Five to One — the king says , Twenty to One — " the 
 French may lay twenty French crowns to one , they will beat us ; for 
 they bear them on their shoulders:" here, the king uses crowns as a 
 synonyme with heads. 
 
 The Historical facts are these — on 2$ October, i/»i5, Henry, 
 at the head of "Nine thousand men", attacked the Constable of Fiance, 
 d'Albret, who headed an Army "nearly Ten times that number;" "the 
 French lost 10.000 men and 14.000 prisoners — the English only Forty 
 men in all!" Among the former were many Princes and Noble*, 
 among the latter the Duke of York and the Earl of Suffolk. 
 
**9 
 
 God's will! I pray thee, wish not One man more. 
 
 By Jove ! I am not covetous of gold ; 
 
 Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost ; 
 
 Jt yearns me not (a) if men my garments wear; 
 
 Such outward things dwell not in my desires : 
 
 But, if it be a Sin to covet Honor — 
 
 I am the most offending soul alive! 
 
 No, 'faith, my coz , wish not a man from England: 
 
 God's Peace! I would not lose so great an honor 
 
 As One man more, methinks , would share from me," 
 
 For the best hopes I have! O, do not wish One more -— 
 
 Piather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my Host, 
 
 That — He who hath no stomach (6) to this fight , 
 
 Let him depart; his Pasport shall be made , 
 
 And Crowns, for convoy, put into his purse: —— 
 
 "We would not Die in that man's company, 
 
 Who fears his fellowship to die with us I 
 
 This day is called , The feast of Crispian — (c) 
 
 He that outlives this day, and comes safe home , 
 
 "Will stand a tip-toe (d) when this day is named, 
 
 And rouse him at the Name of Crispian t 
 
 He that shall live this day, and see Old-age , 
 
 Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, 
 
 And say — ■ Tomorrow is Saint Crispian! 
 
 Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars, 
 
 And say — These wounds I had on Crispin? s-day ! 
 
 Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, 
 
 But he'll remember, with advantages, 
 
 What feats he did that day: (V) then shall our Names, 
 
 (Familiar in his month as household words ,) 
 
 Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, 
 
 Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster , 
 
 Be in the flowing cups freshly remembered : 
 
 This story shall the good man teach his son ; 
 
 (a) It yearns me not — het raalct my niet, 
 
 (6) Stomach — inclination , desire , verlangen, 
 
 (c) The feast of Crispian — • St. Crispin and St. Crispin ian were 
 Shoemakers; two brothers , who came from Rome to preach Christianity 
 at Soissons , in France, "towards the middle of the third century," 
 and suffered martyrdom " about the year 287," under the government 
 ofRictius Varus, *' the most implacable enemy of the Christian name." 
 St. Crispin's-day is yet a day of feasting and jollity among the Shoe- 
 makers and Cobblers in England. 
 
 (</) Will stand a tip-toe — op de toonen staan. 
 
 (<?) Old men for«et ; &c. — notwithstanding the natural forgetful— 
 ncss of Age, yet shall this day be remembered while memory exists j 
 aud an the eve the old man shall magnify the feat* this day performed. 
 
120 
 
 And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, 
 
 From this day to the ending of the world, 
 
 But we in it shall be remembered: 
 
 We few, we happy few! we band of Brothers — • 
 
 For He , today that sheds his Blood with me , 
 
 Shall be my Brother! be He e'er so vile, 
 
 This day shall gentle his condition! (a) 
 
 And gentlemen in England, now a-bed , 
 
 Shall think themselves accursed, they were not here; 
 
 And hold their manhoods cheap (6) while any speaks, 
 
 That fought with us upon Saint Crispin' s-day! 
 
 Enter Salisbury. 
 
 I 
 Sal, My Sovereign Lord , bestow yourself with speed ; 
 
 The French are bravely in their battles set , (cj 
 
 And will with all expedience charge on ns^ 
 King. All things are ready, if our Minds be so. 
 W est. Perish the man whose mind is backward now ! 
 King. Thou dost not wish more help from England Cousin ? 
 West. God's will, 'my Liege, 'would you and 1 alone, 
 
 Without more help , might fight tl.is battle out ! 
 King, Why, now , thou hast unwished Five thousand men ; 
 
 Which likes me better (&) than to wish us One. 
 
 You know your places — God^ be with you all! 
 
 Sui.KESPEA.Ilfi. 
 
 (a) Re lie e'er so vile , tins day shall gentle his condition — no 
 tmtter how low his rank in life, how mean his birth, the act of his 
 fighting this day, against such odds, shall raise him to the rank of a 
 Gentleman. 
 
 (b) And hold their manhoods cheap — and think bat little of the 
 feats they have performed, when contrasted with this day's achieve- 
 ments : manhood is heie indicative of the deed which may have 
 been done; and cheap means valueless, insignificant, too trilling to 
 be mentioned* 
 
 (c) The French are bravely in their battles set — bravely — splen- 
 didly, ostentatiously; battles — divisions; battles set — set iu battle- 
 array, prepared for action, for onset; — thus, the forces of the enemy 
 are splendidly arranged. 
 
 f d) Which likes me better — this phraseology is obsolete in Eng- 
 land, though heard daily in this country; owing, I conceive, to the 
 old but bad custom of permitting Student:; in the language to Trans- 
 late before they have acquired a sufficient knowledge of the Tongue. 
 That it was once customary, the following passages bear testimony — 
 Or lips he laid on thing that liked them best, 
 Should be his prey. Spencer. 
 
 He shall dwell where it liketh him best* 
 
 Deuteronomy. 
 
 There let them learn, as likes them , to despise 
 God and Messiah. Milton* 
 
LECTURE VI. 
 
 An Examination of Compositions in Verse. 
 
 DR YD EN and POPE 
 in 
 
 Parallelism. 
 
 Pope professed to have learned his Poetry from Dry- 
 den , whom , whenever an opportunity was presented , he 
 praised through his whole life with unvaried liberality; 
 and perhaps his character may receive some illustration, 
 if he be compared with his master. 
 
 Integrity of understanding and nicety of discernment 
 were not allotted in a less proportion to Dryden than to 
 Pope. The rectitude of Dryden's mind was sufficiently 
 shown by the dismission of his poetical prejudices, and 
 the rejection of unnatural thoughts and rugged numbers. 
 But Dryden never desired to apply all the judgement 
 that he had. He wrote , and professed to write , merely 
 for the people; and when he pleased others he contented 
 himself. He spent no time in struggles to rouse latent 
 powers; he never attempted to make that better which 
 was already good , nor , often , to mend what he must 
 have known to be faulty. He wrote , as he tells us , 
 with very little consideration ; when occasion or neces- 
 sity called upon him, he poured out what the present 
 moment happened to supply, and, when once it had 
 passed the press, ejected it from his mind; for, when 
 he had no pecuniary interest he had no further solicitude. 
 
 Pope was not content to satisfy ; he desired to excel , 
 and therefore always endeavoured to do his hest: he 
 did not court the candor, but dared the judgement, of 
 liis reader; and, expecting no indulgence from others, 
 he showed none to himself. He examined lines and 
 words with minute and punctilious observation, and re- 
 touched every part with indefatigable diligence, till he 
 had left nothing to be forgiven. 
 
122 
 
 Pope had, perhaps, the judgement of Dryden; but 
 Dryden certainly wanted the diligence of Pope. 
 
 In acquired knowledge, the superiority must be allowed 
 to Dryden, whose education was more scholastic, and 
 who, before he became an author, had been allowed more 
 time for study, with better means of information. His 
 mind has a larger range, and he collects his images and 
 illustrations from a more extensive circumference of 
 science. Dryden knew more of man in his general nature, 
 and Pope in his local manners. The notions of Dryden 
 were formed by comprehensive speculation, and those of 
 Pope by minute attention. There is more dignity in the 
 knowledge of Dryden , and more certainty in that of Pope. 
 
 Poetry was not the sole praise of either: for both 
 excelled likewise in Prose; but Pope did not borrow 
 his Prose from his predecessor. The style of Dryden is 
 capricious and varied; that of Pope is cautious and 
 uniform. Dryden obeys the motion of his own mind; 
 Pope constrains his mind to his own rules of composi- 
 tion. Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid; Pope 
 is always smooth, uniform, and gentle. Dryden's page 
 is a natural held, rising into inequalities, and diversified 
 by the varied exuberance of abundant vegetation; Pope's 
 is a velvet lawn, shaven by the sythe, and levelled by 
 the roller. 
 
 Of genius — that power which constitutes a Poet , that 
 quality without which judgement is cold, and knowledge 
 is inert; that energy which collects, combines, amplifies, 
 and animates; the superiority must , with some hesitation, 
 be allowed to Dryden. It is not to be inferred, that of 
 this poetical vigor Pope had only a little, because Dry- 
 den had more , for every other writer since Milton must 
 give place to Pope ; and even of Dryden it must be said, 
 that if he has brighter Paragraphs, he has not better Poems. 
 Dryden's performances were always hasty, either excited 
 by some external occasion, or extorted by domestic ne- 
 cessity; he composed without consideration , and published 
 Without correction. What his mind could supply at call, 
 or gather in one excursion , was all that he gave. The 
 dilatory caution of Pope enabled him to condense his sen- 
 timents , to multiply his images , and to accumulate all 
 that Study might produce, or Chance might supply. If 
 the flights of Dryden, therefore , are higher , Pope contin- 
 ues longer on the wing. If of Dryden's fire the blaze is 
 brighter, of Pope's the heat is more regular and constant. 
 Dryden often surpasses expectation, atid Pope never falls 
 
123 
 
 below it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment , and 
 Pope with perpetual delight. 
 
 This Parallel will, I hope , when it is well considered, 
 be found just ; and if the reader should suspect me , as I 
 suspect myself, of some partial fondness for the memory 
 of Dryden , let him not too hastily condemn me ; for med- 
 itation and inquiry may, perhaps , show him the reason- 
 ableness of my determination. 
 
 Jonhson. 
 
 Alexander's Feast; 
 
 An Ode in honor of St. Cecilia's- Day, 
 
 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won, 
 By Philp's warlike son: 
 Aloft , in aweful state , 
 The god-like Hero sate, 
 On his imperial throne: 
 His valiant, peers were placed around; 
 Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound j 
 So should Desert in Arms be crowned. 
 The lovely Thais by his side 
 Sat, like a blooming eastern bride, 
 In flower of youth and beauty's pride; 
 Happy, happy, happy pair! 
 None but the brave , 
 None but the brave, 
 None but the brave deserve the Fair. 
 
 Timotheus, placed on high, 
 Amid the tuneful quire , 
 "With flying fingers touched the lyre; 
 The trembJing notes ascend the sky, 
 And heavenly joys inspire. 
 The song began from Jove, 
 "Who left his blissful seats above , 
 Such is the power of mighty Love! 
 A dragon's fiery form belied the God : 
 Sublime on radiant spires he rode, 
 
 When he to fair Olympia pressed , 
 And stamped an image of Himself — a sovereign 
 of the world. 
 
iq4 
 
 The listening crowd admire the lofty sound; 
 A present deity! they shout around: 
 A present Deity! the vaulted roofs rebound: 
 With ravished ears, 
 The monarch hears; 
 Assumes the God, 
 Affects to nod, 
 And seems to shake the spheres; 
 
 The praise of Bacchus, then the sweet musician sung; 
 Of Bacchus , ever fair , and ever young ; 
 The jolly god in triumph comes — 
 Sound the trumpets , beat the drums ! 
 Flushed with a purple grace, 
 He shows his honest face. 
 Now give the hautboys breath — he comes ! he comes ! 
 Bacchus , ever fair and young , 
 Drinking joys did first ordain: 
 Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, 
 Drinking! is the soldier's pleasure; 
 Rich the treasure, 
 Sweet the pleasure; 
 Sweet is pleasure after pain. 
 Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain; 
 Fought all his battles o'er again; 
 And thrice he routed all his foes ; and th rice he slew the slain . 
 
 The master saw the madness rise — 
 His glowing cheeks , his ardent eyes ; 
 And, while He heaven and earth defied, 
 Changed his hand, and checked his pride. 
 He chose a mournful muse — - 
 Soft Pity to infuse: 
 He sung Darius, great and good, 
 By too severe a fate ; 
 Fallen! fallen! fallen! fallen! 
 Fallen from his high estate , 
 And weltering in his blood: 
 Deserted at his utmost need 
 By those his former bounty fed, 
 On the bare earth exposed he lies , 
 "With not a friend to close his eyes. 
 With downcast look the joyless Victor sate ,' 
 Revolving, in his altered soul, 
 The various turns of fate below; 
 And now and then a sigh he stole, 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
135 
 
 The mighty master smiled, to see 
 That Love was in the next degree: 
 'Twas but a kindred sound to move; 
 For Pity melts the mind to Love. 
 
 Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, 
 Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. 
 War! he sung, is toil and trouble; 
 Honor! but an empty bubble; 
 Never ending, still beginning, 
 Fighting still, and still destroying: 
 
 If the world be worth Thy winning, 
 Think , O think it worth enjoying ! 
 Lovely Thais sits beside thee, 
 Take the good the gods provide thee. 
 
 The many rend the skies with loud applause; 
 So Love was crowned, but Music won the cause. 
 The Prince, unable to conceal his pain, 
 Gazed on the Fair 
 ^Vho caused his care, 
 And sighed and looked! and sighed and looked! . 
 Sighed and looked! and sighed again! 
 At length with Love and "Wine at once oppressed, 
 The vanquished Victor sunk upon her breast. 
 
 Now strike the golden lyre again ; 
 And louder yet — * and yet a louder strain! 
 Break his bands of sleep asunder , 
 And rouse Him , like a rattling peal of thunder. 
 Hark, hark, the horrid sound 
 Has raised up his head , 
 As awaked from the dead, 
 And amazed! he stares round. 
 Revenge ! Revenge ! Timotheus cries , 
 See the furies arise, 
 See the snakes that they rear, 
 How they hiss in the air, 
 And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! 
 Behold a ghastly band, 
 Each a torch in his hand! 
 t These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, 
 And unburied remain 
 Inglorious , on the plain; 
 Give the vengeance due 
 To the valiant crew! 
 Behold ! how they toss their torches on high , 
 
 How they point to the Persian abodes , 
 And glittering temples of their hostile gods! 
 
126 
 
 The princes applaud, with a furious joy; 
 And the King seized a flambeau, with zeal, to destroy; 
 Thais led the way 
 To light him to his prey, 
 And, like another Helen, fired another Troy, 
 
 Thus long ago, 
 
 Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, 
 "While organs yet were mute, 
 Timotheus , to his breathing flute 
 And sounding lyre , 
 Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire; 
 
 At last divine Cecilia came, 
 
 Inventress of the Vocal frame; 
 The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store," 
 
 Enlarged the former narrow bounds , 
 
 And added length to solemn sounds, 
 With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. 
 
 Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
 
 Or both divide the crown: 
 
 He raised a Mortal to the skies — 
 
 She drew an Angel down. Dryden. 
 
 An Agreeable Man. 
 
 London, 1819. 
 What is meant by an Agreeable man? 
 
 In Spain an agreeable man is he who is possessed of a 
 good person, and an incessant flow of talk. The science 
 of conversation is there in its infancy, and no distinction 
 is made between him who talks much and him who talks 
 well. The leading topic of a bel esprit is woman ; and the 
 language itself is so formed as to confine praise or blame 
 intirely to their Bodily qualities. Es buena moza , literally, 
 "she is a Good girl," means, she is a Pretty girl. Tiene 
 merito, "she has Merit," means she has some points in 
 her Face or Figure, Besides being able to decide the pro- 
 per degree of merit which ever}" woman possesses, the 
 Spanish agreeable man is able to cover obscenity with 
 the veil which is just thick enough to make it admissible 
 in good company; though even that is sometimes thrown 
 aside , like those which are worn on the Alameda. From 
 this source he derives tjie principal fund of his conversation, 
 
127 
 
 and makes amends for a total ignorance on every kind of 
 Literature and Politics. But then, he also knows the 
 Plays which are to be acted for the next month , and can 
 tell, to a tittle , if a single indecent posture has been omit- 
 ted in the fandango. 
 
 The Agreeable man in Germany is quite a different sort 
 of person. He is a gentleman who endeavours to make 
 wit and gallantry after the most approved models of the 
 age of Lewis XIV. But his specific gravity being much 
 greater than that of the French nation, he is, in fact, as 
 little like M. de Coulanges , or St. Evremont, as can well 
 be imagined. His little anecdotes are drawn from the 
 Roman history, or, at best, from the Seven-years*- War ; 
 his remarks and observations are conscientiously sincere, 
 but insufferably dull; and his wit always disposes to mel- 
 ancholy. 
 
 In Italy an Agreeable man is a muchpleasanter person: 
 his manners are particularly civil; he often has a good 
 taste in the fine arts and-in polite literature; and, perhaps, 
 an agreeable talent for music; but there is a feebleness and 
 effeminacy in his tone of thinking , which finally wearies, 
 and his conversation is the pace of a manage horse; train- 
 ed till he has lost all freedom of action. Yet , it must be 
 owned , that there are a great many young men who are 
 exceptions to this rule ; it is easy to see , however , that 
 they are exceptions. Their long dishevelled hair, their 
 wild rolling eyes, their vehement action, their loud har- 
 angues in society, their unusual language, and more 
 unusual opinions, show, at once , that they are not formed 
 after the general rule of national character. 
 
 If we go from Italy to England, we shall find that the 
 Agreeable man gets more reputation, more eating, and 
 more drinking, in return for his talk, than anywhere else. 
 He is perpetually invited to dinner, where from ten to 
 five-and-twenty people are invited expressly to meet him; 
 and , after all, it often happens that he n sullen or unwell, 
 and will not speak a word from the beginning of dinner 
 till the end. But if he should happen to be in spirits, 
 he often taiks so loud, or so disputatiously , that you are 
 forced to bow to his opinions till after coffee. 
 
 France, perhaps, affords the best models of an Agreeable 
 man. In the French of the old court especially, we see 
 the most refined politeness towards others, mixed with a 
 most perfect confidence in themselves ; a sprightliness which 
 enlivens all around, and produces as much light by reflec- 
 tion as by radiation \ a skill in placing every topic in the 
 
128 
 
 situation which alone can make it amusing in conversation; 
 a grace in treating the most frivolous matters , a lightness 
 in touching the most serious , and a quickness in passing 
 from one to the other , which to all other Europeans must 
 seem quite unattainable. They console themselves by saying 
 the French are frivolous — by which is meant, that the 
 French interest themselves in little frivolous concerns; but 
 such Europeans forget to mention that they are the same 
 people who marched into Lisbon and Moscow, and perfected 
 the discoveries of Newton. 
 
 The Agreeable qualities of the French, however, have 
 been much obscured since the Revolution; and in Conver- 
 sation it is impossible not to prefer the roue 1 of 1780 to 
 the patriot of 1820. Indeed, all things considered, there 
 are more Agreeable men now in England than in any coun- 
 try in Europe. &c. j^. JoHN RuMMA- ' 
 
 An Ode; 
 
 Written for the Anniversary 
 of the 
 
 Royal British System of Education , 
 
 Held at Freemasons-IIall , May 16. 181a. 
 
 The Lion, o'er his wild domains, 
 
 Rules with the terror of his eye ; 
 
 The Eagle of the rock maintains , 
 
 By force , his empire in the sky ; 
 
 The Shark, the tyrant of the flood, 
 
 Reigns through the deep with quenchless rage) 
 
 Parent and Young, unweaned from blood, 
 
 Are still the same , from age to age. 
 
 Of all that live, and move, and breathe; 
 Man only rises o'er his birth; 
 He looks above, around, beneath, 
 At once the heir of heaven and earth: 
 Force, cunning, speed, which Nature gave 
 The various tribes throughout her plan , 
 Life to enjoy, from death to save -~ 
 These are the lowest powers of Man! 
 
12 3 
 
 From strength to strength he travels on; 
 lie leaves the lingering Brute behind; 
 And when a few short years are gone , 
 He soars — a disembodied mind: 
 Beyond the grave , his course sublime 
 Destined through nobler paths to run, 
 In his career the End of Time 
 Is a but Eternity begun. 
 
 What guides him in his high pursuit , 
 Opens , illumines , cheers his way , 
 Discerns the Immortal from the Brute,' 
 God's image from the mould of clay ? 
 'Tis Knowledge. — Knowledge to the Soul 
 Is power, and liberty, and peace; 
 And , while celestial ages roil , 
 The joys of Knowledge shall increase. 
 
 Hail to the Glorious Plan ! that spread 
 The light with universal beams; 
 And through the human desert led 
 Truths living , pure , perpetual streams. 
 «— Behold a new creation rise ! 
 New spirit breathed into the clod, 
 "Where'er the voice of Wisdom cries , 
 " Man know Thyself, and fear thy God! ,, 
 
 Montgomery. 
 
 From Lord CHESTERFIELD to his Sort. 
 
 London, December the 5th, O.S. 1749- 
 Dear Boy, 
 
 Those who suppose, that men in general act Rationally, 
 because they are called rational creatures , know very lit- 
 tle of the world; and, if they act themselves upon that 
 supposition, will, nine times in ten , find themselves grossly 
 mistaken. That man is, animal bipes , implume , risible , 
 I inlirely agree; but for the rationale , can only allow 
 it him in actu primo (to talk Logic) and seldom in actu 
 secundo. Thus, the speculative, cloistered pedant, in his 
 solitary cell , forms systems of things as they should be , 
 not as they arej and writes as decisively and absurdly 
 
 9 
 
i3o 
 
 vpon war, politics, manners, and characters, as that ped- 
 ant talked, who was so kind as to instruct Hannibal in the 
 art of war. Such closet politicians never fail to assign 
 the deepest motives for the most trifling actions; instead 
 of often ascribing the greatest actions to the most trifling 
 causes , in which they would be much seldomer mistaken. 
 They read and write of Kings , Heroes, and Statesmen, 
 as never doing anything but upon the deepest principles of 
 sound policy. But those who see and observe Kings, He- 
 roes, and Statesmen, discover that they have head-akes , 
 indigestions, humors , and passions, just like other people; 
 every one of which , in their turns, determine their Wills, 
 in defiance of their Reason. Had we only read in the Life 
 of Alexander, that he burned Persepolis, it would doubt- 
 less have been accounted for from deep policy; we should 
 have been told , that this new conquest could not have 
 been secured without the destruction of that Capital , which 
 would have been the constant seat of cabals , conspiracies, 
 and revolts. But, luckily, we are informed at the same 
 time, that this hero, this demi-god , this son and heir of 
 Jupiter Amnion , happened to get extremely drunk ; and, 
 by way of frolic , destroyed one of the iinest cities of 
 the world. Read men, therefore , yourself, not in Books , 
 but in Nature, Adopt no systems, but study them yourself. 
 Observe their weaknesses, their passions, their humors, of 
 all which their understandings are, nine times in ten , the 
 dupes,. You will then know that they are to be gained, 
 influenced, or led, much oftener by little things than by 
 great ones; and, consequently, you will no longer think 
 those things little, which tend to such great purposes. 
 
 Let us apply this now to the particular object of this 
 letter , I mean, speaking in, and influencing public assem- 
 blies. The nature of our Constitution makes Eloquence 
 *inore useful, and more necessary in this country, than in 
 any other in Europe. A certain degree of good sense and 
 knowledge is requisite for that, as well as for every thing 
 else; but beyond that , the purity of diction, the elegancy 
 of style, the harmony of periods, a pleasing elocution, 
 and a graceful action , are things which a public speaker 
 should attend to the most ; because his audience certainly 
 does, and understands them the best: or rather, indeed, 
 understands little, else. The late Lord Chancellor Cow- 
 per's strength , as an Orator , lay by no means in his rea- 
 sonings, for he often hazarded very weak ones. But such 
 was the purity and elegancy of his style, such the pro- 
 pria y and clvarms of his elocution , and such the graceful- 
 
i3i 
 
 tiess of his action, that he never spoke without universal 
 applause : the ears and the eyes gave him up the hearts 
 and the understandings of the audience, On the contrary, 
 the late Lord Townshend always spoke materially, with 
 argument and knowledge , but never pleased. Why ? His 
 diction was not only inelegant, but frequently ungram- 
 matical , always vulgar ; his cadences false , his voice un- 
 harmonious, and his action ungraceful. Nobody heard him 
 with patience; and the young fellows used to joke upon 
 him, and repeat his inaccuracies. The late Duke of Argyle, 
 though the weakest reasoned was the most pleasing speaker 
 I ever knew in my life. He charmed, he warmed, he 
 forcibly ravished the audience ; not by his Matter cer- 
 tainly , but by his Manner of delivering it. A most gen- 
 teel figure, a graceful, noble air, an harmonious voice, an 
 elegancy of style , and a strength of emphasis, conspired to 
 ffiake him the most affecting, persuasive, arid applauded 
 speaker, I ever saw. I was captivated like others; but 
 when I came home , and cooly considered what he had 
 said, stripped of all those ornaments in which he had 
 dressed it , I often found the matter flimzy, the arguments 
 weak, and I was convinced of the power of those adventi- 
 tious concurring circumstances , which ignorance of man" 
 kind only, calls trifling ones. Cicero in his Book de Ora- 
 tore, in order to raise the ' dignity of that profession, 
 which he Well knew himself to be at the head of, asserts , 
 that a complete Orator must be a complete every thing, 
 Lawyer, Philosopher, Divine, etc. That would be extremely 
 well, if it were possible: but man's life is not long 
 enough; and I hold him to be the completes! Orator, who 
 speaks the best upon that subject which occurs ; whose 
 happy choice of words , whose lively imagination , whose 
 elocution and action adorn arid grace his matter; at the 
 same time that they excite the attention, and engage the 
 passions of his audience. 
 
 You will be of the House of Commons as soon as you 
 are of age; and you must first make a figure there, if you 
 would make a figure, or a fortune, in your country. 
 This you can never do without that correctness and ele- 
 gancy in your Own .Language , which, you seem to neglect, 
 and which you have entirely to learn. Fortunately for 
 you, it is to' be learned. Care and observation will do it; 
 but do not "flatter yourself, that all the knowledge , sense, 
 and reasoning in the world , will ever make you a popular 
 and applauded Speaker ,v without the ornaments and the 
 graces of style, elocution^ tmcPactibn. Sense arid argument , 
 
l52 
 
 though coarsely delivered , will have tlieir weight , m 
 private conversation, with two or three people of senses 
 but in a public assembly, they will have none, if naked 
 and destitute of the advantages I have mentioned. .Cardinal, 
 de Retz observes, very justly, that every numerous as- 
 sembly is Mob; influenced by their passions, humors , and 
 affections, which nothing but eloquence ever did, or ever 
 can engage. This is so important a consideration for every 
 body in this country, and more particularly for You, that 
 I earnestly recommend it to your most serious care and 
 attention. Mind your diction, in whatever language you 
 write or speak; contract a habit of correctness and ele- 
 gance. Consider your style , even in the freest conver- 
 sation and most familiar letters. After, at least , if Mot 
 before, you have said a thing, reflect if you could not 
 have said it better. Where you doubt of the propriety or 
 elegancy of a word or phrase, consult some good dead, or 
 living authority in that language. Use yourself to trans- 
 late, from various languages, into English: correct those 
 traslations till they satisfy your ear, as well as your 
 understanding. And be convinced of this truth , that the 
 best sense and reason in ihe world will be as unwelcome 
 in a pubiic assembly, without these ornaments , as they 
 will in public companies, without the assistance of manners 
 and politeness. If you will please people, you must please 
 them in their own way: and, as you cannot make them 
 what they should be , you must take them as they are. I 
 repeat it again, they are only to be taken by agremens, 
 and by what flatters their senses and their hearts. Ra- 
 belais first wrote a most excellent book, which nobody 
 liked; then, determined to conform to the public taste, he 
 wrote Gar ganlua and Pantagruel, which every body liked, 
 extravagant as it was. Adieu. 
 
 The following Hymn is, commonly, attributed to the pen of Addison; 
 nut the impression on my mind (from a Disquisition 2 read upon the 
 Subject, ten or twelve years ago) is, that Marvel and not Addison, 
 was the author of the Two Hymus in Ho. 44i and 453 of the Spec- 
 tator , beginning — 
 
 "The Lord my Pasture shall prepare," 
 
 "When all thy Mercies, O my God!" j 
 
*35 
 
 A Hymn, on Gratitude* 
 
 When all tliy Mercies, O my God! 
 
 My rising soul surveys , 
 Transported with the view, I'm lost 
 
 la wonder, love, and praise. 
 
 O how shall Words, with equal warmth; 
 
 The gratitude declare, 
 That glows within my ravished heart ! 
 
 But Thou canst read it there* 
 
 Thy Providence my life sustained, 
 And all my wants redressed , 
 
 When in the silent womb I lay, 
 And hung upon <ihe -breast. 
 
 r 
 
 To all my weak complaints and cries 
 
 Thy Mercy lent an ear, 
 Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learned 
 
 To form themselves in prayer. 
 
 Unnumbered comforts on my soul 
 
 Thy tender care bestowed , 
 Before my infant heart conceived 
 
 From Whom those comforts flowed. 
 
 When , in the slippery paths of Youth , 
 
 With heedless steps , I ran , 
 Thy arm, unseen, conveyed me safe, 
 
 And led me up to Man. 
 
 Through hidden dangers , toils , and death* 
 
 It gently cleared my way; 
 And through the pleasing snares of vice — - 
 
 More to be feared than they. 
 
 When worn with sickness, oft hast thou 
 With health renewed my face; 
 
 And, when in sins and sorrows sunk, 
 Revived my soul with grace. 
 
 Thy bounteous hand with worldly blis* 
 
 Has made my cup run o'er, 
 And, in a kind and faithful Friend, 
 
 4 J as doubled ail my store. 
 
Ten thousand thousand precious gifts 
 
 My daily thanks employ; 
 Nor is the least, a Cheerful Heart, 
 
 That tastes those gifts -with joy« 
 
 Through every period of ray life, 
 
 Thy Goodness I'll pursue; 
 And, after death, in distant worlds, 
 
 The pleasing theme renew. 
 
 When nature fails , and day and night 
 
 Divide thy works no more, 
 My ever grateful heart, O Lord I 
 
 Thy Mercy shall adore. 
 
 Through all eternity, to Thee , 
 
 A grateful Song I'll raise; 
 But O, Eternity's too short 
 
 To utter half thy praise! Marvel, 
 
 On the Perishable nature 
 
 of 
 
 Poetical Fame. 
 
 From a Review of Campbell 1 s Specimens of British Poets. 
 
 Next to the impression of the vast fertility, compass ,' 
 and beauty of our English Poetry, the reflection that re- 
 curs most frequently and forcibly to us in accompanying 
 Mr. Campbell through his wide survey, is the perishable 
 nature of poetical fame, and the speedy oblivion that has 
 overtaken so many of the promised heirs of Immortality. 
 Of near Two hundred and fifty authors whose works are 
 cited in these volumes , by far the greater part of whom 
 were celebrated in their generation, there are not Thirty 
 who now enjoy any thing that can be called Popularity — • 
 whose works are to be found in the hands of ordinary 
 readers — in the shops of ordinary booksellers — or in 
 the press for republication. About Fifty more may be 
 tolerably familiar to men of taste or literature: the rest 
 slumber on the shelves of collectors, and are partially 
 known to a few antiquaries and scholars. ISow the fame 
 ol a Poet is popular, or nothing. He does not address 
 
i35 
 
 himself, like the man of Science, to the learned, or tl«s«e 
 who desire to learn, but to all mankind; and his purpose 
 being to delight and to be praised , necessarily extends to 
 all who can receive pleasure , or join in applause* It is 
 strange, and somewhat humiliating, to see how great & 
 proportion of those who had once fought their way suc- 
 cessfully to distinction , and surmounted the rivalry of 
 •contemporary envy, have again sunk into neglect. We 
 have great deference for public opinion; and readily ad- 
 mit that nothing but what is Good can be permanently 
 Popular — but though its vivat be generally oracular; 
 its pereat appears to us to be often sufliciently capricious; 
 and while we would foster all that it bids to Live, we 
 would willingly revive much that it leaves to Die. The 
 very multiplication of works of amusement necessarily 
 withdraws many from notice that deserve to be kept in. 
 remembrance; for we should soon find it labor, and not 
 amusement, if we were obliged, to make use of them all, 
 or even to take all upon trial. As the materials of enjoyment 
 -and instruction accumulate around us , more and more 
 must thus be daily rejected and left to waste: for while our 
 tasks lengthen , our lives remain as short as ever ; and 
 the calls on our time multiply, while our time itself is 
 flying swiftly away. This superfluity and abundance of 
 our treasure, therefore, necessarily renders much of them 
 worthless; and the veriest accidents may, in such a case, 
 determine what part shall be preserved, and what thrown 
 away and neglected. When an army is decimated , the 
 very bravest may fall ; and many Poets, worthy of eternal 
 remembrance , have been forgotten , merely because there 
 was not room in our memories for all. 
 
 By such a work as the "Specimens," however, this 
 injustice of fortune may be partly redressed — some small 
 fragments of an immortal strain may stiil be rescued from, 
 Oblivion — and a wreck of a name preserved, which time 
 appeared to have swallowed up for ever. There is some- 
 thing pious, we think, and endearing in the office of thus 
 gathering up the ashes of renown that has passed away; 
 •or rather, of calling back the departed life for a transi- 
 tory glow, and enabling those great spirits which seemed 
 to be laid for .ever, still to draw a tear of pity, or a 
 throb of admiration, from the hearts of a forgetful gener- 
 ation. The body of their poetry, probably, can never 
 he revived; but some sparks of its spirit may yet be pre- 
 served, in a narrower and feebler frame. 
 
 When we look hack upon the havoc winch Two hundred 
 
136 
 
 years have thus made in the ranks of our immortals; — • 
 and above all, when we refer their rapid disappearance 
 to the quick succession of new competitors, and the accu- 
 mulation of more good works than there is time to peruse, 
 we cannot kelp being dismayed at the prospect which lies 
 before the writers of the present day. There never was an 
 age so prolific of popular poetry as that in which we now 
 live — and as wealth, population, and education extend, 
 the produce is likely to go on increasing. The last ten 
 years have produced, we think, an annual supply of about 
 ten thousand lines of good staple poetry — poetry from 
 the very first hands that we can boast of — that runs 
 quickly to three or four large editions — and is as likely 
 to be permanent as present success can make it. Wow, 
 if this goes on for a hundred years longer , what a task 
 will await the poetical readers of 1919! Our Living poets 
 will then be nearly as old as Pope and Swift are at pre- 
 sent — ■ but there will stand between them and that gener- 
 ation nearly ten times as much fresh and fashionable poe- 
 try as is now interposed between us and those writers : — 
 and if Scott , and Byron , and Campbell , have already 
 cast Pope and Swift a good deal into the Shade , in what 
 form and dimensions are they themselves likely to be 
 presented to the eyes of their great-grandchildren ? The 
 thought we own is a little appalling, and we confess, we 
 see nothing better to imagine than that they may find a 
 comfortable place in some new Collection of Specimens — - 
 the centenary of the present publication. There — if the 
 future editor have anything like the indulgence and ven- 
 eration for antiquity of his predecessor — there shall pos- 
 terity still hang with rapture on the half of Campbell — t 
 and the fourth part of Byron — and the sixth of Scott — 
 and the scattered tithes of Crabbe — and the three per cent 
 of Southey — while some good-natured critic &hall sit iri 
 our mouldering chair , and more than half prefer them to 
 those by whom they have been superseded! — It is an 
 hyperbole of good nature, however, we fear, to ascribe to 
 them even those dimensions at the end of a century. After 
 a lapse of 25o years , we are afraid to think of the space 
 they may have shrunk into. We have no Shakespeare , 
 alas ! to shed a never-setting light on his contempora- 
 ries: — and if we continue to write and rhyme at the 
 present rate for 200 years longer, there must be some new 
 art of Short-hand-Readiug invented — or all reading must 
 be given Dp in despair. 
 
 Je.ffb.zy, 
 
i5 7 
 
 Campbell b. 1777; yet Living. 
 The Last Man. 
 
 All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 
 
 The Sun himself must die , 
 Before this Mortal shall assume • 
 
 Its Immortality. 
 I saw a Vision , in my sleep , 
 That gave my Spirit strength to sweep 
 
 A down the gulph of Time; 
 I saw the Last of human-mould , 
 That shall Creation's death behold, 
 
 As Adam saw her Prime. 
 
 The Sun's eye had a sickly glare , 
 
 The Earth , with age , was wan \ 
 The skeletons of nations were 
 
 Around that lonely man : 
 Some had expired in light — the brands 
 Still rusted in their bony hands \ 
 
 In plague and famine some : 
 Earth's cities had no sound nor tread; 
 And ships were drifting, with the dead, 
 
 To shores where all was dumb ! 
 
 Yet, prophetlike, that lone One stood, 
 With dauntless Words and high, 
 
 That shook the sere leaves from the wood, 
 As if a storm passed by, 
 
 Saying — "We are twins in death, proud Sun! 
 
 Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 
 . 'Tis Mercy bids thee go ; 
 
 For thou ten thousand thousand years 
 
 Hast seen the tide of human tears, 
 That shall no longer flow : 
 
 "What though beneath thee Man puts forth 
 
 His pomp, his pride, his skill, 
 And arts, that made fire, flood, and earth, 
 
 The vassals of his Will — . , 
 
 Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 
 Thou dim, discrowned King of day; • 
 
 For all those trophied arts 
 And triumphs, that beneath thee sprang/ 
 Healed not a passion or a pang 
 
 Entailed on Human hearts. 
 
158 
 
 Go , let Oblivion's curtain fall 
 
 Upon the stage of Men , 
 Nor, with thy rising beams, recal 
 
 Life's tragedy again : 
 Its piteous . pageants bring not back, 
 Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 
 
 Of pain anew to writhe; 
 Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred, 
 Or mown in battle by the sword, 
 
 lake grass beneath the sythe. 
 
 E'ea I am weary, in yon skies 
 
 To watch thy fading fire; 
 Test of all sumless agonies , 
 
 Behold not Me expire! 
 My lips , that speak thy dirge of death , 
 Their rounded gasp and gurgling breatli 
 
 To see , Thou shalt not boast ! 
 The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall — • 
 The majesty of Darkness shall 
 
 Receive my parting Ghost! 
 
 This spirit shall return to Him 
 
 That gave its heavenly spark ; 
 Yet think not , Sun I it shall be dim. 
 
 "When thou thyself art dark — 
 No; it shall live again , and shine 
 In Bliss , unknown to beams of thine , 
 
 By Him recalled to breath 
 Who captive led captivity, 
 [Who robbed the grave of Victory, 
 
 And took the sting from Death J 
 
 Go, Sun! while Mercy holds me up 
 
 On Nature's aweful waste, 
 To drink this last , and bitter cup 
 
 Of grief, that Man shall taste — 
 Go, tell the Night that hides thy face, 
 Thou sawest the Last of Adam's race, 
 
 On earth's sepulchral clod, 
 The darkening universe defy 
 To quench his Immortality, 
 
 Or shake his trust in God ! 
 
 Campbell. 
 
log 
 
 Hawwah More — This excellent woman and distinguished writer, 
 is yet among the Living ornaments of England. Two years ago, in 
 January 1828, she resided at her beautiful Cottage, Barley Wood, 
 near Bristol ; possessed of all those faculties which commonly desert 
 the few who number years beyond " three score years and ten": her 
 Voice was as unbroken as that of a person in the prime of life; her 
 Conversation was powerful, interesting, and varied; she Walked with 
 a dignified and firm step ; and Read without spectacles — notwith- 
 standing she had attained to the Age of Eighty-six ! 
 
 Her various Works have not only added to the reputation of the 
 Literature of her Country, but have been instrumental in effecting 
 great good to the Minds of numbers. The following piece may be 
 found in her Strictures on the Modern System of Female Education — a 
 work which should not only have a place in every Lady's Library, 
 but in every Lady's Head. 
 
 On Female Accomplishments . 
 
 A young lady may excel in Speaking French and Italian, 
 may repeat a few passages from a volume of extracts; play 
 like a professor, and sing like a syren; have her dressing- 
 room decorated with her own drawings , tables , stands , 
 flower-pots, screens, and cabinets j nay, she may dance 
 like Sempronia herself, and yet I shall insist that she may 
 have been very badly educated. I am far from meaning 
 to set no value whatever on any or all of these qualifica- 
 tions ; they are all of them elegant, and many of them 
 properly tend to the perfecting of a polite education. These 
 things in their measure and degree may be done, but 
 there are others which should not be left undone. Many 
 things are becoming, but "one thing is needful." Besides, 
 as the world seems to be fully apprised of the value of 
 whatever tends to embellish life, there is less occasion 
 here to insist on its importance. 
 
 But , though a well-bred young lady may lawfully learn 
 most of the fashionable arts; yet, let me ask, does it seem 
 to be the true end of Education to make women of fashion 
 dancers , singers , players , painters , actresses, sculptors , 
 gilders, varnishers, engravers , and embroiderers? Most 
 Men are commonly destined to some profession, and their 
 minds are consequently turned each to its respective object, 
 "Would it not be strange if they were called out to exercise 
 their profession, or to set up their trade, with only a 
 little general knowledge of the trades and professions of 
 all other men, and without any previous definite applica- 
 tion to their own peculiar calling? The profession of 
 Ladies, to which the bent of their instruction should be 
 turned, is that of daughters, wives, mothers and mistresses 
 
i4o 
 
 of families. They should he , therefore, trained with a 
 view to these several conditions , and be furnished with 
 a stock of ideas, and principles, and qualifications , and 
 habits , ready to be applied and appropriated, as occasion 
 may demand, to each of these respective situations. For 
 though the arts which merely embellish life may claim 
 admiration j yet, when a man of sense comes to Marry, it 
 is not merely a creature who can paint , and play, and 
 sing, and draw, and dress, and dance: it is a being who 
 can comfort and counsel him, who can reason, and re- 
 flect, and feel, and judge, and discourse, and discrimi- 
 nate; one who can assist him in his affairs, lighten his 
 cares, soothe his sorrows, purify his joys, strengthen his 
 principles , and educate his children. 
 
 Almost any ornamental acquirement is a good thing, 
 when it is not the best thing a woman has; and talents 
 are admirable when not made to sjand proxy for vir- 
 tues. The writer of these pages is intimately acquainted 
 with several ladies who, excelling most of their sex in 
 the art of Music, but excelling them also in Prudence and 
 Piety, find little leisure or temptation amidst the delights 
 and duties of a large and lovely family, for the exercise of 
 this charming talent; they regret that so much of their 
 own youth was wasted in acquiring an art which can be 
 lurned to so little account in married life, and are now 
 conscientiously restricting their daughters in the portion 
 of time allotted to its acquisition. 
 
 Far be it from me to discourage the cultivation of any 
 existing talent; but may it not be questioned of the fond 
 believing Mother, whether talents, like the spirits of Owen 
 Glendower, though conjured by parental partiality with 
 ever so load a voice, 
 
 **Yet will they come when yon do call for tnem?" 
 
 That injudicious practice, therefore, cannot be too much 
 discouraged, of endeavouring to create talents which do not 
 exist in Nature. That their daugJiters shall learn every- 
 thing , is so general a maternal maxim, that even unborn 
 daughters , of whose expected abilities and conjectured 
 faculties, it is presumed, no very accurate judgement can 
 previously be formed, are yet predestined to this univer- 
 sality of accomplishments. This comprehensive maxim , 
 thus almost universally brought into practice, at once wea- 
 kens the general powers of the mind , by drawing off its 
 strength into too great a variety oi" directions; and cuts up 
 lime into to& many separate portions, by splitting it into 
 
i4i 
 
 such an endless multiplicity of employments. I know that 
 I am treading on tender ground; but! cannot help thinking 
 that the restless pains we take to cram up every little va- 
 cuity of life, by crowding one new thing upon another, 
 rather creates a thirst for novelty than knowledge; and is 
 a wel.l-disgnis.ed contrivance to anticipate the keeping us 
 in after-life more effectually from conversing with our- 
 selves. The care taken to prevent ennui (a) is but a credit- 
 able plan for promoting self-ignorance. We run from one 
 occupation to another, (I speak of those arts to whipli 
 little intellect is applied,) with a view to lighten the 
 pressure of time , above all we fly to them to save us from 
 our own thoughts ; we fly to them to rescue us from our- 
 selves ; whereas, were we thrown a little more on our 
 own hands, we might at last be driven , by way of some- 
 thing to do, to try to get a little more acquainted with 
 our own hearts. But it is only one part of the general 
 inconsistency of the human character, that with the, per- 
 son of all others we best love, we least like to converse 
 and to form an intimacy, 1 mean ourselves. But though 
 our being less absorbed by this busy trilling, which digui- 
 fies its inanity with the imposing name of occupation , 
 might render us somewhat more sensible of the tedium of 
 life, yet might not this very sensation tend to quicken our 
 pursuit of a better? For an a weful thought here suggests 
 itself — If life be so long that we are driven to set at 
 work every engine to pass away the tediousness of Time , 
 how shall we do to ged rid of the tediousness of Eternity? 
 an eternity in which not one of the acquisitions which 
 life has been exhausted in acquiring, will be of the least 
 use? Let not theft the Soul be starved by feeding it on 
 such unsubstantial aliment , for the mind can be no more 
 nourished by these empty husks than the body can be fed 
 with ideas and principles, 
 
 Hannah More. 
 
 I 
 (a) Ennui — this word, after being; on trial for Half a Centnry, 
 has become <JneIy anglicised, and is now printed in the common type, 
 and ought to be pronounced en-we'; iu conformity with etui. It is 
 to be regretted that so judicious a writer, as H. IVToore , shonld hfive 
 adopted this outlandish word in this passage — surely lislleaencs* 
 is everyway preferable to ennui. 
 
 " • , • ■ . 
 
 — i . 
 
 'nit >.. 
 
142 
 
 Henry IVth's Soliloquy, on Sleep. 
 
 How many thousands of my poorest subjects, 
 
 Are at this hour Asleep! O, gentle Sleep! 
 
 Nature's soft nurse , (a) how have I frighted (&) thee j 
 
 That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, 
 
 And steep (c) my senses in forgeti'ainess ! 
 
 "Why rather, Sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, 
 
 Upon uneasy pallets (e) stretching thee, 
 
 And hushed (/*)with buzzing (g) night-flies to thy slumber, 
 
 Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, 
 
 Under the canopies of costly state, 
 
 And lulled (Ji) with sounds of sweetest melody? 
 
 O thoii dull God ! why liest thou with the vile (*') 
 
 In loathsome (£) beds, and leavest the kingly couch — 
 
 A watch-case to a common larum-bell ! (7) 
 
 "Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy [m) mast , 
 
 Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock (ji) his brains , 
 
 In cradle (o) of the rude, imperious surge , Qo) ' 
 
 And in the visitation of the winds,, 
 
 Who take the ruffian billows by the top , 
 
 Curling their monstrous heads , and hanging them 
 
 With deafening clamors in the slippery shrouds, (r) 
 
 That, with the hurly, (.<?) Death itself awakes? 
 
 Canst Ihou, O, partial Sleep! £ive thy repose 
 
 To the wet Sea-boy in an hour so rude, 
 
 And in the calmest and the stillest night, 
 
 Willi all appliances and means to boot, (t) 
 
 Deny it. to a King ? then happy lowly CloWn ! (?*) 
 
 Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. 
 
 Sjiakespeari. 
 
 (a) Soft nurse —- zocte vocdsttr. (b) Frighfed , affrighted — verschrikt. 
 (v.) Sleep — imbrue, iudoopcn. (d) Smoky cribs — rvokcrigc kribbcn, 
 (e) Uneasy pallets — ongemakkclykc legersteden. (f) Hushed — gesust. 
 fa) Buzzing •*- gonzendc. (hj Lulled — in slaap gesust, 
 r 1) Vile — Avretehed , of low condition , miserably poor. 
 fkj Loathsome beds — in walgcnde, afzigteljJic bedden, 
 (I) A' watch-case to a common larum-bell — This line has given : 
 rise to much controversy, and, in my humble opinion, the conlr 
 mentators, are, "all in the wrong": I shall state what appears to iue k 
 as being the proper interpretation, and will thank any one who mav 
 prove to me that I am in error.- In former days, watchmen were 
 set, in garrison-towns, upon an eminence, and in case of Fire, 
 Riot, or Danger of any kind, it was their duly to ring the Alarm- 
 bell; the watchman had a Case, or Box, to shelter him from the 
 weather, and it was at his peril thai he slept while ui on thai duty: 
 
 "' W 
 
143 
 
 after the ting has pronounced the words Kingly couch j he corrects 
 the expression , as I interpret the passage , hy the words used in the 
 questionable line ; thus — kingly couch ! no ; my bed is not like a 
 kingly couch, it more resembles a Watch-Box pertaining to a Larum- 
 bell! and this figure of Correction , called by Rhetoricians an Epan- 
 orthosis, seems, to me, the only proper reading of the passage. 
 
 (m) Giddy — duizelig. (nj Rock — te wiegen. (bj Cradle — meg, 
 
 (p) Surge — a swelling sea , golven. 
 
 (rj Slippery shrouds r— glibberige zeilen. ($) Hurly — geweld 9 geraasj 
 
 ft) With all appliances and means to boot — 
 
 With all advantages and mediums to help — 
 With all helps and measures to asssit — 
 
 fu) Lowly clown — frequently printed , happy low ! lie down ; but 
 the meaning is, If Sleep flee from the bed of a King, to consort 
 with a Beggar, then happy is the poor and needy man compared 
 with him who wears- a Crowrt. 
 
 
 M 
 
 m 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 
 ; 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ' 
 
 
 
 
 
 . 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 » , 
 
 
 
 
 ..'ti/1 
 
. 
 
 LECTURE VII. 
 
 On the Pronunciation of the English Language. 
 
 Canning b. 17705 d. 1727. 
 CANNING, 
 
 Canning is a Genins — almost a universal one j an Orator, a Wit, 
 a Poet, and a Statesman. Lqud ByEON , 
 
 The Right Honorable George Canning was born at Pad- 
 dington , near London; educated at Eton ; studied at Christ 
 Church, Oxford; entered the Middle Temple; became a 
 frequent Speaker in a Debating-Society ; took his seat in 
 Parliament in 1794 J was one of the joint Secretaries of 
 the Treasury under Lord Grenville, in 1796; retired from 
 Office, with Mr. Pitt, in 1801; was appointed Treasurer of 
 the Navy, on Mr. Pitt's reassuming the reins of Govern- 
 ment, in i8o3> on the death of Pitt, in 1806, he became 
 once more an Oppositionist; on the "Whigs quitting office, 
 he was appointed Foreign Secretary; on the 21st of Sep- 
 tember 1809, he and Lord Castlereagh damned themselves 
 to lasting fame, by settling a Cabinet dispute with — Pis- 
 tols ! !! — a blot upon their Characters of so deep a dye, 
 that nothing short of the disgraceful Duel between Lord 
 Winchelsea and the Hero of "Waterloo, on the 21st of March, 
 1829, can pretend to rival it in Cowardice, Ignominy, and 
 Guilt! — on the death of Mr. Perceval, he— strange to 
 say — accepted the comparatively unimportant office of 
 President of the Board of Control, under an Administration 
 of which Lord Castlereagh was a leading Member ; he waa 
 appointed to the lucrative office of Governor-General of In- 
 dia, on the 16th of March, 1822 j but on the sudden death, 
 of the Marquis of Londonderry, he accepted of the office 
 of Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs, on the 17th of 
 September, of the same year; in April, 1827, he became 
 Prime Minister j and died on the 8lh of August following. 
 
i45 
 
 There aTe some fine Specimens of Canning's early Genius 
 in The Microcosm, written in his i5th and i6tli yp ars ; 
 and his Speeches, lately published , afford the best proofs of 
 its gradual increase: and in spite of party spirit, personal 
 enmity, and abhorrence of satire, every thinking mind must 
 acknowledge him to have been something more than 
 
 "The Spouter of Froth by the hour/" 
 
 Canning was one of the best Speakers that ever entered 
 Parliament j his elocution was facinating, his diction pure, 
 and his action graceful: raillery, sarcasm, and buffoonery, 
 good sense, sound judgement , and all-powerful wisdom , are 
 the distinguishing properties of his parliamentary speeches; 
 the former provoke the malice of his enemies and the pity 
 of his friends; the latter demand the admiration of all. 
 
 "Mr. Canning having reached the summit of laudable 
 ambition, could not, perhaps, have quitted the world at a 
 moment more propitious to his honorable fame , when his 
 time of life is considered. Protracted years had not left 
 him the mere wreck of his commanding intellect. He was 
 taken before the winter of life, towards which he verged, 
 had chilled the warm impulses of his heart, dulled the edge 
 of his wit, or changed the force and elegance of his lan- 
 guage into laborious imbecility. His triumph over the 
 jealousy of his late coadjutors was complete. He saw them 
 fall into deserved contempt, while he proceeded to restore 
 a truely British tone of character to the Government. He 
 has disconcerted the Holy Alliance — called a new World 
 into existence — negociated for the independence of Greece 
 — maintained the honor of England with Portugal — 
 heard his Name re-echoed from remote shores , in strains 
 of gratifying homage to his talents — begun to apply the 
 principles of philosophy to politics — maintained the re- 
 form of the Navigation Laws — occupied himself in re- 
 trenching the Public Expenditure, and maturing plans for 
 Universal Good — and finally, died in the field, harnessed, 
 and rt the post of Honor! Here was enough of glory for 
 the satisfaction of human vanity, and much more than fell 
 to the lot of a tithe of the distinguished men who have 
 preceded him." 
 
 Agreeably with his request, the funeral was as private 
 as possible. He was interred in Westminster-Abbey, on 
 Thursday, the 16th of August ; his head lies at the feet of 
 his great prototype , Pitt, in the immediate vicinity of the 
 remains of Fox and Londonderry; with the following in- 
 scription on his Coffin; 
 
 10 
 
i46 
 
 DEPOSITUM. 
 
 The Right Honorable George Canning, one of his Ma- 
 jesty's Most Honorable Privy Council , First Lord Com- 
 missioner of his Majesty's Treasury, Chancellor and Under 
 Treasurer of the Exchequer of Great-Britain and Ireland, 
 one of the Governors of the Charter-House , etc. 
 
 Born nth April 1770. 
 
 Died 8th August 1827. 
 
 Gardiner's Biographical Memoir of Canning, accompanied with 
 his Satires, Odes, Songs, and Other Poems, cannot fail to gra- 
 tify those who have not the means of perusing more extensive Compi- 
 lations. Price Ninety Cents, 
 
 An Address to the Deity. 
 
 O Thou! whose balance does the monntains weigh, 
 Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey, 
 "Whose breath can turn those watery worlds to flame, 
 That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame; 
 Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls, 
 And on the boundless of thy goodness calls. 
 
 Ah! give the winds all past offence to sweep, 
 To scatter wide , or bury in the deep ; 
 Thy power, my weakness, may I ever see, 
 And wholly dedicate my soul to Thee ! 
 
 Oh may my understanding ever read 
 This glorious volume, which thy wisdom made! 
 "Who decks the maiden-spring with flowery pride! 
 "Who calls forth summer, like a sparkling bride i 
 "Who joys the mother-autumn's bed to crown! 
 And bids old winter lay her honors down! 
 May sea and land, and earth and heaven be joined, 
 To bring the eternal Author to my mind! 
 When oceans roar, or aweful thunders roll, 
 May thoughts of thy dread vengeance shake my soul j 
 When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine , 
 Adore, my heart, the Majesty divine. &c. 
 
147 
 
 Grant I may ever, at the morning-ray, 
 Open with prayer the consecrated day ; 
 Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise; 
 And with the mounting sun ascend the skies : 
 As that advances, let my zeal improve, 
 And glow with ardor of consummate love; 
 Nor cease at eve , but with the setting sun 
 My endless worship shall be still begun. 
 
 Canst Thou not shake the centre? Oh control, 
 
 Subdue by force, the rebel in my soul! 
 
 Thou, who canst still the raging of the flood, 
 
 Restrain the various tumults of my blood ! 
 
 Teach me , with equal firmness , to sustain 
 
 Alluring pleasure , and assaulting pain ! 
 
 Oh may I pant for thee in each desire — 
 
 And with strong faith foment the holy fire! 
 
 Stretch out my soul in hope, and grasp the prize, 
 
 "Which in eternity's deep bosom lies ; 
 
 At the great day of recompense behold, 
 
 Devoid of fear , the fatal book unfold ! 
 
 Then wafted upward to the blissful seat, 
 
 From age to age my grateful song repeat; 
 
 My light, my life, my God, my Saviour see, 
 
 And rival angels in the praise of Thee ! -, 
 
 f r Young. 
 
 Corporal Trim's Eloquence. 
 
 My young master, in London, is dead! said Obadiah-— 
 Here is sad news, Trim! cried Susannah,, wiping her eyes, 
 as Trim stepped into the kitchen — master Bobby is dead! 
 
 I lament for him from my heart and my soul! said 
 Trim, fetching a sigh — poor creature! — poor boy! — - 
 poor gentlemen! 
 
 He was alive last Whitsuntide — said the coachman — 
 "Whitsuntide ! alas ! cried Trim — extending his right arm 
 and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he 
 read the sermon — what is Whitsuntide, Jonathan ! (for 
 that was the coachman's name) or Shrovetide, or any tide, 
 or time past, to this? Are we not here now — continued 
 the Corporal , (striking the end of his stick perpendicularly 
 upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and stability} 
 and are we not (dropping his hat upon the ground) gone ! 
 
i48 
 
 in a moment? — It was infinitely striking! Susannah burst 
 into a flood of tears — we are not stocks and stones — 
 Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted — The 
 foolish fat scullion herself, who was scouring a fish-kettle 
 upon her knees , was roused with it — the whole kitchen 
 crowded about the Corporal. 
 
 "Are we not here now and gone in a moment" — There 
 -was nothing in the sentence — it was one of your self-evi- 
 dent truths we have the advantage of hearing every day; 
 and if Trim had not trusted more to his Hat than his Head, 
 he had made nothing at all of it, 
 
 "Are we not here now" — continued the Corporal, and 
 ''are we not" — dropping his Hat plump upon the ground, 
 and pausing, before he pronounced the word — ''gone 
 in a moment " The descent of the Hat was as if a heavy 
 lump of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it — — 
 nothing could have expressed the sentiment of mortality, 
 of which it was the type and forerunner , like it; his hand 
 seemed to vanish from under it —it fell dead — the Corpo- 
 ral's eyes fixed upon it, as upon a corpse — and Susannah 
 burst into a flood of tears. Steiime. 
 
 R. B. Sheridan b. 1751; d. 1816. 
 
 Mr. Sheridan had taken the liberty to offer some advice to Mi's* 
 Z.inley, (afterwards Mis. Sheridan,) and apprehending that she was dis- 
 pleased with his having done so, he, the next day, left the following 
 lines in the Grotto , the scene of his admonition , in the vicinity of Bath. 
 
 An Apology , to Miss Linley. 
 
 Uncouth is this moss-covered grotto of stone , 
 And damp is the shade of this dew-dripping tree, 
 Yet I this rude Grotto with rapture will own , 
 And Willow! thy damps are refreshing to me! 
 
 For this is the grot where Delia reclined , 
 As late I, in secret, her confidence sought; 
 And this is the tree kept her safe from the wind, 
 As, blushing, she heard the grave lesson I taught. 
 
 Then tell me , thou grotto of moss-covered stone ! 
 And tell me, thou Willow with leaves dripping dew! 
 Did Delia seem vexed when Horatio was gone i 
 And did she confess her resentment to you? ©IB Litis 
 
i4g 
 
 Metbinks now each bough, as you're waving it, tries 
 To whisper a cause for the sorrow I feel; 
 To hint how she frowned, when I dared to advise, 
 And sighed, when she saw that 1 did it with zeal: 
 
 True, true, silly Leaves! so she did, I allow; 
 She frowned — but no rage in her looks could I see ; 
 She frowned — but reflection had clouded her brow ; 
 She sighed — but, perhaps, 'twas in pity to me : 
 
 Then wave thy leaves brisker, thou Willow of wo! 
 
 I tell thee no rage in her looks could 1 see ; 
 
 I cannot, I will not believe it was so; 
 
 She was not, she could not be angry with Me: 
 
 For well did she know that ray Heart meant no wrong; 
 
 It sunk at the thought of but giving her pain ; 
 
 But trusted its task to a faltering Tongue , 
 
 "Which erred — - from the feelings it could not explain. 
 
 Yet, oh ! if indeed I've offended the Maid , 
 
 If Delia my humble monition refuse; 
 
 Sweet Willow! the next time she visits thy shade, 
 
 Fan gently her bosom and plead my excuse : 
 
 And thou-, stony Grot ! in thy arch , mayest preserve 
 Two lingering Drops of the night-fallen dew, 
 And just let them fall at her feet , and they'll serve 
 As Tears of my sorrow entrusted to you - — 
 
 Or, lest they unheeded should fall at her feet 
 
 Let them fall on her bosom of snow; and I swear, 
 
 The next time I visit thy moss-covered seat , 
 
 I'll pay thee each drop with a genuine Tear! 
 
 So mayest thou, green Willow! for ages, thus toss 
 Thy branches, so lank, o'er the slow- winding stream; 
 And thou, stony Grotto! retain all thy moss, 
 While yet there's a poet to make thee his theme — 
 
 Nay more! may my Delia still give you her charms 
 Each evening, and, sometimes, the whole evening long; 
 Then, Grotto! be proud to support her white arms; 
 Then, Willow! wave all thy green tops to her song. 
 
 Sheridan. 
 
i5o 
 
 The Folly of inconsistent Expectations. 
 
 This world may be considered as a great Mart of com- 
 merce , where fortune exposes to our view various com- 
 modities — Riches, Ease, Tranquillity, Fame , Integrity, 
 Knowledge. Our time, our labor, our ingenuity, is so muck 
 ready money, which we are to lay out to the best advantage. 
 Examine, compare, choose, reject: but stand to your own 
 judgement; and do not, like children, when you have 
 purchased one thing, repine that you do not possess an- 
 other which you did not purchase. Such is the force of 
 well-regulated Industry , that a steady and vigorous exer- 
 tion of our faculties, directed to one end, will generally 
 insure success. Would you, for instance, be Rich? Do 
 you think that single point worth the sacrificing every 
 thing else to — You may then be Rich. Thousands have 
 become so from the lowest beginnings — by toil , and pa- 
 tient diligence, and attention to the minutest articles of 
 expense and profit: but you must give up the pleasures of 
 leisure, of a vacant mind, of a free, unsuspicious temper. 
 If you preserve your Integrity, it must be a coarse spun 
 and vulgar honesty. Those high and lofty notions of mor- 
 als which you brought with you from the Schools, must 
 be considerably lowered , and mixed with the baser allay 
 of a jealous and worldly-minded prudence. You must learn 
 to do hard, if not unjust things; and for the nice embar- 
 rassments of a delicate and ingenuous spirit, it is necessary 
 for you to get rid of them as fast as possible. You must 
 shut your heart against the Muses , and be content to feed 
 your understanding with plain household truths. In short, 
 you must not attempt to enlarge your Ideas, or polish 
 your Taste, or refine your Sentiments; but must keep on 
 in one beaten track, without turning aside either to ihe 
 right hand or to the left. — "But I cannot submit to drud- 
 gery like this — I feel a spirit above it!" 'Tis well: be 
 above it then; only do not repine that you are not Rich. 
 Is Knowledge the pearl of price? That, too, may be 
 purchased — by steady application and long solitary hours 
 of study and reflection. Bestow these, and you shall be 
 Learned. "But," says the man of letters, "what a hard- 
 ship it is , that many an illiterate fellow , who cannot 
 construe the motto of the arms of his coach , shall raise a 
 fortune and make a figure, while I have little more than 
 the common conveniences of life!" Was it in order to 
 raise a Fortune that you consumed the sprightly hours of 
 
i5i 
 
 youth in study and retirement ? Was it to be Rich that 
 you grew pale over the midnight lamp, and distilled the 
 sweetness from the Greek and Roman spring? You have 
 then mistaken your path , and ill employed your Industry. 
 " What reward have I then for all my Labors ? " What 
 reward! A large comprehensive Soul, well purged from 
 •vulgar fears, and perturbations, and prejudices; able to 
 comprehend and interpret the works of man — of God. A 
 rich, flourishing, cultivated Mind, pregnant with inexhaust- 
 ible stores of entertainment and reflection. A perpetual 
 spring of fresh ideas, and the conscious dignity of superior 
 Intelligence. Good heaven! and what reward can you ask 
 besides ? 
 
 "But is it not some reproach upon the economy of Prov- 
 idence, that such a one, who is a mean dirty fellow, should 
 have amassed wealth enough to buy half a nation? " Not 
 in the least. He made himself a mean dirty fellow for that 
 very end. He has paid his Health , his Conscience , his 
 Liberty for it; and will you envy his bargain? Will you 
 hang your head and blush in his presence, because he out- 
 shines you in equipage and show? Lift up your brow with 
 a noble confidence , and say to yourself — — tl I have not 
 these things, it is true; but it is because I have not sought, 
 because I have not desired them; it is because I possess 
 something better: I have chosen my lot; 1 am content 
 and satisfied." 
 
 You are a modest man — you love quiet and indepen- 
 dence, and have a delicacy and reserve in your temper 
 which renders it impossible for you to elbow your way 
 in the world, and be the herald of your own merits. Be 
 content, then, with a modest retirement, with the esteem 
 of your intimate friends , with the praises of a blameless 
 heart, and delicate ingenuous spirit; but resign the splen- 
 did distinctions of the world to those who can better 
 scramble for them. 
 
 The man, whose tender sensibility of Conscience and 
 strict regard to the rules of Morality make him scrupulous 
 and fearful of offending, is often heard to complain of the 
 disadvantages he lies under in «very path of honor and 
 profit. "Could I but get over some nice points, and conform 
 to the practice and opinion of those about me, I might 
 stand as fair a chance as others for Dignities and Prefer- 
 ment." And why can you not? What hinders you from 
 discarding this troublesome scrupulosity of yours, which 
 stands so grievously in your way? II it be a small tiling 
 to enjoy a healthful Mind, sound at the very core, that 
 
l52 
 
 does not shrink from the keenest inspection; inward free- 
 dom from remorse and perturbation; unsullied whiteness 
 and simplicity of manners; a genuine integrity, 
 
 Pure in the last recesses of the mindj 
 
 if you think these advantages an inadequate recompense 
 for What you resign — dismiss your scruples this instant, 
 and be a Slave-merchant , a Director — or What you please. 
 
 Aitkin. 
 
 FAREWEL, 
 
 The Home that blesses and endears , 
 
 The lively Hearth that warms and cheers , 
 
 The blushing Smiles that charm our fears 
 
 And woes dispel, 
 But prompt our Grief, but swell our Tears, 
 
 When sounds — " Farewel "! 
 
 Each Rose-bud that adorns the glade, 
 Each withering Flower that blooms to fade, 
 Each falling Leaf that decks the shade, 
 And strews the dell , 
 Seems , in its dying charms , arrayed 
 
 To say — « Farewel "I 
 
 The Morning-breeze that rustles by, 
 And waves the dewy Rose-bush dry, 
 Whilst in a low and pensive sigh 
 
 Its accents dwell, 
 Seems but to sympathise whilst I 
 
 Proclaim — u Farewel " ! 
 
 With Home's dear joys supremely blessed, 
 'JSeath Beauty's winning smile carressed, 
 A nameless joy throbs through the breast 
 
 Unspeakable: 
 Who e'er to such Elysian rest 
 
 Could say — "Farewel"! 
 
 'Tis hard when Love's seraphic fire 
 
 Thrills through the breast with pure desire, 
 
i53 
 
 When partial Beauty's heavenly lyre, 
 
 With rapturous swell . 
 Bids each advancing doubt retire, 
 
 To say — " Farewel " ! 
 
 Enlinked in Friendship's golden chain 
 
 Congenial spirits may remain; 
 
 But when Love adds its melting strain, 
 
 With magic spell, 
 How hard the task, how 'cute the pain, 
 
 To say — " FareweJ. " ! 
 
 The tendriiled Ivy may be torn 
 From its embrace around the Thorn , } 
 But there its mark, unceasing borne, 
 
 Its site will tellj 
 Hearts thus retain the sigh forlorn 
 
 When sounds — "Farewel"! 
 
 The summer dries the mountain rill , 
 And makes its murmuring waters still, 
 While channeled-way, adown the hill, 
 Marks where it fell; 
 Thus Grief will furrow deep the Will 
 
 When sounds — " Farewel"! 
 
 I've known Ambition's dreams depart, 
 I've felt Despair's envenomed dart, 
 But these were nothing to the smart, 
 
 Which naught can quell, 
 When burst upon my afflicted heart 
 
 The sad — "Farewel"! 
 
 But when the Noon of Life is past, 
 And Death's dark Eve approaches fast, 
 And borne upon the wintery blast 
 
 Is heard a Knell, — 
 That will proclaim my long , my last, 
 
 My dark — "Farewel"! 
 
 Anonymous, 
 
 The Admirers of the late Noble Poet cannot bat feel highly gratified 
 with the "Letters on the Character and Poetical Genius of Lord. 
 Byron , by Sir Egertou Brydges , Bart. &c." written at Geueva , in 
 l824. It is, indeed, a Volume worth reading. The following is XI 
 Letter j ih le are XL1 in all. 
 
i5* 
 
 ON BYRON. 
 
 Geneva, June ist, 1824. 
 
 Whatever objections maybe made to Lord Byron, none 
 can be made which will take from him the title to fill an 
 important place in our national poetry. There are in him 
 more of the certain and positive qualities of a Poet, than, 
 with very few exceptions, are elsewhere to be found. Others 
 clothe themselves , as it were , with the external mantle 
 of poetry, which they can put on and off, and which 
 do not form part of themselves. Poetry was part of Lord 
 Byron's being; and he occupied himself in it as a vocation , 
 not as an amusement. He took it as an intellectual art, 
 which was applicable to whatever could engage the study 
 of the passions or the reason of man : he considered its 
 range, therefore^ as unlimited as that of prose, with the 
 addition of many dominions peculiar to itself. 
 
 We may disapprove the subjects , the incidents , the 
 moral of Lord Byron's tales: still they are poetical — at 
 least so far as they do not offend verisimility; and they are 
 so far original as to add to the stores of our intellectual 
 wealth : they form part of the substance and genuine ore 
 of that wealth. 
 
 The objections to them are, however, yet very strong: 
 they most of them turn on some revolting crime: the Giaour 
 turns on female infidelity ; on punishment by death ; and 
 revenge by murder on the part of the seducer. The Corsair 
 turns on piracy, fire , and devastation : murder committed 
 by a female beauty on the chief who loved her; and an 
 abandonment of her person , yet reeking with the blood 
 she had shed, to the Corsair, whose liberation of her had 
 excited her passion ; and , lastly, the death of the Corsair's 
 faithful wife , and the disappearance of the husband in grief 
 for the Joss. 
 
 Lara describes one haunted by his conscience for some 
 unknown crime: moody, fierce, vindictive; soon affronted; 
 eager to resent insult; engaged in a duel with one who 
 never afterwards appears, to whom he is suspected of foul 
 play, and whose body there are signs of his having thrown 
 into the river; then drawn into rebellion, and failing in 
 battle, accompanied by a faithful page, who is discovered 
 to be a female; and, by the manner in which she weep* 
 over him, his probable mistress. This is commonly sup- 
 posed to be the second part of The Corsair, who thus re- 
 appears in the character of Lara. 
 
1 55 
 
 Parisina is one who, though attached to a son , marries 
 his fatherj then commits adultery with the son; and is with 
 that son put to death under a public judgement made by 
 the order of the father himself, who is the sovereign of 
 the country. Is not this a complication of frightful and 
 revolting crimes? 
 
 The Bride of Abydos is the attachment and marriage of 
 one 'who had been brought up as a brother with his supposed 
 sister in disobedience of the marriage recommended to her 
 by her father , against whom the supposed son , after this 
 marriage, rebels — and thus causes the most tragical deaths. 
 
 Of The Siege of Corinth , I forget the story. The crime 
 for which Manfred afflicts himself seems to be incest with 
 his own sister. 
 
 Here , however, are at least six stories which hinge upon 
 disgusting wickedness. 
 
 The dramas of Marino Faliero and the Two Foscari 
 turn upon state crimes. Werner approaches nearer the 
 character of the six first poems: for, if I recollect, its foun- 
 dation is a murder. The Prisoners of Chilian is a picture 
 of cruelly exercised power. 
 
 The Lament of Tasso is, perhaps, the only poem of Lord 
 Byron's which is free, from objection. It is pathetic, 
 vigorous, poetical, pure, and in all respects beautiful. 
 
 Some wonder may be raised how, where the major part 
 of these productions have some grand and radical defect, 
 they can have altogether so strong a hold on the public ad- 
 miration* It partly, perhaps, may be accounted for by the 
 force and beauty with which the details are executed; by 
 the strength, brilliancy, and correctness of imagery; by 
 the power , directness , and sincerity of sentiment ; by the 
 life and genuineness of the imaginative conception; — so 
 that, if the facts are conceded, all that results from them 
 is drawn in the most brilliant colors of nature. 
 
 Poetical writers in general do no more than excite images 
 and sentiments, as the basis of the verbal pictures they 
 desire to create. Lord Byron's verbal pictures are quite 
 subordinate to those which exist in idea, and merely their 
 vehicle. In them, the words outrun the idea: in him the 
 idea outruns the words. 
 
 It is clear that there is a sort of shadowy, bastard poe- 
 try, which is a mere poetiy of language. It is like artifi- 
 cial flowers ; it has the same forms and colors as the real 
 — - but no life. We read it, yet are not touched; but won- 
 der why! Such writers have no fixed or unborrowed 
 feelings or thoughts; no unborrowed inspirations: they 
 
156 
 
 have no energy of character; no peculiarities; nothing 
 which distinguishes them from the mass of mankind; they 
 therefore carry no weight with them: there is nothing in 
 themselves which aids their writings. 
 
 Two of the most common faults , among secondary 
 poets are , to be sickly or fantastic. Feebleness is destruc- 
 tive to tliG charms of poetry, because it implies a want of 
 inspiration. To be fantastic implies exaggerated effort, 
 and want of native vigor. By long research, the imagina- 
 tion gels into bye-paths , and involves itself in intricacies, 
 which the reader's mind does not easily follow. All address- 
 es to the imagination, which do not strike at once, are faulty. 
 
 In Lord Byron's earliest poetry, his thoughts and senti- 
 ments showed occasionally a character of his own; but 
 they were expressed in the conventional language of his 
 predecessors: — in his latter, they were not only mainly 
 his own , but expressed in his own language. His style 
 was commonly excellent, because it Was clear, vigorous, 
 transparent, and unaffected; disdainful of the petty flowers 
 of poetry, and all its petty artifices , its stale tricks and 
 formularies , which are among the most disgusting anti- 
 dotes to pleasure that secondary poetry imposes on us. 
 
 It is probable that the generality of mankind are content 
 to think without force or precision, and without much 
 notice of their own feelings. If others present a mirror to 
 them of what commonly passes in the human mind, and 
 point out the forms , lines , and hues , they are pleased to 
 gaze upon them, and acknowledge the likeness; but they 
 could not have drawn it themselves — nor are they the 
 only ones who could not have drawn it. 
 
 Even of such as aspire to teach , few think and feel 
 with sufficient power to be able to produce a just and ener- 
 getic picture. We cannot wonder then, that when these 
 powers are possessed in so strong a degree as Lord Byron 
 possessed them , that they should have attracted all the 
 notice and applause which they did attract. We may sup- 
 pose for ourselves the facility of the recurrence of such 
 power; but their rarity is sufficiently proved by a refer- 
 ence to what the test of experience shows us has hitherto 
 been produced. Has such a combination of faculties been 
 often exhibited in the past? If it has not, what right 
 have we to suppose that it will soon recur again ? 
 
 If a poet could be made by the accidental application of 
 good abilities , then the place of him who dies may be 
 supplied without difficulty; but a genuine poet is a being 
 of a mould and endowments positively peculiar, and most 
 
i5j 
 
 rare— one, whom indnstry cannot make, and neglect 
 cannot extinguish: a being, whose spells cannot be effaced 
 by faults , and of whom the admiration cannot be over- 
 come by eccentricities or perversities associated with bis 
 prodigal gifts of mind. A man of acquired powers, of 
 wealth not inherited but procured by his own industry, is 
 one made by himself; and tberefore, such as others may 
 also make themselves if they will. Such a one is never 
 above common rivalry; whereas if a rival arises to the 
 other, it must be so rarely, that it need not be feared. 
 
 In selecting such a one as an object of distinction , and 
 worthy the public regard, we cannot err. Nothing dimin- 
 ishes the value of Fame more than the attempt to draw 
 notice to insignificant persons — because, it tends to con- 
 found the eminent with the obscure , and to induce the 
 belief that public notice is no test of merited superiority. 
 
 Nothing is more satisfactory than to find in those on 
 whom the public voice has fallen, qualities to justify the 
 celebrity conferred^ Eoertok Bkydges. 
 
 Moore b. 1780; yet Living. 
 
 On the Death of Sheridan. 
 
 Yes, Grief will have way ~— but the fast-falling tear 
 Shall be mingled with deep execrations, on those 
 "Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian career, 
 And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close: 
 
 "Whose vanity flew round him only while fed j , ir)> 
 
 JBy the odor his fame in its summer-time gave ; 
 \Vhose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead, 
 Like the ghole of the East , comes to feed at his grave ! 
 
 Oh ! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow, 
 And spirits so mean in the great and high-born; > 
 
 To thin,k what a long line of titles may follow 
 The relics of Him who died — friendless and lorn! 
 
 How proud they can press to the funeral array 
 Of one whom they shunned in his sickness and sorrow: 
 How Bailiffs may seize His last blanhet today, 
 "Whose pall shall be held up. by Nobles tomorrow! 
 
i58 
 
 And Thou! (a) too, whose life, a sick epicure's dream, 
 Incoherent and gross, even grosser had passed, 
 "Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam 
 "Which His friendship and wit o'er iky nothingness cast: 
 
 No ! not for the wealth of the land that supplies thee 
 "With millions to heap upon foppery's shrine — 
 No! not for the riches of all who despise thee, 
 Though this would make Europe's whole opulence mine — 
 
 Would I suffer what — even in the heart that thou hast — 
 Alt mean as it is — • must have consciously burned! 
 When the Pittance, which Shame had wrung from thee at last , 
 And which found all his Wants at an end , was returned 1 (b) 
 
 "Was this , then , the fate " — future ages will say, 
 When some Names shall live but in History's curse ; 
 When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day 
 Be forgotten as Fools, or remembered as worse — 
 
 "Was this, then, the fate of that high-gifted man, 
 The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall, 
 The Orator — . Dramatist — Minstrel — i who ran 
 Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all — 
 
 "Whose Mind was an essence, compounded with art 
 From the fi,nest and best of all other men's powers -— 
 Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the Heart, 
 And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its showers — 
 
 "Whose Humor, as gay as the fire-fly's light, 
 Played. round every subject, and shone as it played — 
 Wjiose Wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright, 
 Never carried a heart-stain away on its blade — ■ 
 
 "Whose Eloquence , brightening whatever it tried, 
 Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave, 
 Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide 
 As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave ! " M 
 
 (a) The then Prince of Wales. (£) The Sum was Two hundred 
 Pounds — offered when Sheridan could no longer take any sustenance , 
 and refused , for him , hj his friends. 
 
i5g 
 
 Yes! such was the Man «*- and so wretched his Fate! 
 And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve, 
 "Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the Great, 
 And expect 'twill return to refresh them at eve! 
 
 In the woods of the "North there are Insects that prey 
 On the brain of the Elk till its very last sigh; (a) 
 Oh! Genius thy Patrons, more cruel than they, 
 First feed on thy brains and then leave thee — to die ! 
 
 Moore. 
 
 (a) Naturalists have observed, on dissecting an Elk , that there 
 were found in its head some large flies , with is brain almost eaten, 
 away by them. History of Poland. 
 
 
 
 - 
 On Quartering Soldiers 
 
 in American 
 
 If, my Lords, we take a transient view of the motives, 
 which induced the ancestors of our fellow-subjects in 
 America, to leave their native country, to encounter the 
 innumerable difficulties of the unexplored regions of the 
 western world, our astonishment, at the present conduct 
 of their descendants, will, naturally, subside. There was 
 no corner of the globe, to which they would not have 
 fled, rather than submit to the slavish and tyrannical spi- 
 rit, which prevailed at that period, in their native coun- 
 try; and viewing them, in their originally forlorn , and 
 now flourishing state, they may be cited as illustrious 
 instances to instruct the world, what great exertions man- 
 kind will make , when left to the free exercise of their 
 own powers. Notwithstanding my intention , to give my 
 hearty negative to the question before you , I condemn , 
 my Lords, in the severest manner, the turbulent and un- 
 warrantable conduct of the Americans, in some instances; 
 and particularly in the late riots at Boston: but, my Lords) 
 the mode which has been taken, to bring them back to a 
 sense of their duty, is so diametrically opposite to every 
 principle of sound policy, as to excite my utmost astonish- 
 ment. You have involved the innocent and the guilty, in 
 one common punishment; and avenged the crimes of a few 
 
i6o 
 
 lawless depredators , upon the whole body of the inhabi- 
 tants. My Lords, the different provinces of America, in 
 the excess of their gratitude , for the repeal of the Stamp- 
 Act , seemed to vie with each other, in expressions of 
 Joyalty and duty — but the moment they perceived, that 
 your intention to Tax them was renewed, under a pretence 
 of serving the East India Company, their resentment got 
 the better of their moderation , and hurried them into ac- 
 tions , which their cooler reason would abhor. But , my 
 Lords, from the whole complection of the business, I can- 
 not but incline to think, the Administration has purposely 
 irritated them into those violent acts , in order to gratify 
 their own malice and revenge. What else could induce 
 them to dress Taxation, the father of American sedition, 
 in the robes of an East-India-Director; but to break in 
 upon that mutual harmony and peace , which then so hap- 
 pily prevailed between the colonies and the mother coun- 
 try? My Lords, it has ever been my fixed arid unalterable 
 opinion — and I will carry it with me to the grave — that 
 this country had no right under heaven to Tax America! 
 It is contrary to all the principles of justice and civil 
 policy; it is contrary to that essential , unalterable right 
 in nature, ingrafted into the British Constitution as an 
 unalterable Law, that what a man has honestly acquired, 
 is absolutely his own; which he can freely give, but which, 
 cannot be taken from him without his consent. Pass then, 
 my Lords , instead of these harsh and severe measures, 
 an amnesty over their errors : by measures of lenity and 
 affection, aljure them to their duty; act the part of a gen- 
 erous and forgiving parent. 
 
 A period may arrive , when this parent may stand in 
 need of every assistance she can receive from a grateful 
 and affectionate offspring. Tlrj welfare of this country, 
 my Lords, has ever been my greatest joy; and, under all 
 the vicissitudes of my life, has afforded me the most pleas- 
 ing consolation. Should the all-disposing hand of Provi- 
 dence prevent me from contributing my poor and feeble 
 aid , in the day of her distress, my prayers shall be ever 
 for her Prosperity: — Length of days be in her right hand, 
 and in her left hand riches and honor! May her ways 
 i>e ways of pleasantness, and all her paths be peace! 
 
 Chatham. 
 
i6i 
 
 Portia's Speech on Mercy \ 
 
 Duke, Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. 
 Portia* Is your name Shylock ? 
 Shylock. Shylock is my name. 
 
 Portia. Of a strange Nature is the suit you follow ; 
 Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law 
 Cannot impugn (a) you , as you do proceed. 
 You stand within his danger, do you not? 
 Antonio. Ay, so he says. 
 
 Portia. Do you confess the Bond? 
 
 Antonio. I do. 
 Portia. Then must the Jew be merciful — 
 
 Shylock. On what compulsion must I? tell me that. 
 
 Portia. The quality of Mercy is not strained ; (b) 
 It droppeth, as the gentle rain from Heaven 
 Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed; 
 It blesseth him that gives , and him that takes : 
 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes 
 The throned monarch better than his crown: 
 His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 
 The attribute to awe and majesty, 
 Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings J 
 But Mercy is above this sceptred sway, 
 It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 
 It is an attribute to God himself; 
 And earthly power doth then show likest God's, 
 "When Mercy seasons Justice. Therefore, Jew I 
 Though Justiee be thy plea , (c) consider this — ■ • 
 That in the course of Justice, none of us 
 Should see salvation: we do pray for Mercy, 
 And that same prayer doth teach us all to render, 
 The deeds of Mercy. I have spoke thus muck 
 To mitigate the Justice of thy plea; (d) 
 Which if thou follow, this strict Court of Venice 
 Must needs give Sentence (e) 'gainst the Merchant there.' 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 (a) Impugn — Johnson interprets the word in this passage , to attack , 
 to assault; this is not, I think, the meaning; for Portia came prepared 
 to attack him: I think that Shakespeare meant nothing more than to 
 hinder; a sense in which he ought not to. have used it. Pronounce 
 impugn im-pune'. 
 
 (b) Strained — constrained , forced , compelled. 
 (cj Plea — apology, excuse, verontschuldiging. 
 
 (d) Plea — the thing demanded in pleading, pleit. 
 
 (e) Give sentence — pass judgement, veroordeelen. 
 
 11 
 
LECTURE VIII. 
 
 On the Pronunciation of the English Language, 
 continued* 
 
 STERNE. 
 
 In February, 1768, Laurence Sterne, his frame exhaust- 
 ed by long debilitating illness, expired at his Lodgings 
 in Bond-street , London. &c. 
 
 If we consider Sterne's reputation as chiefly founded upon 
 ^Tristram S/iandy, he must be considered as liable to two 
 severe charges — - those of Indecency and Affectation. &c. 
 
 If we proceed to look more closely into the manner of 
 composition which Sterne thought proper to adopt, we 
 find a sure guide in the ingenious Dr. Ferriar, of Man- 
 chester; who , with most singular patience has traced our 
 author through the hidden sources whence he borrowed 
 most of his learning , and many of his most striking and 
 peculiar expressions. &c. 
 
 Much has been said about the right of an author to avail 
 himself of his predecessors's labors; and certainly, in a 
 general sense , he that revives the wit and learning of a 
 former age and puts it into the form likely to captivate 
 his own , confers a benefit on his contemporaries. But to 
 plume himself with the very language and phrases of for- 
 mer writers , and to pass their wit and learning for his 
 own, was the more unworthy in Sterne, as he had enough 
 of Original talent, had he chosen to exert it, to have disn 
 pensed with all such acts of literary petty larcency. &c. 
 
 Tristram Shandy is no narrative, but a collition of 
 scenes, dialogues, and portraits $ humorous or affecting, 
 intermixed with much wit and with much learning , origi- 
 nal or borrowed. It resembles the irregularities of a gotluc 
 
i63 
 
 room, built by some fanciful collector, to contain the mis- 
 cellaneous remnants of antiquity which his pains have 
 accumulated, and bearing as little proportion, in its parts, 
 as the pieces of rusty armor with which it is decorated. &c. 
 
 Y or rich , the lively, witty, sensative, and heedless par- 
 son, is the well-known personification of Sterne himself; 
 and, undoubtedly, like every portrait of himself, drawn 
 by a master of the art, bore a strong resemblance to the 
 original. Still, however, there are shades of simplicity 
 thrown into the character of Yorrlch , which did not exist 
 in that of Sterne. We cannot believe that the jests of the 
 latter were so void of malice prepense , or that his satire 
 intirely flowed out of honesty of mind and mere jocundity 
 of humor. &c. 
 
 Uncle Toby j with his faithful squire , the most delight- 
 ful characters in the work, or perhaps in any other, are 
 drawn with such a pleasing force and discrimination that 
 they more than entitle the author to a free pardon for his 
 literary peculations, his indecorum, and his affectation ; nay, 
 authorise him to leave the court of criticism , not forgiven 
 only, but applauded and rewarded , as one who has exalted 
 and honored humanity, and impressed upon his readers 
 such a lively picture of kindness and benevolence, blended 
 with courage , gallantry, and simplicity, that their hearts 
 must be warmed by it whenever it is recalled to memory. &c. 
 It is needless to dwell longer on a work so generally 
 known. The style employed by Sterne is fancifully orna- 
 mented, but at the same time vigorous and masculine, 
 and full of that animation and force which can only be 
 derived by an intimate acquaintance with the early English 
 prose-writers. In the power of approaching and touching 
 the finer feelings of the heart,, he has never been excelled, 
 if, indeed, he has ever been equalled; and may be at once 
 recorded as one of the most Affected, and one of the most 
 Simple writers — as one of the greatest Plagiarists , and 
 one of the most Original geniuses whom England has pro- 
 duced. Dr. Ferriar, who seemed born to trace and detect 
 the various mazes through which Sterne carried on his 
 depredations upon ancient and dusty authors, apologises 
 for the rigor of his inquest, by doing justice to those 
 merits which were peculiarly our author's own. We can- 
 not better close this article than with the sonnet in which 
 his ingenious inquisitor makes the amend honorable to the 
 shade of Yorrich — 
 
 " Sterne , for whose sake I pfod through miry ways , 
 
 Of antique wit and quibbling masses drear, 
 
i64 
 
 Let not thy Shade malignant censure fear, 
 
 Though aught of borrowed mirth my search betrays; 
 
 Long slept that mirth in dust of ancient days ; 
 
 (Ere while to Guise or wanton Valois dear) 
 
 Till waked by thee, in Skelton's joyous pile, 
 
 She flung on Tristram her capricious rays ; 
 
 But the quick tear that checks our wondering smile , 
 
 In sudden pause, or unexpected story, 
 
 Owns thy true mastery — and Lefevre's woes , 
 
 Maria's wanderings, and the Prisoner's throes , 
 
 Fix Thee conspicuous on the throne of glory.' 7 
 
 Sir W. Scott, 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Hope , unyielding to Despair ," 
 
 Springs for ever fresh and fair: 
 Earth's serenest prospects fly; 
 
 Hope's enchantments never die! 
 
 At Fortune's frown, in evil hour; 
 
 Though honor, wealth, and friends depart, 
 She cannot drive , with all her power , 
 This lonely solace from the heart: -— 
 And while this the Soul sustains, 
 Fortune still unchanged remains; 
 Wheresoe'er her wheel she guides 
 Hope upon the circle rides. 
 
 The Syrens , deep in ocean caves ; 
 
 Sing, while loud the tempests roar; 
 Expecting soon the frantic waves 
 To ripple on a smiling shore : 
 In the whirlwind, o'er the spray 
 They behold the halcyon play; 
 And through midnight clouds, afar; 
 Hope lights up the morning star. 
 
 This pledge of bliss, in future years; 
 
 Makes smooth and easy every toil; 
 The swain, who sows the waste with tears; 
 
 In fancy reaps a teeming soil : — 
 
 
i65 
 
 What though mildew blight his joy, 
 Frost or flood his crops destroy, 
 War compel his feet to roam — 
 Hope still carols Harvest-Home! 
 
 The Monarch, exiled from his realm, 
 
 The Slave, in fetters at the oar, 
 The Seaman, sinking by the helm, 
 The Captive, on his dungeon floor — 
 All , through peril , pain , and death , 
 Fondly cling to parting breath; 
 Glory, freedom, power are past, 
 But the dream of Hope will last. 
 
 Weary and faint , with sickness worn , 
 
 Blind, lame, and deaf, and bent with age, 
 By Man the load of life is borne 
 To his last step of pilgrimage : 
 
 Though the branch no longer shoot, 
 Vigor lingers at the root; 
 And in Winter's dreariest day, 
 Hope foretels returning May. 
 
 When , wrung with Guilt , the wretch would end 
 
 His gloomy days in sudden night, 
 Hope comes , an unexpected friend , 
 To win him back to hated light: 
 
 "Hold" ! she cries; and from his hand 
 
 Plucks the suicidal brand — - 
 
 "Now await a happier doom, 
 
 Hope will cheer thee to the Tomb" \ 
 
 When Virtue droops, as comforts fail, 
 And sore afflictions press the mind, 
 Sweet Hope prolongs her pleasing tale, 
 Till all the world again looks kind: 
 Round the Good man's dying bed 
 Were the wreck of Nature spread, 
 Hope would set his Spirit free , 
 Crying . «< Immortality "!!! 
 
 Montgomery, 
 
i66 
 
 On Discretion. 
 
 Nullum numen , abest si sit prudentia. 
 
 Juv. Sat. X. 
 Prudence supplies the want of every good. 
 
 I have often thought, if the Minds of men were laid 
 open , we should see but little difference between that of 
 the wise man and that of the fool. There are infinite rev- 
 eries, numberless extravagancies, and a perpetual train 
 of vanities which pass through both. The great differ- 
 ence is , that the first knows how to pick and cull his 
 thoughts for conversation, by suppressing some and com- 
 municating others ; whereas the other lets them all indiffer- 
 ently fly out in words. This sort of Discretion, however, 
 lias no place in private conversation, between intimate 
 friends. On such occasions the wisest men very often talk 
 like the weakest; for indeed the talking with a friend is 
 nothing else but thinking aloud. 
 
 Tully has therefore very justly exposed a precept deliv- 
 ered 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 his enemy it should not be in 
 lirs power to hurt him." The first part of this rule, which 
 regards our behaviour towards an enemy, is indeed very 
 reasonable , as well as very prudential ; but the latter part 
 of it , which regards our behaviour towards a friend , sa- 
 vors more of Cunning than of Discretion , and would cut a 
 man off from the greatest pleasures of life ; which are the 
 freedom of conversation with a bosom friend. Besides 
 that, when a friend is turned into an enemy, and, as the 
 Son of Sirach calls him , "a bewrayer of secrets," («) the 
 world is just enough to accuse the perfidiousness of the 
 friend rather than the indiscretion of the person who con- 
 fided in him. 
 
 Discretion does not only show itself in words, 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 are none so useful as Discretion; it is this 
 indeed which gives a value to all the rest, which sets them- 
 at work in their proper times and places , and turns them 
 to the advantage of the person who is possessed of them, 
 (a) liccles. vi. 9$ xzvn. 17. 
 
167 
 
 Without it, learning is pedantry, and wit impertinence; 
 virtue itself looks like weakness j the best parts only qual- 
 ify a man to be more sprightly in errors } and active to 
 his own prejudice. 
 
 Nor does Discretion 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. Accordingly, if we look 
 into particular communities and divisions of men we may 
 observe that it is the Discreet man , not the witty, nor the 
 learned, nor the brave, who guides the conversation , and 
 gives measures to the society. A man with great talents , 
 but void of Discretion , is like Polyphemus in the fable , 
 strong and blind, endued with irresistible force, which, 
 for want of sight , is of no use to him. 
 
 Though a man has all other perfections , and wants Dis- 
 cretion , he will be of no great consequence in the world;* 
 but if he has this single talent in perfection , and but a 
 common share of others, he may 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 Cunning to be 
 the accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. 
 Discretion points out the noblest ends to us , and pursues 
 the most proper and laudable methods 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-sightedness , 
 that discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, 
 hutis 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 a man incapable of 
 bringing about even those events which he might have 
 done, had he passed only for a plain man. Discretion is 
 the perfection of reason, and a guide to us in all the du- 
 ties of life 1 Cunning is a kind of instinct , that only looks 
 out after our immediate interest and welfare. Discretion 
 is only found in men of strong sense and good understand- 
 ings: Cunning is often to be met within brutes themselves 
 ■and in persons who are but I he fewest removes from them. 
 In short, Cunning is .only the mimic of Discretion, and 
 may pass upon weak men, in the same manner as vivacity 
 is often mistaken for wit, and gravity for wisdom. 
 
 The cast of mind which rs natural to a Discreet man, 
 
i68 
 
 makes him look forward into Futurity, and consider what 
 will be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what 
 it is at present. He knows that the misery or happiness 
 which are reserved for him in another world, lose no- 
 thing of their reality by being placed at so great a distance 
 from him. The objects do not appear little to him because 
 they are remote. He considers that those pleasures and, 
 pains which lie hid in Eternity, approach nearer to him 
 every moment, and will be present with him in their full 
 weight and measure, as much as those pains and pleasures 
 which he feels at this very instant. For this reason he is 
 careful to secure to himself that which is the proper hap- 
 piness of his nature, and the ultimate design of his Being. 
 Jle carries his thoughts to the end of every action , and 
 considers the most distant as well as the most immediate 
 effects of it. He supersedes every little prospect of gain and 
 advantage which offers itself here , if he does not find it 
 consistent with his views of an hereafter. In a word , his 
 hopes are full of Immortality, his schemes are large and 
 glorious , and his conduct suitable to one who knows his 
 true interest, and how to pursue it by proper methods. 
 
 I have in this Essay upon Discretion, considered it both 
 as an accomplishment and as a virtue , and have therefore 
 described it in its full extent; not only as it is conversant 
 about worldly affairs, but as it regards our whole existence; 
 not only as it is the guide of a mortal creature, but vm it 
 is in general the director of a reasonable being. It is in this 
 light that Discretion is represented by the wise man, who 
 sometimes mentions it under the name of Discretion, and 
 sometimes under that of Wisdom. It is indeed (as describ- 
 ed in the latter part of this paper) the greatest Wisdom , 
 but, at the same time, in the power of every one to attain. 
 Its advantages are infinite, but its acquisition easy; or to 
 speak of her in the words of the apociwphal writer whom 
 I quoted in my last Saturday's paper, (a) 'Wisdom is glo- 
 rious and never fadeth away, yet she is easily seen of them 
 that love her, and found of such as seek her. She pre- 
 vented! them that desire her, in making herself first known 
 unto them. He that seeketh her early shall have no great 
 travel: for he shall find her sitting at his doors. To think 
 thsrefore upon her is the perfection of Wisdom, and whoso 
 watcheth for her shall quickly be without care. For she 
 goeth about seeking such as are worthy of her, showcth 
 Jierself favorably unto them in the ways , and meetelh 
 them in every thought.' kabmomi 
 
 (a) Wisdom of Solonioa, vi. 12 — iG. 
 
169 
 
 Verses 
 
 Written on hearing that the Austrians had entered Naples, 
 
 Ay — down to the dust them , Slaves as they are! 
 From this hour, let the blood in their dastardly veins, 
 That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war , 
 J3e sucked out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains! 
 
 On , on ! like a cloud , through their beautiful vales , 
 
 Ye Locusts of tyranny! blasting them o'er — 
 
 Fill , fill up their wide sunny waters , ye Sails 
 
 From each slave-mart of Europe, and poison their shore! 
 
 Let their fate be a mock-word — let men of all lands 
 Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring tq the poles, 
 When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands 
 Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls : 
 
 . 
 And deep, and more deep as the iron is driven, 
 Base Slaves ! may the whet of their agony be, 
 To think — as the damned , haply, think of that Heaven 
 They had once in their reach — that they might have been 
 
 (Free ! 
 Shame , Shame ! when there was not a bosom whose heat 
 Ever rose o'er the zero of Castlereagh's heart, 
 That did not, like echo, your War-hymn repeat, 
 And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start — 
 
 When the World stood in Hope — when a Spirit that breathed 
 The Fresh air of the olden-time, whispered about, 
 And the Swords of all Italy, half-way unsheathed, 
 But waited one conquering Cry, to flash out! 
 
 When, around you, the Shades of your mighty in fame, 
 Filicajas and Petrarchs, seemed bursting to view, 
 And their words and their warnings — like tongues of bright 
 Over Freedom's apostles — fell kindling on You ! (flame 
 
 Good God! that in such a proud moment of life, • 
 
 — Worth ages of History — when, had you but hurled 
 
 One. bolt at your bloody invader, that strife 
 
 Between freemen and tyrants had spread thro' the World — 
 
170 
 
 That then — oh disgrace upon Manhood! e'en then 
 You should falter , should kling to your pitiful breath ; 
 Cower down into Beasts, when you might have stood Men, 
 And prefer the slave's Life-of-damnation — to Death! 
 
 It is strange! it is dreadful!!! Shout Tyranny! shout, 
 Through your dungeons and palaces — "Freedom is o'er!" 
 If there lingers one spark of her light , tread it out ! 
 And return to your empire of darkness once more : 
 
 For, if such are the Braggarts that claim to be Free, 
 Come Despot of Russia! thy feet let me kiss — 
 Far nobler to live the brute-bondman of thee, 
 Than to sully e'en chains by a struggle like this ! 
 
 Moore, Paris, 1821. 
 
 From Lord CHESTERFIELD to his Son* 
 
 London, February the 5th, O.S. 1750. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Very few people are good economists of their Fortune , 
 and still fewer of their Time ; and yet , of the two , the 
 latter is the most precious. I heartily wish you to be a good 
 economist of both} and you are now of an age to begin 
 to think seriously of those two important articles. Young 
 people are apt to think that they have so much Time 
 before them, that they may squander what they please 
 of it , and yet have enough left ; as very great Fortunes 
 have frequently seduced people to a ruinous profusion. 
 Fatal mistakes ! always repented of, but always too late. 
 Old Mr. Lowndes , the famous Secretary of the treasury, 
 in the reigns of King William , Queen Anne , and King 
 George the First, used to say — "Take care of the Pence, 
 and the Pounds will take care of themselves." To this 
 maxim, which he not only preached, but practised, his 
 two grandsons , at this time , owe the very considerable 
 fortunes that he left them. 
 
 This holds equally true as to Time ; and I most earnestly 
 recommend to you the care of those Minutes and Quarters 
 of Hours, in the course of the day, which peoplelliink 
 too short to deserve their attention j and yet , if* sunn'ned 
 
1 7 1 
 
 up at the end of the Year, -would amount to a very consi- 
 derable portion of time. For example: you are to be at such 
 a place at Twelve, by appointment; you go out at Eleven, 
 to make two or three visits first; those persons are not at 
 home : instead of santering away that intermediate time 
 at a Coffee-house, and possibly alone; return Home, write 
 a Letter, beforehand, for the ensuing post, or take up a 
 good book — I do not mean Descartes, Mallebranche, Locke, 
 or Newton, by way of dipping — but some book of rational 
 amusement; and detached pieces, as Horace, Boileau , Wal- 
 ler, La Bruyere, etc. This will be so much Time saved, 
 and by no means ill employed. Many people lose a great 
 deal of time by Reading : for they read frivolous and idle 
 Books ; such as the absurd Romances of the two last cen- 
 turies; where characters, that never existed, are insipidly 
 displayed, and sentiments, that were never felt, pom*- 
 pously described: the original ravings and extravagancies of 
 the Arabian Nights, and Mogul Tales; or, the new flimsy 
 "brochures that now swarm in France , of Fairy Tales, Re- 
 flexions sur leCceur, et V Esprit, Metaphysique de V Amour r 
 Analyse des beaux Sentiments; and such sort of idle friv- 
 olous stuff, that nourishes and improves the mind just 
 as much as whipped cream would the bo,dy. Stick to the 
 best established books in every language; the celebrated 
 Poets , Historians , Orators , or Philosophers. By these 
 means (to use a city metaphor) you will make fifty per cent 
 of that time , of which others do not make above three or 
 four , or probably nothing at all. 
 
 Many people lose a great deal of their Time by laziness ; 
 they loll and yawn in a great Chair , tell themselves that 
 they have not time to begin any thing then, and that it 
 will do as well another time. This is a most unfortunate 
 disposition, and the greatest obstruction to both knowledge 
 and business. At your age , you have no right nor claim 
 to laziness; I have, if I please, being, emeritus. You are 
 but just listed in the world, and must be active, diligent, 
 indefatigable. If ever you propose commanding with dig- 
 nity, you must serve up to it with diligence. Never put 
 off till Tomorrow what you can do Today. 
 
 Despatch is the soul of business; and nothing contributes 
 more to Despatch, than Method. Lay down a method for 
 every thing, and stick to it inviolably, as far as unexpected 
 incidents may allow. Fix one certain hour and day in 
 the week for your Accounts , and keep them together in 
 their proper order; by which means they will require very 
 little lime, and you can never be much cheated. Whatever 
 
172 
 
 Letters and Papers you keep, docket and tie them up in 
 their respective classes , so that you may instantly have 
 recourse to any one. Lay down a method also for your 
 Reading , for which you allot a cetain share of your morn- 
 ings ; let it he in a consistent and consecutive course, and 
 not in that desultory and immethodical manner , in which 
 many people read scraps of different authors, upon differ- 
 ent subjects. Keep a useful and short Common-place-book 
 of what you read , to help your memory only, and not for 
 pedantic quotations. Never read History without having 
 maps, and a chronological book, or tables, lying by you, 
 and constantly recurred to; without which, History is 
 only a confused heap of facts. One method more I recom- 
 mend to you, by which I have found great benefit, even 
 in the most dissipated part of my life; that is , to rise 
 early, and at the same hour every morning , how late so- 
 ever you may have sat up the night before. This secures 
 you an hour or two, at least, of reading or reflection , 
 iefore the common interruptions of the morning begin; and 
 it will save your Constitution, by forcing you to go to bed 
 early, at least, one night in three. 
 
 You will say, it may be, as many young people would, 
 that all this order and method is very troublesome, only 
 fit for dull people , and a disagreeable restraint upon the 
 noble spirit and fire of youth. I deny it; and assert, on 
 the contrary, that it will procure you, both more Time 
 and more Taste for your pleasures; and, so far from being 
 troublesome to you, that, after you have pursued it a 
 Month it would be troublesome to you to lay it aside. 
 Business whets the appetite, and gives a taste to pleasures, 
 as exercise does to food: and business can never be done 
 without Method : it raises the spirits for pleasures; and 
 a Spectacle , a Ball , an Assembly will much more sensibly 
 affect a man who has employed , than a man who has lost , 
 the preceding part of the day; nay, I will venture to say, 
 that a fine lady will seem to have more charms , to a man 
 of study and business, than to a santerer. The same 
 listlessnees runs through his whole conduct, and he is as 
 insipid in his pleasures, as inefficient in every thing else. 
 
 I hope you earn your pleasures , and consequently taste 
 them; for, by the way, I know a great many men , who 
 call themselves Men of Pleasure, but who, in truth, have 
 none. They adopt other people's, indiscriminately, but 
 without any taste of their own. I have known them often 
 inflict excesses upon themselves, because they thought them 
 genteel; though they sat as awkwardly upou theai as other 
 
173 
 
 people's clothes would have done. Have no pleasures but 
 your Own, and then you will shine in them. &c. 
 
 There is a certain dignity to be kept up in pleasures , 
 as well as in business. &c. 
 
 At Table, a man may, with decency, have a distinguish- 
 ing Palate ; but indiscriminate voraciousness degrades him 
 to a glutton. A man may Play with decency, but if he 
 games he is disgraced. Vivacity and Wit make a man shine 
 in company; but trite jokes and loud laughter, reduce him 
 to a buffoon. Every virtue, they say, has its kindred vice; 
 every pleasure, I am sure, has its neighbouring disgrace, 
 JV1 ark carefully, therefore, the line that separates them, 
 and rather stop a yard short, than step an inch beyond it. 
 
 I wish that you had as much pleasure in following my 
 advice, as I have in giving it you; and you may the easier 
 have it , as I give you none that is inconsistent with your 
 Pleasure. In all that I say to you, it is your interest alone 
 that I consider: trust to ray experience ; you know you 
 may to my affection* Adieu. 
 
 A Monody 
 
 to the 
 
 Memory of a Young Lady. 
 
 Yet do I live ! O how shall I sustain 
 
 This vast , unutterable weight of wo ? 
 This worse than hunger, poverty, or pain/ 
 
 Or all the complicated ills below ! 
 She, in whose life my hopes were treasured all, 
 
 Is gone — for ever fled — . 
 
 My dearest Emma's dead! 
 These eyes, these tear-swoln eyes beheld her fall — • 
 Ah, no! — She lives on some far happier shore, 
 She lives — but, cruel thought ! she lives for me no more. 
 
 I, who the tedious absence of a day 
 Removed, would languish for my Charmer's sight, 
 
 Would chide the lingering moments for delay, 
 And fondly blame the slow return of night; 
 How, how shall 1 endure 
 (O misery past a cure!) 
 
17^ 
 
 Hours, days, and years, successively to roll, 
 Nor ever more behold the Comfort of my soul ? 
 
 c Was she not all my fondest wish could frame ! 
 
 Did ever mind so much of heaven partake I 
 Did she not love me with the purest flame , 
 And give up Friends and Fortune for my sake! 
 Though mild as evening skies, 
 "With downcast , streaming eyes , 
 Stood the stern frown of supercillious brows, 
 Deaf to their brutal threats, and faithful to her vows! 
 
 Come then, some Muse! the saddest of the train, 
 
 (No more your bard shall dwell on idle lays,) 
 Teach me each moving, melancholy strain, 
 
 And, Oh! discard the pageantry of phrase: 
 111 suit the flowers of speech with woes like mine — - 
 Thus , haply, as 1 paint 
 The source of my complaint, 
 My soul may own the impassioned line; 
 
 A flood of tears may gush to my relief, 
 And , from my swelling heart, discharge this load of grief. 
 
 Forbear, my fond officious friends, forbear 
 
 To wound my ears , with the sad tales you tell — 
 How Good she was, how Gentle , and how Fair ~ 
 In pity cease! alas.' I know, too well, 
 
 How in her sweet expressive face 
 
 Beamed forth the beauties of her mind; 
 
 Yet heightened by exterior grace, 
 
 Of manners most engaging, most refined. 
 
 No piteous object could she see, 
 
 But her soft bosom shared the wo; 
 "While smiles of affability 
 
 Endeared whatever boon she might bestow : 
 Whate'er the emotion of her heart, 
 
 It shone conspicuous in her eyes; 
 Stranger to every female art, 
 
 Alike to feign or to disguise: 
 
 And, oh! (the boast how rare!) 
 The Secret in her faithful breast reposed 
 She ne'er with lawless tongue disclosed — 
 
 In sacred silence lodged inviolate there. 
 Oh, feeble words! unable to express 
 Her matchless Virtues, or my own Distress. 
 
175 
 
 Relentless Death ! that steeled to human wo , 
 
 With murderous hands dealst havock on mankind , 
 .Why (cruel!) strike this deprecated blow, 
 
 And leave such wretched multitudes behind? 
 Hark J groans eomo winged on every breeze; 
 
 The sons of Grief prefer their ardent vow, 
 Oppressed with sorrow, want, or dire disease, 
 
 And supplicate thy aid — as I do now: 
 In vain ! perverse ! still on the unweeting head 
 *Tis thine thy vengeful darts to shed; 
 Hope's infant blossoms to destroy, 
 And drench in tears the face of joy. 
 
 But, oh, fell Tyrant! yet expect the hour 
 "When Virtue shall renounce thy power; 
 When thou no more shalt blot the face of day,' 
 Nor mortals tremble at thy rigid sway. 
 Alas , the day ! where'er I turn my eyes , 
 Some sad memento of my Loss appears; 
 I flee the fatal house — suppress my sighs, 
 Resolved to dry my unavailing tears: 
 
 But, ah, in vain! no change of time, or place, 
 
 The memory can efface 
 Of all that sweetness, that enchanting air, 
 Wow lost; and naught remains but Anguish and Despair. 
 
 Where were the delegates of Heaven , oh , where ! 
 
 Appointed Virtue's children safe to keep ? 
 Had Innocence or Virtue been their care, 
 
 She had not died , nor had I lived to weep: 
 Moved by my tears, and by her patience moved, 
 To see her force the endearing smile, 
 My sorrows to beguile , 
 When torture's keenest rage she proved, 
 Sure they had warded that untimely dart,' 
 (Which broke her thread of life , and rent a husband's heart. 
 How shall I e'er forget that dreadful hour, 
 When , feeling Death's resistless power , 
 My hand she pressed, wet with her falling tears, 
 And, thus, in faltering accents, spake her fears — 
 
 ■ 
 *' Ah, my loved lord, the transient scene is o'er; 
 <e And we must part, alas! to meet no more., 
 " But, oh! if e'er thy Emma's name was deac, 
 it If e'er thy vows have charmed my ravished ear,' 
 
176 
 
 " If from tliy loved embrace my heart to gain 
 
 " Proud friends have frowned , and fortune smiled in vain, 
 
 iC If it has been my sole endeavour still 
 
 " To act in all obsequious to thy will, 
 
 «* To watch thy very smiles, thy wish to know, 
 
 * l Then only truely blessed when thou wert'so, 
 
 *' If I have doated wiLh that fond excess 
 
 *' Nor Love could add, nor Fortune make it less, 
 
 lt If this I've done, and more — 0I1L then be kind 
 
 f< To the dear lovely Babe I leave behind ! 
 
 u "When time my once loved memory shall efface, 
 
 t4 Some happier maid may take thy Emma's place, 
 
 11 "With envious eyes thy partial fondness see , 
 
 u And hate It for the love thou borest to me! 
 
 t( My dearest Shaw, forgive a woman's fears] 
 
 " But one word more — I cannot bear thy tears J 
 
 11 Promise • — and I will trust thy faithful vow 3 
 
 u (Oft have I tried , and ever found thee true) 
 
 il That to some distant spot thou wilt remove, 
 
 11 This fatal Pledge of hapless Emma's love : 
 
 " Where safe thy blandishments it may partake j 
 
 t( And, oh I be tender for its Mother's sake! 
 
 « Wilt thou? 
 
 11 I know thou wilt ! sad Silence speaks assent ; 
 " And in that pleasing Hope thy 'Emma dies content.'' 
 
 I , who with more than manly strength have bore 
 
 The various ills imposed by cruel Fate, 
 Sustain the firmness of my soul no morej 
 
 But sink beneath the weight : 
 Just Heaven! I cried — from memory's earliest day 
 
 No Comfort has thy wretched suppliant known J 
 Misfortune, still, with unrelenting sway, 
 
 Has claimed me for her own : 
 But, oh ! in pity to my grief, restore 
 This only source of bliss; I ask — I ask no more — 
 Vain hope! the irrevocable doom is passed, 
 E'en now she looks — she sighs her last ! 
 Vainly I strive to stay her fleeting breath, 
 And, with rebellious heart, protest against her Death, 
 
 "When the stern Tyrant closed her lovely eyes , 
 How did I rave , untaught to bear the blow ! 
 
 "With impious wish to tear her from the skies , 
 How curse my fate in bitterness of wo ! 
 
 But whither would this dreadful phrensylead? 
 
i 7 7 
 
 Fond man ! forbear ; 
 
 Thy fruitless sorrow spare; 
 Dare not to tax what Heaven's high "Will decreed; 
 In humble reverence kiss the afflictive rod , 
 And prostrate bow to an offended God. 
 
 Perhaps , -kind Heaven in mercy dealt the blow , 
 
 Some saving truth thy roving soul to teach; 
 To wean thy heart from groveling views below, 
 
 And point out bliss beyond misfortune's reach : 
 To show that all the flattering schemes of Joy, 
 
 Which towering Hope so fondly builds in air, 
 One fatal moment can destroy ; 
 
 And plunge the exulting maniac in Despair. 
 Then, oh! with pious fortitude sustain 
 Thy present loss — haply thy future gain; 
 
 Nor let thy Emma die in vain: 
 Time shall administer its wonted balm , 
 And hush this storm of grief to no unpleasing calm. 
 
 Thus the poor Bird, by some disastrous fate,. 
 
 Caught and imprisoned in a lonely cage, 
 Torn from its native fields, and dearer mate, 
 
 Flutters awhile, and spends its little rage; 
 But finding all its efforts weak and vain, 
 
 No more it pants and rages for the plain; 
 Moping awhile, in sullen mood, 
 
 Droops the sweet mourner — but, ere long,' 
 Prunes its light wings, and pecks its food, 
 
 And meditates the song: 
 Serenely sorrowing, breathes its piteous case, 
 
 And , with its plaintive warbling , saddens all the place. 
 
 Forgive me, Heaven! — yet, yet the tears will flow, 
 
 To think how soon my scene of bliss is past ! 
 My budding joys, just promising to blow, 
 All nipped and withered by one envious blast! 
 
 My hours, that laughing wont to fleet away, 
 Move heavily along; 
 Where's now the sprightly jest, the jocund song? 
 
 Time creeps, unconscious of delight: 
 How shall I cheat the tedious day; 
 
 And, oh! the joyless night; 
 Where shall I rest my weary head ; 
 
 How shall I find repose on a sad widowed bed ! 
 
 12 
 
178 
 
 Come, Theban drug, the wretch's only aid, 
 To my torn heart its former Peace restore; 
 
 Thy votary, wrapped in thy Lethean shade , 
 Shall cease, awhile, his sorrows to deplore: 
 
 Haply, when locked in sleep's embrace , 
 
 Again I may behold my Emma's face; 
 , Again with transport hear 
 Her voice soft whispering in my ear ; 
 
 May steal once more a balmy kiss , 
 
 And taste, at least, of visionary bliss — 
 
 But ah ! the unwelcome morn's obstruding light 
 
 "Will all my shadowy scenes of bliss depose; 
 Will tear the dear illusion from my sight, 
 
 And wake me to the sense of all my woes: 
 If to to the verdant fields I stray, 
 Alas ! what pleasures now can these convey ? 
 Her lovely form pursues where'er I go , 
 
 And darkens all the scene with wo. 
 By nature's lavish bounties cheered no more, 
 Sorrowing, I rove, 
 % Through valley, grot, and grove; 
 Naught can their beauties or my loss restore; 
 No herb, no plant, can med'cine my disease, 
 And my sad sighs are borne on every passing breeze. 
 
 Sickness and sorrow hovering round my bed, 
 "Who now, with anxious haste , shall bring relief, 
 
 With lenient hand support my drooping head, 
 Assuage ray pains , and mitigate my grief? 
 
 Should worldly business call away, 
 
 Who now shall in my absence fondly mourn , 
 Count every minute of the loitering day, 
 
 Impatient for my quick return? 
 Should aught my bosom discompose, 
 
 Who now, with sweet complacent air, 
 Shall smoothe the rugged brow of care, 
 And soften all my woes ? 
 
 Too faithful Memory — cease, oh! cease — 
 
 How shall I e'er regain my peace! 
 Oh , to forget her ! — but how vain each art, 
 Whilst every virtue lives imprinted on my Heart. 
 
 And thou, my little Cherub! left behind, 
 
 To hear a Father's plaints , to share his woes , 
 
 When reason's dawn informs thy infant mind, 
 And thy sweet lisping tongue shall ask the cause, 
 
*79 
 
 How oft, with sorrow, shall my eyes run o'er, 
 "When , twining round my knees , I trace 
 Thy Mother's smile upon thy face! 
 How oft, to my full heart, shalt thou restore 
 Sad memory of my joys — ah, now, no more ! 
 By blessings once enjoyed now more distressed , 
 More beggar by the riches once possessed. 
 My little Darling! — dearer to me grown 
 
 By all the tears thou'st caused — oh, strange to hear I 
 Bought with a life yet dearer than thy own ; 
 Thy Cradle purchased with thy mother's Bier ! 
 Who now shall seek a with fond delight, 
 Thy infant steps to guide aright? 
 She, who , with doating eyes , would gaze 
 On all thy little artless ways , 
 By all thy soft endearments blessed , 
 And clasp thee oft with transport to her breast, 
 
 Alas ! is gone yet shalt thou prove 
 
 A father's dearest, tenderest love. 
 And, O, sweet senseless smiler! (envied state! 
 As yet unconscious of thy hapless fate,) 
 
 When years thy judgement shall mature, 
 And Reason show those ills it cannot cure, 
 
 Wilt thou, a father's grief to assuage, 
 For virtue prove the Phenix of the earth, 
 (Like her, thy mother died to give thee birth,) 
 
 And be the Comfort of my age ? 
 When sick and languishing I lie, 
 Wilt thou my Emma's wonted care supply? 
 
 And, oft as to thy listening ear, 
 Thy Mother's virtue's, and her fate I tell, 
 
 Say, wilt thou drop the tender tear, 
 W 7 hilst on the mournful theme I dwell? 
 Then fondly stealing to thy Father's side, 
 
 Whene'er thou seest the soft distress , 
 Which I would vainly seek to hide, 
 
 Say, wilt thou strive to make it less? 
 To soothe my sorrows all thy cares employ, 
 And in my cup of grief infuse one drop of Joy. 
 
 Shaw. 
 
 See Shaw's jdddress to the Nig7itingale , among the Pieces after 
 the IX Lecture. 
 
i8o 
 
 Voltaire , and Ms Followers. 
 
 In the midst of this tempest of scorn an extraordinary' 
 man arose, to guide and deepen it into public ruin — Vol- 
 taire — a personal profligate; possessing a vast variety of that 
 superficial knowledge which gives importance to Folly: 
 frantic for popularity, which he solicited at all hazards; 
 and sufficiently opulent to relieve him from the necessity 
 of any labors but those of national undoing. Holding but 
 an inferior and struggling rank in all the manlier provin- 
 ces of the mind — in Science, Poetry, and Philosophy-— 
 he was the Prince of Scorners, The splenetic pleasantry 
 which stimulates the wearied tastes of High-life; the gross- 
 ness which, half concealed, captivates the loose, without 
 offence to their feeble decorum ; and the easy brilliancy 
 which throws what colors it will on the darker features of 
 its purpose j made Voltaire the very Genius of France. But 
 under this smooth and sparkling surface, reflecting , like 
 ice, all the lights flung upon it, there was a dark and fa- 
 thomless depth of malignity. He hated Government; he 
 hated Morals; he hated Man; he hated Religion. He somei 
 times bursts out into exclamations of rage and insane fury 
 against all that we honor as best and holiest, which sound 
 less the voice of human lips than the echoes of the final 
 place of agony and despair. A tribe worthy of his succes- 
 sion — showy, ambitious, and malignant — followed; 
 each wilh some vivid literary contribution, some powerful 
 and popular work, a new deposite of combustion in that 
 mighty mine on which stood, in thin and fatal security, 
 the Throne of France: — Rousseau, the most impassioned 
 of all Romancers , the great corrupter of the Female mind , 
 •p— Buflbn , a lofty and splendid spoculator, who dazzled 
 the whole multitude of the minor Philosophers and fixed 
 the creed of Materialism; — Montesquieu, eminent for 
 kwowledge and sagacity, in his ." Spirit of Laws" striking 
 all the Establishments of his country into contempt, and, 
 in his " Persian Letters," levelling the same blow at her 
 morals; — D'Alembert, the first Mathematician of his 
 day, an eloquent writer, the declared pupil of Voltaire, 
 and, by his Secretariship of the French-Academy, fur- 
 nished with all the facilities for propogating his master's 
 opinions; and — Diderot, the projector and chief conduc- 
 tor of the "Encyclopedic" a work justly exciting the admi- 
 ration of Europe, by the novelty and magnificence of its 
 design, and by the comprehensive and solid extent of its 
 
i8i 
 
 knowledge; but , in its Principles, utterly evil! a conden- 
 sation of all the treasons of the school of anarchy, the 
 lex scripta of the Revolution. 
 
 The Freethinking, which the brilliant celebrity of France 
 had made almost a Fashion in England fifty years ago , 
 has hid its head. It is no longer the boast of men ambi- 
 tious of fame, that they are Unbelievers. No man of 
 Character now dares to insult the common feeling of Society 
 by a Caricature of Religion. The name of Atheist now , 
 implies not a lofty superiority to prejudice, but a melan- 
 choly and frightful abandonment of understanding; not 
 Genius, but Insanity. Voltaire is no more the lord alike 
 of Wit and Wisdom , but a pitiable evidence of the utter 
 worthlessness of Talent without Principle. The bustling 
 tribe of his Imitators are sunk into contemptuous oblivion ; 
 or remembered only wilh horror, as the realisers of his 
 dreams, of evil , the actors in the Pagan abominations, the 
 remorseless murders , the mad and blind blasphemers of 
 the Revolution. 
 
 Choly's Apocalypse of St. John, 
 
 Monsieur Voltaire, during a long life, was contin- 
 ually treating the Holy Scriptures with contempt, and 
 endeavouring to spread the Poison of Infidelity^ through 
 the nations. See however the end of such a conduct, in 
 his last illness, he sent for Doctor Tronchin; who , found 
 Voltaire in the greatest agonies, exclaiming, with the ut- 
 most horror , "I am abandoned by God and Man!" He 
 then said, "Doctor, I will give you half of what I am 
 worth, if you will give me Six month's Life." The Doc- 
 tor answered, "Sir you cannot live Six weeks." Voltaire 
 replied , "Then I shall go to Hell, and you will go with 
 me!" and soon after expired. This is the Hero of modern 
 Infidels. Dare any of them say, Let me die the death of 
 Voltaire , and let my last end be like his? Wonderful 
 infatuation! this unhappy gentleman occupiesMhe first niche 
 in the French pantheon ! That he was a man of great and 
 various talents, none can deny: but his want of sound 
 learning and moral qualifications will ever prevent his being 
 ranked with the Benefactors of mankind, b}^ the wise and 
 good. Such a Hero, indeed, is befitting a Nation under 
 judicial infatuation, to answer the wise ends of the Gover- 
 nor of the World. 
 
 Since the publication of the first edition of this little 
 work, (A Plea /or Religion and the Sacred TVrltlngs,) 
 we have had an account of the last days of this extraordinary 
 
l82 
 
 rran, by the abbe Barruel , author of The History of the 
 French Clergy; and it is so extremely interesting, that I 
 will lay }t before the reader in a translation of that gen- 
 tleman's own words. 
 
 It was daring Voltaire's last visit to Paris , when his 
 triumph was complete , and he had even feared that he 
 should die with glory, amidst the acclamations of an infa- 
 tuated Theatre, that he was struck by the hand of Provi- 
 dence , and made a very different termination of his career. 
 
 In the midst of his triumphs , a violent hemorrhage 
 raised apprehensions for his life. D'Alembert, Diderot, 
 and Marmontel, hastened to support his resolution in his 
 last moments , but were witnesses only to their mutual 
 ignominy, as well as to his own. 
 
 Here let not the historian fear exaggeration. Rage , 
 remorse, reproach, and blasphemy, all accompany and char- 
 acterise the long agony of the dying athiest. His death — 
 the most terrible ever recorded to have stricken the Im- 
 pious man, will not be denied by his companions in im- 
 piety. Their silence, however much they may wish to 
 deny it , is the least of those corroborative proofs which 
 might be adduced. Not one of the Sophisters has ever 
 dared to mention any sign given of resolution or tranquil- 
 ity, by the premier chief] during the space of Three mouths, 
 which elapsed from the time he was crowned in the The- 
 atre , until his decease. Such a silence expresses how 
 great their humiliation was in his Death. 
 
 It was on his return from the Theatre , and in the midst 
 of the toils he was resuming in order to acquire fresh ap- 
 plause , when Voltaire was warned , that the long career 
 of his impiety was drawing to an end. 
 
 In spite of all the Sophisters flocking around him, in 
 the first day of his illness, he gave signs of wishing to re- 
 turn to the God whom he had so often blasphemed. He 
 called for the Priest, who ministered to him Whom he had 
 sworn to crush under the appellation of The IVretch. (a) 
 His danger increasing , he wrote the following note to the 
 abbe Gualtier — "You had promised me, Sir, to come 
 and hear me. I entreat you would take the trouble of 
 calling as soon as possible." 
 
 Signed Voltaire. 
 
 Paris, 26 Feb. 1778. 
 
 r a) It liad been customary, dating many years, for Voltaire to call 
 our Messed Saviour — The JPretch; and he vowed that lie would 
 crush him. He closes many of his Letters to his Iufidel-iueuds with 
 the same words — " Crush the Wretch J " 
 
i83 
 
 A few days after this , lie wrote the following Declara- 
 tion , in presence of the same abbe Gualtier, the abbe 
 Mignot, and the marquis de Villevielle, copied from the 
 minutes deposited with Mr. Mo met , notary at Paris — 
 
 " I, the underwritten, declare, that for these four days 
 <c past, having been afflicted with a Vomiting of Blood, 
 " at the age of Eighty-four , and not having been able to 
 ¥ drag myself to Church, the Rev. the rector of St. Sul- 
 " pice , having heen pleased to add to his good works, that 
 <( of sending to me the abbe Gualtier, a priest, I confessed 
 f* to him; and, if it please God to dispose of me, 1 die in 
 " the Holy Catholic Church, in which I was born; hoping 
 " that the Divine Mercy will deign to pardon all my faults. 
 " If ever I have scandalised the Church, 1 ask pardon of 
 " God and the Church. 
 
 "2 March 1778. Signed Voltaire; in Pre- 
 
 " sence of the abbe Mignot , my Nephew, and the marquis 
 " de Villevielle, my Friend." 
 
 After the two witnesses had signed this declaration , 
 Voltaire added these words , (copied from the same mi- 
 nutes — 
 
 " The abbe Gualtier, my Confessor, having apprised 
 cc me, that it has heen said among a certain set of people, 
 iC I should protest against every thing /did, at my death; 
 i( I declare I never made -such a Speech, and that it is an 
 u old jest, attributed long since to many of the learned, 
 U more enlightened than I am." 
 
 Was this Declaration a fresh instance of his former 
 hypocrisy? for he had the mean hypocrisy, even in the 
 midst of his efforts against Christianity, to receive the 
 Sacrament regularly, and to do other acts of religion , 
 merely to be able to deny his Infidelity, if accused of it. 
 Unfortunately, after the explanations we have seen given 
 of his exterior acts of religion , might there not be room 
 for doubt? Be that as it may, there is a public homage 
 paid to that Religion in which he declared he meant to Die, 
 notwithstanding his having perpetually conspired against 
 it during his Life. This Declaration is also signed by 
 that same Friend and adept, the marquis de Villevielle, 
 to whom , eleven years before, Voltaire was wont to write, 
 tc Conceal your march from the enemy, in your endeavours 
 to Crush the JVretchP 
 
 Voltaire permitted this Declaration to be carried to 
 the Rector of St. Sulpice, and to the Archbishop of Paris, 
 to know whether it would be sufficient. When the abbe 
 Gualtier returned with the answer, it was impossible for 
 
i84 
 
 him to gain admittance to the patient. The conspirators 
 had strained every nerve to hinder the Chief from con- 
 summating his recantation; and every avenue was shut to 
 the Priest, whom Voltaire himself had sent for. The de- 
 mons haunted every access ; rage succeeded to fury, and 
 fury to rage again, during the remainder of his Jife. 
 
 Then it was that D'Alembert, Diderot, and about 
 twenty others of the conspirators, who had beset his apart- 
 ment, never approached him, but to witness their own 
 ignominy; and often Voltaire would curse them, and 
 exclaim — "Retire ! It is you that have brought me to my 
 present state! Begone! 1 could have done without you all, 
 but you could not exist without me ! And what a wretched 
 glory have you procured me ! " Then would succeed the 
 horrid remembrance of his conspiracy. They could hear 
 him, the prey of anguish and dread, alternately supplica- 
 ting and blaspheming that God, against whom he had con- 
 spired; and in plaintive accents he would cry out — "Oh 
 Christ ! Oh Jesus Christ ! " and then complain that he was 
 abandoned by God and man. The hand which had traced, 
 in ancient writ, the sentence of an impious and reviling 
 Icing, seemed to trace before his eyes — Crush the IVretch. 
 In vain he turned his head away; the time was coming 
 apace when he was to appear before the tribunal of Him 
 whom he had blasphemed; and his Physicians, particu- 
 larly Doctor Tron chin", calling in to adminster relief, 
 thunderstruck, retired, declaring that "the Death of the 
 Impious man was terrible indeed!" The pride of the con- 
 spirators would willingly have suppressed these Declara- 
 tions ,but that was impossible. The mareschal de Richelieu 
 fled from the bed-side , declaring "it to be a sight too terri- 
 ble to be sustained :" and Doctor Tronchin, that "the fnries of 
 Orestes could give but a faint idea of those of Voltaire." 
 
 This Account of the unhappy end of Voltaire is confirmed 
 by a Letter from M. de Luc, an eminent philosopher, and 
 a man of the strictest honor and probity. 
 
 Diderot and D'Alembert also , the friends and compan- 
 ions of Voltaire in Infidelitj'-, are said to have died with 
 remorse of Conscience somewhat similar to their Chief. 
 
 Simpson. 
 
i85 
 
 The two Orphans. 
 
 My chaise the village Inn did gain, 
 Just as the setting sun's last ray 
 Tipped , with refulgent gold , the vans 
 Of the old Church, across the way. 
 
 Across the way I silent sped, 
 
 The time till Supper to beguile, 
 
 In moralising o'er the dead, 
 
 That mouldered round the ancient Pile: 
 
 There many an humble green-grave showed 
 "Where Want, and Pain, and Toil, did rest; 
 And many a flattering stone I viewed 
 Oe'r those who, once, had wealth possessed. 
 
 A faded Beech its shadow, brown; 
 
 Threw o'er a Grave, where sorrow slept; 
 
 On which, though scarce with grass oe'rgrown, 
 
 Two ragged Children sat and wept. 
 
 A piece of Bread between them lay, 
 "Which neither seemed inclined to take; 
 And yet they looked so much a prey 
 To Want , it made my heart to ake. 
 
 " My little Children let me know 
 
 Why you in such distress appear; 
 
 And why you, wasteful, from you throw 
 
 The Bread, which many a heart would cheer?'' 
 
 The little Boy, in accents sweet , 
 Replied, whilst tears each other chased, 
 i{ Lady! we've not enough to eat; 
 " And if we had we would not waste: 
 
 " But sister Mary's naughty grown, 
 " And .will not eat, whate'er I say; 
 " Though sure I am the Bread's her own, 
 " And she has tasted none today/ 
 
 * Indeed!' — the wan-starved Mary said, 
 
 ' Till Henry eats, I'll eat no more; 
 
 1 For yesterday I got some Bread, 
 
 J But he's had none since t/ie day before." 
 
i86 
 
 My heart did swell, my bosom heave, 
 1 felt as though deprived of speech; 
 1 straight sat down upon the grave, 
 And pressed a clay-cold-hand of each. 
 
 With looks that told a tale of wo, 
 "With looks that spoke a grateful heart , 
 The shivering Boy did nearer draw, 
 And thus their Tale of wo impart — 
 
 " Before my Father went away, 
 " Enticed by bad-men o'er the sea, 
 f* Sister and I did naught but play; 
 li We lived beyond yon great ash-tree : 
 
 te And then poor Mother sore did cry, 
 " And looked so changed, I cannot tell; 
 " She told us, that she soon should Die, 
 " And bade us love each other well: 
 
 " She said, that when the War is oe'r, 
 <e Perhaps we might our Father see; 
 t( But if we never saw him more, 
 " That God our Father then would be : 
 
 " She kissed us both , and then she Died ; 
 u And we no more a Mother have: 
 
 How many a day we've sat and cried 
 " Together, on poor mother's Grave! 
 
 a 
 
 t( But when our Father came not here, 
 " I thought, if we could find the Sea, 
 " We should be sure to meet him there; 
 u And once again might happy be: 
 
 " We, hand in hand, went many a mile, 
 " And asked our way of all we met; 
 <( And some did sigh, and some did smile, 
 ■' And we of some did victuals get: 
 
 " But when we reached the Sea , and found 
 (i 'Twas one great Water round us spread, 
 11 We thought, that Father must be Drowned, 
 il And cried, and wished we both were Dead! 
 
187 
 
 '" So we returned to Mother's grave, 
 6< And only long with Her to be; 
 " For Goody, when this Bread she gave, 
 " Said, Father died beyond the sea: 
 
 (t And since no Parents we have here, 
 u We'll go and seek for God around — 
 " P^ay, Lady! can you tell us , where 
 " That God, our Father, may be found? 
 
 " He lives in Heaven , Mother said , 
 u And Goody says that Mother's there; 
 u So, if she thinks we want his aid, 
 " I think, perhaps, she'll send Him here." 
 
 I clasped the Prattlers to my breast, 
 And cried, "Come both and live with me; 
 I'll feed you, clothe you, give you rest, 
 And will a Second-mother be : 
 
 And God will be your Father still ; 
 
 'Twas he, in mercy, sent me here, 
 
 To teach you to obey His Will, 
 
 Your steps to guide , your hearts to cheer." 
 
 By a Lady, 
 
 The Whistle. 
 
 A Fact. 
 
 When I was a Child, at seven years old, my friends, 
 on a holiday, filled my pockets with Coppers. I went di- 
 rectly to a shop where they sold Toys for children; but, 
 being charmed with the sound of a PFhistle , that I met by 
 the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered 
 him all my money for it. I then came home, and went 
 Whistling all over the house , much pleased with my Whis- 
 tle. y but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sis- 
 ters , and cousins , understanding the bargain I had made , 
 told me I had given four times as much for it as it was 
 worth. This put me in mind what good things I might 
 
i88 
 
 have bought willi the rest of the money; and they laughed 
 at me so much lor my lolly, that 1 cried with vexation; 
 and the rellection gave me more chagrin than the Whistle 
 gave me pleasure. 
 
 This , however, was afterwards of use to me, the im- 
 pression continuing on my mind; so that often, when I 
 was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to 
 myself — Don't give too much for the Whistle! and so I 
 saved my money. 
 
 As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the 
 actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, 
 -who gave too much for their Wis ties. 
 
 When I saw any one too ambitions of court favors, sa- 
 crificing his time in attendance on levees, his repose, his 
 liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, 
 I have said to myself — This man, gives too much for his 
 Whistle. 
 
 When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly em- 
 ploying himself in political bustles, neglecting his own 
 affairs, and ruining them by that neglect — He pays, 
 indeed, said I, too much for his Whistle, 
 
 If 1 knew a Miser, who gave up very kind of comfort- 
 able living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all 
 the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevo- 
 lent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth — Poor 
 man ! said 1 , you dj indeed pay too much for your Whistle, 
 
 When I met a man of pleasure, sacrificing, every laud- 
 able improvement of the mind , or of his fortune , to mere 
 corporal sensations — Mistaken, man! said I, you are 
 providing pain for yourself instead of pleasure : you give 
 too much for your Whistle, 
 
 If I saw one fond of fine clothes, fine furniture, fine 
 equipage, all above his fortune, for which he had contracted 
 debts , and ended his career in prison — .^/as/said I, he has 
 paid dear , very dear, for his Whistle, 
 
 When 1 saw a beautiful , sweet-tempered Girl married to 
 an ill-natured brute of a Husband — What a pity it is , 
 said I, that she has paid so much for a Whistle, 
 
 In short, I conceived that great part of the miseries of 
 mankind were brought upon them by the false estimates 
 they had made of the value of things , and by their having 
 given too much for their Wliistles, 
 
 Faankliv. 
 
i8 9 
 
 Notwithstanding the following Soliioqny presents more passages 
 requiring Interpretation than any Piece in the Collection, yet 1 shall 
 waive all .Remarks and Translations upon it, at present; as I never 
 met with but One gentleman who had apprehended it, as it meets my 
 mind ; aud as this is not the place to enter into a formal disquisition 
 of what Commentators and Translators have made of it , I shall reserve 
 my Interpretations and Animadversions for some litter occasion. 
 
 Hamlet's Soliloquy, on Life and Death. 
 
 To be, or not to be? that is the question: 
 
 Whether 'tis nobler in the Mind, to suffer 
 
 The slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune, 
 
 Or to take arms against a siege of troubles , 
 
 And, by opposing, end them. To Die? to sleep; 
 
 No more: and, by a Sleep, to say, we end 
 
 The heartake, and the thousand natural shocks 
 
 That Flesh is heir to — 'Tis a consummation 
 
 Devoutly to be wished ! To Die ? to sleep — - 
 
 To Sleep! perchance, to Dream — ay, there's the Rub! 
 
 For, in that Sleep of Death, what Dreams may come, 
 
 "When we have shuffled off this mortal coil , 
 
 Must give us Pause. There's the respect 
 
 That makes Calamity of so long life ■ 
 
 For "Who would bear the whips and scorns o' the time, 
 
 The oppressor's wrong , the proud man's contumely, 
 
 The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, 
 
 The insolence of office, and the spurns 
 
 That patient merit of the unworthy takes, 
 
 "When he himself might his quietus make 
 
 With a bare bodkin! Who would fardels bear, 
 
 To grunt and sweat under a weary life, 
 
 But that the dread of Something after death — 
 
 That undiscovered country from whose bourne 
 
 No traveller returns — puzzles the Will; 
 
 And makes us rather bear those Ills we have , 
 
 Than fly to others that we know not ofl 
 
 Thus, Conscience does make cowards of us all; 
 
 And thus, the native hue of Resolution 
 
 Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of Thought ; 
 
 And enterprises of great pith and moment, 
 
 With this regard, their currents turn awry, 
 
 And lose the name of Action. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
LECTURE IX. 
 
 On the Pronunciation of the English Language , 
 continued. 
 
 Sir Humphry Davy, Bart. 
 LL.D. & M. R. I. A. &c. 
 
 Late President of the Royal Society, 
 
 This celebrated man, whose Death the world of Science 
 has had so lately to deplore, was born at Penzance, in 
 Cornwall, December 17th, 1779. Having received the 
 rudiments of his education, the latter part of which was 
 entrusted to a medical gentleman of the name of Tomkins, 
 he was articled, at the age of fifteen , to Mr. Borlase, a re- 
 spectable Surgeon at Penzance. While occupying the situ- 
 ation of an Apprentice, he devoted himself , with an energy 
 which suprised all who knew him, to almost every branch 
 of study, connected not only with his professional views, 
 but with Philosoply in general. It was, however, on the 
 phenomina which Chymistry seemed to him to have the 
 power of unfolding, that his mind fixed itself with the 
 greatest earnestness. Nor was his ardor without encou- 
 ragement. Having made several experiments on the nature 
 of water-weeds , he discovered these plants have the same 
 effect in purifying the air contained in water, as others 
 have on the common atmosphere. This discovery was not 
 only highly interesting, but made at a time when it served 
 as a first step to the fortune and eminence he was destined 
 to attain. Doctor Beddoes , who was then actively em- 
 ployed in endeavouring to establish an Institution at Bris- 
 tol for the relief of Consumption , happening to hear of 
 the experiment, entered into a correspondence with Mr. 
 Davy, which produced their nearer intimacy. The object 
 of the Doctor was, to apply to the disease in question 
 oxygen gas; and for this purpose he was desirous of com- 
 
*9* 
 
 mencing a series of experiments on the nature and qual- 
 ities of that and other gaseous elements. Wo one appeared 
 so well qualified for his assistant in this design , as Mr. 
 Davy, and he was accordingly engaged by him; the former 
 stipulating, as a part of the agreement, that he should 
 have the uncontrolled management of the Laboratory, 
 
 The residence of our young philosopher at Bristol was 
 made agreeable by the friendship of many excellent indi- 
 viduals; among whom was Mr. Davies Gilbert, the present 
 President of the Royal Society, Mr. Glayfield, and Mr. 
 Cottle, the poet. The latter gentleman observes, when 
 speaking of this life, and of the friends whom he most 
 esteemed — 
 
 "I might add, that during a portion of the time to which 
 a reference has been made , our circle was now enlivened 
 by the valuable accession of Mr. Humphry Davy, who , on 
 quilting Bristol, for a permanent residence in London, 
 presented me with Corrie's edition of Burns's works, ac- 
 companied with the following note : 
 
 'Dear Cottle, 
 
 ' Will you be pleased to accept of the copy of Burns's 
 Life and Poems, sent with this ? and when you are reading 
 with delight the effusions of your brother bard , occasion- 
 ally think of One, who is, with sincere regard and affec- 
 tion your friend. 
 
 'March 9th, 1801.' 
 
 By the same gentleman we are reminded, that in the 
 younger part of his life, Sir Humphry was himself a Poet, 
 and a large contributor to the Poetical Anthology. — 'Sir 
 Humphry Davy favored me / continues Mr. Cottle , ' t with 
 more affection perhaps, than critical feeling, with several 
 of his own MS. poems; which clearly indicate, that if he 
 had not been the first philosopher of his age, he would 
 have ranked among the first of its poets* In one of the 
 poems, which breathes the true fire of the ode, two 
 stanzas occur , which are characteristic of the election 
 which he deliberately made between two rival candidates. 
 Every reader will be pleased with a perusal of them.* 
 The following are the verses alluded to — 
 
 Thus, to the sweetest dreams resigned, 
 
 The fairy fancy ruled my mind, 
 And shone upon my youth; 
 
 But now, to aweful reason given, 
 I leave. her dear ideal heaven, 
 
 To hear the voice of truth: 
 
1 9 2 
 
 She claims my best, my loftiest song; 
 
 She leads a brighter maid along — 
 Divine Philosophy; 
 
 Who bids the mounting soul assume 
 Immortal wisdom's eagle plume, 
 
 And penetrating eye. 
 Mr. Davy continued at Bristol to the time above men- 
 tioned , pursuing his investigations with undiminished ar- 
 dor, and daily adding to his reputation by the felicity of 
 their results. His discovery of the respirability of nitrous 
 oxide , was regarded by his friends as indicative of the most 
 splendid talents; and the publication of his "Researches, 
 Chymical and. Philosophical," in which he detailed the 
 processes by which he arrived at the discovery, introduced 
 him to Count Rumford. The influence which his new 
 acquaintance possessed , in the Scientific world, was of 
 important service to him. The Professorship of Chy- 
 mistry in the Royal Institution having just become vacant, 
 offered a situation in which he would have not only ample 
 room for the exhibition of his superior abilities, but the 
 most advantageous opportunity for their further cultiva- 
 tion. By the exertions of the Count, and the reputation 
 lie had already gained, he received the appointment to the 
 vacant Chair, and thus found himself master of a philoso- 
 phical and chymical Apparatus , which compete in splendor 
 and extensiveness with any in Europe. 
 
 It had always been Mr. Davy's intention to finish his 
 Medical education, by graduating at Edinburgh ; but' on re- 
 ceiving the above appointment, he finally resigned all idea 
 of professional pursuits, and devoted himself, with fixed 
 and concentrated energy, solely to Chymistry. His first 
 Experiments in the Royal Institution had relation to the 
 discoveries of the celebrated French chymist, M.Seguier, 
 on the process of Tanning, and to the phenomena of Gal- 
 vanism j but in 1802, he commenced a series of Lectures, 
 which, both for the talent they displayed, and their prac- 
 tical utility, were still better adapted to raise his reputation. 
 Nothing contributes more to the advancement of Science , or 
 its diffusion among a people, than a demonstration of its ap- 
 plicability to the common uses and necessities of life. It is 
 the characteristic of Chymistry, that the discoveries which 
 delight the philosopher by their beauty or splendor, bear 
 directly upon the supply of some daily want, or the removal 
 of some danger or inconvenience. Agriculture has derived 
 from its assistance some of the most important rules which 
 guide the practical farmer j and the Lectures which Mr. Davy 
 
ig8 
 
 clelivered for three successive years, before the Board of 
 Agriculture, served considerably* to comfirm the enlight- 
 ened views which were beginning to gain ground respecting 
 the union of these two beneficial sciences. 
 
 In i8o3, his increasing celebrity obtained him the honor 
 of being elected a Fellow of the Royal Society; and 
 two years after , he was made a Member of the Royal 
 Irish Academy. In 1806, the Secretariship to the Royal 
 Society becoming vacant , he was chosen to fill that office , 
 and was now the intimate friend of the most distinguished 
 men of the time. This country has seldom seen a brighter 
 phalanx of Philosophers than it possessed. Sir Joseph Banks, 
 Wollaston , Cavendish, &c. were pursuing in full vigor 
 the investigations which the scientific spirit of the con- 
 tinent had so laudably begun; and it was the high honor 
 of the subject of this memoir, to be destined to advance 
 farther than any of them in the importance and originality 
 of his discoveries. 
 
 During the same year in which he was elected its Secre- 
 tary, he was appointed to deliver before the Royal Society 
 the Bakerian Lecture, in which he made known the results 
 of many year's diligent inquiry into the mysteries of Elec- 
 tricity and Galvanism. While occupied on this subject, he 
 effected the splendid discovery of the compound nature of 
 the two fixed alkalies, potash and soda, which he found 
 were formed of metallic bases in composition with oxygen. 
 This interesting fact he communicated in the Bakerian 
 Lecture, which he delivered in 1807; and, following the 
 same course of experiment with the different earths, which 
 he had pursued so successfully with the alkalies, found 
 they were equally susceptible of decomposition. 
 
 The high estimation in which Mr. Davy was held for 
 these and other similar discoveries, may be well under- 
 stood from the circumstance, that he received, in 1810, 
 notwithstanding the war, the prize of the French Institute 
 About the same period, he gave a course of Lectures before 
 the Dublin Society, and received the honorary degree of 
 Doctor of Laws. 
 
 In 1812 he was knighted; the Prince Regent then, for 
 the first time, conferring that honor; and, a few days 
 afterwards, he married Mrs. Apreece , the widow of 
 S. A. Apreece , Esq. a lady of considerable fortune , and many 
 personal endowments. Two years after this, he was elected 
 a Member of the French Jnstitub , and Vice-President 
 of the Royal Society. The following year gave birth to 
 one of his most important and most brilliant Discoveries , 
 
 i3 
 
i 9 4 
 
 because most serviceable to Humanity. The dreadful acci- 
 dents which had been repeatedly occurring in the Mining 
 districts, from explosions, induced a number of proprie- 
 tors of mines to form, in i8i5, a Committee, at Sunder- 
 land, for investigating the causes of these destructive dis- 
 asters. A resolution was passed, to request the assistance 
 of Sir Humphry Davy; and, with his accustomed benevo- 
 lence and energy, he immediately set out for the Colleries, 
 where he commenced a most extensive personal investiga- 
 tion of the circumstances which led to the formation of 
 the explosive gases. It was, at one time, thought possible 
 that a new mode of ventilation might remove the danger; 
 but , any improvement of this kind being found impracti- 
 cable , he was led to conclude, from various experiments, 
 that the object desired might be effected by a Lamp of a 
 peculiar structure; and the celebrated Safety Lamp, after 
 a short time, gave security to hundreds of laborious men, 
 who, before its invention, were every instant in peril of 
 a sudden and frightful death. The Proprietors of the Coal- 
 works on the Tyne and Wear rewarded this noble disco- 
 very, by presenting its author with a Service of Plate 
 worth £2000. 
 
 In 1817 Sir Humphry was elected an Associate of the 
 Royal Academy; and, in 1818, went to Italy, where he 
 passed that and the following year, employing his leisure 
 in a series of interesting observations on Roman antiqui- 
 ties , and in examining the condition of the Herculaneum 
 manuscripts ; for the unrolling of which he invented a 
 process , which in some instances was employed with suc- 
 cess. During his absence on the continent, he was advanced 
 to the Baronetage ; and , on his return to England , the 
 death of Sir Joseph Banks leaving the Presidentship of 
 the Royal Society vacant, he was placed, with the mere 
 nominal opposition of Lord Colchester, in that honorable 
 situation. 
 
 Till 1827 Sir Humphry continued to discharge the duties 
 oF this high office when increasing ill health obliged him to 
 resign it , and again seek relief from the mild air of the 
 continent. His retirement, however, was neither without 
 its labors nor its honors. He communicated , during his 
 absence, the valuable results and experiments on various 
 electrical combinations , which were undertaken with the 
 view of discovering some method for the preservation of 
 copper-bound ships ; and he received , in return for the 
 communication, the royal medal — in awarding which , his 
 early and attached friend, Mr. Gilbert, reverted , in an 
 
ig5 
 
 interesting manner, to his long acquaintance with the 
 distinguished object of his praise. 'It is with feelings most 
 gratifying to myself,' said he, 'that I now approach to 
 the award of a royal medal to Sir Humphry Davy; and I 
 esteem it a most fortunate occurrence , that this award 
 should have taken place during the short period of my hav- 
 ing to discharge the duties attached to the office of Presi- 
 dent; having witnessed the whole progress of Sir Humphry 
 Davy's advancement in science and in reputation, from his 
 first attempts in his native town to vary some of Dr, Priest- 
 ley's experiments on the extraction of oxygen from marine 
 vegetables , to the point of eminence which we all know 
 him to have reached.' 
 
 Sir Humphry's general residence was at Rome ; but , 
 having suffered from an alarming paralysis, he was induced 
 to return to Geneva, which place he reached by slow 
 stages, in company with Lady Davy. Almost immediately, 
 however, after his arrival, he was seized by a sudden aud 
 fatal attack; and on Friday, May 29, of the present year 
 (1829,) he closed his useful and honorable career. The 
 highest respect which private friendship and public esteem 
 can bestow upon the Dead, attended his remains. The 
 most eminent men of Geneva volunteered their assistance 
 to his "Widow , in the necessary cares of the interment ; 
 and different public bodies, both literary and civil, were 
 present at his funeral. Nor was the testimony thus borne 
 to his celebrity unmerited or exaggerated. No man in 
 Europe had done more for Science, and no one had culti- 
 vated it with a more serious or firmer individual regard 
 to all the interests of mankind, moral as well as physical. 
 In the little work, Salmonia, which occupied his hours 
 of sickness, the sentiments he utters are those of the pur- 
 est and noblest nature, and we feel a new and higher 
 admiration for the genius of a man who thus invested it 
 with the dignity of so deep' a moral feeling. 
 
 "In my opinion," says he, " Profound minds are the 
 most likely to think lightly of the resources of human 
 reason; and it is the pert, superficial thinker who is gen- 
 erally strongest in every hind of unbelief. The deep phi- 
 losopher sees changes of causes and effects, so wonderfully 
 and strangely linked together , that he is usually the last 
 person to decide upon' the impossibility of any two series 
 of events being independent of each other; and in Science, 
 so many natural miracles , as it were, have been brought 
 to light — such as , the fall of stones from meteors in the 
 atmosphere ; the disarming a thunder cloud by a metallic 
 
i 9 6 
 
 point; the production of fire from ice by a metal whiter as 
 silver; and referring certain laws of motions of the sea to 
 the moon — that the physical inquirer is seldom disposed 
 to assert , confidently, on any abstruce subjects belonging to 
 the order of natural things , and still less so on those re- 
 lating to the more mysterious relations of moral events 
 and intellectual natures." — Again, "I envy no quality of 
 the mind or intellect in others; not genius, power, wit, 
 or fancy : but if I could choose what would be most delight- 
 ful , and I believe most useful to me, I should prefer a firm 
 religious belief, to every other blessing; for it makes life a 
 thorough discipline of goodness; creates new hopes, when 
 all earthly hopes vanish; and throws over the decay, the 
 destruction of existence, the most gorgeous of all lights; 
 awakens life even in death , and from corruption and decay 
 calls up beauty and divinity; makes an instrument of tor- 
 ture and of shame the ladder of ascent to Paradise; and, 
 far above all combinations of earthly hopes , calls up the most 
 delightful visions of palms and amaranths , the gardens of 
 the blessed, the security of everlasting joys , where the 
 Sensualist and the Sceptic view only gloom , decay, anni- 
 hilation, and despair." 
 
 Sir Humphry's published works, besides the one above 
 alluded to, are — Chemical and Philosophical Researches, 
 Electro - Chemical Researches , Elements of Chemical 
 Philosophy, Elements of Agricultural Chemistry, and sev- 
 eral pamphlets and papers in the different philosophical 
 journals. 
 
 Henry Stebbing. 
 
 A Hymn: 
 
 On the Goodness of God. 
 
 O God ! — of Good the unfathomed Sea — 
 "Who would not give his Heart to Thee ! 
 
 "Who would not love Thee with his might! 
 O Jesu! — lover of mankind — 
 "Who would not his whole Soul and Mind, 
 
 With all his Strength, to Thee unite! 
 
 Thou shinest with everlasting rays ! 
 Before the insufferable blaze 
 
 Angels, with both wings, veil their eyes - 
 
197 
 
 Yet; free as air, thy Bounty streams 
 On all thy works ! thy Mercy's beams , 
 Diffusive, as the Sun's, arise! 
 
 Astonished, at thy frowning brow, 
 
 Earth, Hell, and Heaven's strong pillars bowj 
 
 Terrible Majesty is thine ! 
 Who, then, can that vast Love express 
 Which bows thee down to Me ! who less 
 
 Than Nothing am, till Thou art mine. 
 
 High-throned, on heaven's eternal hill, 
 In number, weight, and measure, still 
 
 Thou sweetly orderest all that is: 
 And yet Thou deignest to come to Me, 
 And guide my steps j that I with Thee, 
 
 Enthroned, may reign in endless bliss t 
 
 Fountain of Good! all blessing flows 
 From Thee — no want thy fulness knows : 
 
 "What but Thyself canst Thou desire? 
 Yes! self-sufficient as thou art, 
 Thou dost desire my worthless Heart — 
 
 This, only this, dost Thou require! 
 
 Primeval Beauty! in thy sight, 
 
 The first-born , fairest sons of Light ,' 
 
 See all their brightest glories fade: 
 What , then , to Me thy eyes could turn ! 
 «— In Sin conceived — of Woman born — 
 
 A Worm — a Leaf — a Blast — a Shade! 
 
 Hell's Armies tremble at thy Nod — 
 
 And, trembling, own Thee — "Almighty God! 
 
 "Sovereign of Earth, Hell, Air, and Sky!" 
 But Who is this, that comes from far, 
 Whose garments rolled in Blood appear? 
 
 !Tis God made Man! for Man — to Die!! 
 
 O God ! — of Good the unfathomed Sea — 
 Who would not give his Heart to Thee! 
 
 Who would not love Thee with his Might! 
 O Jesu! — lover of mankind — 
 Who would not his whole Soul and Mind, 
 
 With all his Strength, to Thee unite!!! 
 
 Wesley. 
 
1g8 
 
 The following Is extracted from "juliet giieKville; or, the 
 history of the human heart:" one of the Best Novels I ever read. 
 
 Among the Pieces after the X Lecture , may be found an extract 
 from "the tool of qualityj" a woik by the same author, the best 
 Novel in the English Language, according to my judgement, "juliet 
 crekville " is out of Print j "the fool of quality" is scarce j 
 but one of the most chaste Critics of the last age, very judiciously 
 abridged the "fool of quality," and gave it again to the woild , 
 under the Title of "the history of hekry earl of morelaxd j " 
 and this Work may be had, in One Volume, Octavo, Price Seven 
 Guilders. It deserves a place in the Library of "all Lovers of God 
 and Man." 
 
 On Courage and Chastity. 
 
 True Courage has a twofold virtue in it. First , it has 
 that of disregarding the danger and damage that may threat- 
 en itself; and, secondly, it has the virtue of extending 
 its powers to the support of the weak , the defence of the 
 assaulted, the vindication of the injured, and the suppres- 
 sion and castigation of the spoiler and oppressor. While 
 Courage is thus employed, it is benevolent, it is benefi- 
 cent, it is justly, it is exaltedly respectable and amiable. 
 But , when a spurious and false appearance of the quality 
 called Co-urage, through motives of ambition or desire of 
 applause, or any other incitements merely Personal and 
 Selfish, exerts its powers in a manner seemingly worthy of 
 praise , it yet loses the whole nature and ought to forfeit 
 the name of Virtue ; and it wants nothing save to have 
 those motives detected , to become comtemptible and de- 
 testable in the eyes of mankind. 
 
 Few-things have occasioned so great a variety of clash- 
 ing Opinions, or have had so wide an influence on the 
 tempers, the morals, and the customs of mankind, as the 
 sentiments entertained respecting this quality,called Courage, 
 The World — who has been a blockhead from the be- 
 ginning and is not likely to grow a whit wiser to the end 
 -—the World has, almost universally, held Courage to 
 consist in action and -prowess; in the wrathfulness and 
 death-doing-hand of an Achilles; or in the kindling spirit 
 of those , who will not bear the smallest appearance of an 
 insult, who will burst through all the bands of friendship 
 anc} humanity rather than allow the slightest word or look 
 of imagined disrespect to pass unrevenged or unblooded. 
 "Wherefore, as Truth and Nature lie buried under such an 
 accumulation of customs and prejudices , it may be neces- 
 sary to set up such criterions and landmarks , as shall 
 save us from straying in our disquisition and search after 
 this so highly-respected male Virtue. 
 
*99 
 
 All are clearly agreed in their ideas of this position — 
 that Courage and Fear are in their natures incompatible; 
 that wherever Courage is , so far as it prevails , it casts 
 aside Fear; and that wherever Fear is, so far as it pre- 
 vails , it casts aside Courage. 
 
 Now, one of the surest symptoms of Fear, is anger; for, 
 what should provoke us to anger against that from which 
 we have nothing to apprehend ? I once saw a huge Mastiff 
 walking peaceably through a village , when a little wretch of 
 a Cur rushed from one of the hamlets and made a furious 
 assault: he sprung up toward the throat of the patient 
 creature ; but not being able to reach it , he exercised his 
 inveteracy by biting at his heels. The noble brute , being 
 thus teased and pestered by his despicable adversary, set a 
 monstrous fore-paw upon him and pressed him to the earth; 
 then , lifting a hind-leg , he poured upon him the lowest 
 mark of contempt; when he permitted the impotent animal 
 to rise, which ran all dismayed and yelping away. I ques- 
 tion if this prince of dogs , in all his conquests and engage- 
 ments with his equals in combat , had ever given so in- 
 contestable a proof of the truth of his Courage as he did 
 at this period. 
 
 This little anecdote may serve to illustrate an approved 
 observation — that Cowards are cruel , but that the Brave 
 delight in forbearance and mercy. The reason of this is 
 deeply founded in Nature. 
 
 Cowardice has no concern or interest in anything save 
 Self. Provided Self is safe and unhurt , it cares not what 
 calamities may fall or be poured upon the rest of mankind. 
 When it feels an apprehension of Danger, however dis- 
 tant , it conceives an implacable hatred against the point 
 or party from whence the danger may proceed : wrath and 
 revenge anticipate the dreaded damage in its bosom; and 
 it is studious and solicitous, by all, by any means, how- 
 ever treacherous or deadly, to prevent the nearer approach 
 of the hurt apprehended. 
 
 Let us now inquire, what portion of genuine Courage 
 the heroes of the applauded custom of Duelling can boast. 
 
 The man who , purposely and deliberately, thirsts after 
 the blood and life of his fellow, is possessed by as dark and 
 inhuman a demon, as he who dwelt among the tombs. 
 But, Duellists are not wholly of this malignant nature; it 
 is not cruelty, but cowardice, that compels them to engage. 
 The World, dispassionately, halloos them at each other, 
 as it would set mastitis or game-cocks at variance, for the 
 diversion of the spectators. It says to these combatants — 
 
20O 
 
 "Forshame! gentlemen; be just to your own honor; re- 
 spect yourselves above God and mankind ; better to bleed, 
 to perish, than to live with reproach !" And thus, fre- 
 quently, without resentment or ill-will to their opponents, 
 men plunge their reluctant weapons into the bosoms of 
 each other, being scared and impelled thereto by the spec- 
 tre called Censure, which they dread even worse than 
 death or futurity. 
 
 Courage may well be supported in time of action or 
 contest; it has not leisure to sink or droop during an 
 agitation of spirits. But, when these stays are removed, 
 when calamity or death comes to meet us in all the silent 
 apparatus and black pomp of impending Destruction, the 
 Courage that can give it an undismayed and calm welcome 
 must be from above. 
 
 The most indubitable, the most divine species of Cou-, 
 rage, subsists in patience—- when the soul is divested and 
 stripped of all external assistances; when the asaults are 
 all on one side, and no kind of action, offensive or defen- 
 sive, are admitted on the other, to maintain the flame of 
 life , or support failing existence ; but where all the con- 
 cerns of Self are submitted , without reluctance , to the 
 worst extremes, to all that the World can inflict, or that 
 Time can bring to pass. Such a Patience opens the gates 
 of Lhe soul upon Eternity, and lends it wings to issue forth 
 in beatified Benevolence upon God and all his Creatures. 
 
 Agreeable to this , the devoted "Captain of our Salva- 
 tion ," was informed with a Patience , and, consequently, 
 with a Courage, infinitely surpassing all that can be ima- 
 gined of the spirit and heroism of renowned antiquity. 
 Earth and Hell had united their utmost efforts against him; 
 his disappointed countrymen gnashed at him with their 
 teeth; they, and their forefathers, had looked for a tem- 
 poral Messiah, who should deliver them from subjection, 
 and constitute them Lords and Rulers and Princes upon 
 earth. But when this, their true and all-gracious Messiah 
 declared, that he came to invite them to a better kingdom 
 of peace, and that his dominion was not of this world; 
 ihey could set no limits to the inveteracy and madness of 
 Iheir rage; which was farther inflamed by all the Powers of 
 Darkness, against this their only feared and formidable fo. 
 Wherefore, they took, and bound, scourged, buileted, re-, 
 viled , mocked, spurned, and spit upon him; they pierced 
 through', and rent in sunder, the fibred and feeling seats 
 of the most exquisite sensation; and, while he cited — 
 "Father! forgive them; they know not what they do!" 
 
201 
 
 they lifted his agonizing body on high, that all might 
 deride and make sport of his anguish ; till being nearly all 
 a wound , and every suffering inflicted and expended upon 
 him, by tortures the most poignant, most bitter and ex- 
 cruciating , that humanity, on this side Death , could sus- 
 tain , he bowed his sacred head , triumphantly cried — 
 " It is finished! ** and issued forth in warm and limitless 
 Benevolence to the Salvation which he purchased through 
 his Love, transcending love, for the universe of his lap- 
 sed creatures. 
 
 I am very sensible that the matters which I have pre- 
 sumed to set forth, stand counter to all the opinions, per- 
 suasions, and customs, received and established, from the 
 beginning of the world, by almost all mankind: but, in 
 the investigation of Truth , one ought to examine things 
 simply as they stand in Nature, without bias or attention 
 to any authority save that of Truth alone. 
 
 With regard to the virtue of Chastity, which is empha- 
 tically termed female^ independent of that purity of heart 
 and inclinations which render a Chaste woman a special 
 object of delight to God and his holy Angels, it is a Vir- 
 tue , of all others , the most important to mankind , and 
 of the most diffusive tendency, respecting Benevolence , of 
 any of the virtues. On this capital hinge , the whole fam- 
 ily of the Human species , the great and extensive brother- 
 hood of Man is suspended. 
 
 The consequences and influences of Female Chastity 
 reach through earth and heaven, through time and 
 through eternity. Woman is the sacred repository, where- 
 in and whereto the Supreme of Beings hath been pleased 
 to entrust the divine semblances and images of his 
 ever blessed person; the grand nursery, the appointed 
 community of those saints that are to rejoice with their 
 all-gracious Prototype from eternity to eternity. Wo to 
 the wretch! who shall make a breach or inrpad into this 
 divine institution and economy of her Creator; who shall 
 horridly introduce the brutal custom of common Bestiality 
 into the elect Species of the children of God. But thrice 
 blessed is She, who shall preserve the entrusted temple of 
 the human-form-divine, to be returned to Him a chaste 
 deposite and oblation without spot or defilement ! 
 
 History affords several shining instances of Female 
 Chastity. The most celebrated, but least of all entitled to 
 praise , as I take it , is that of Lucretia. 
 
 Young Taiquin, son to the King of Rome, became des- 
 perately enamored of her, though Wife to his friend and 
 
202 
 
 kinsman Collatinus. He entered her chamber at midnight * 
 with a dagger in his grasp , and threatened instant Death, 
 if she refused to comply with his wishes; but she boldly- 
 bid him strike, and said, she chose Death before Dishonor! 
 lie then swore, that if she did not consent to his embraces 
 he would cover her Name and Character with ever-* 
 during infamy; that after killing her , he would stab one of 
 her male slaves , and lay him in her bed , and declare that 
 he had caught them in the act of Adultry. This last threat 
 prevailed. She could not bear to be reputed a Strumpet 
 by the public, and she surrendered her Virtue to save her 
 Pieputation. She afterwards shed her blood in atonement 
 of her consent — but the Stain still remains! I pity, but 
 cannot acquit or honor her. 
 
 How incomparably more worthy the plaudit of Men and 
 Angels, was the Daughter of Susannah! Two of the prin- 
 cipal Elders of Israel, whose Characters were held sacred 
 and reverable among the people, conspired against her for 
 the gratification of their lusts. They came upon her in, 
 her garden, while bathing alone; and threatened , if she 
 refused to admit their caresses, they would bear witness 
 they had caught her in the fact with a Paramour, and, 
 by their joint testimony, at once deprive her of Reputa- 
 tion and Life. This, she was sensible, was in their power, 
 and she doubted not of their resolution to effect their 
 execrable purpose. But she continued unshaken ; determined 
 to surrender both Life and Fame , rather than swerve 
 from the ordinance of her God, or yield her Chaste body 
 to the touch of polution. She was, consequently, arraigned 
 and condemned upon the testimony of her false accusers , 
 grown ancient in sin. But on the way, while they conducted 
 her to execution , God sent his young Prophet to deliver 
 his approved servant , and to retort on the grey and per- 
 jured heads of her adversaries the Death and Defamation 
 which they had machinated against her. 
 
 There are several other signal proofs of Female Purity 
 recorded in Story. Such as that of a young lady, who, to 
 avoid the caresses of Demetrius, the most beautiful and 
 accomplished prince of the age, cast herself into a Caul- 
 dron of boiling water. But that which stands foremost in 
 the rolls of Female renown , which tends highest to the 
 estimation and respectableness of the Sex, was exhibited 
 at the celebrated Abbey of Glastonbury. 
 
 A little preceding the reign of Alfred the Great , the 
 Danes invaded England; and, in their rout through the 
 land, a party of their army approached and begirt the Ab- 
 bey, carrying on a degenerate and ignominious warfare 
 
against feeble and defenceless Women — against the very 
 persons whom Nature, Honor, Manhood, enjoined them 
 to protect. But the obscene and licentious soldiery had 
 confederated among themselves , to sate their lusts by the 
 rape of all the Virgins. The alarmed and forlorn Ladies 
 were aware of their intention; and, after some consulta- 
 tion, determined on the manner in which they would re- 
 ceive their adversaries; for the princely and beauteous 
 Abbess had represented to her associates , that the most 
 effectual way to repulse and to quell the abhorred lust of 
 their invaders, would be — wholly to deface those exter- 
 nal attractions that excited their desire. Wherefore, the 
 moment they heard the gates breaking open, the young 
 Mother of these Maidens began the wonderous precedent , 
 and all her Daughters followed the glorious example. They 
 mangled their fair and lovely faces with bloody and af- 
 frighting gashes. — - O the unparalleled beauty of such 
 deformity I — The Danes rushed in, but suddenly stopped , 
 shrunk back with horror, and made a slow and silent re- 
 treat. Again, provoked to be thus defeated of their prey, 
 they gathered heaps of combustibles , and set lire to the 
 pile on all sides ; when this company of sacred and incom- 
 parable Virgins ascended in the flame, the purest and most 
 acceptable oblation to the Throne of Grace and Purity, that 
 ever was offered either before or subsequent to "the Sac- 
 rifice on the Cross.'' Brooke. 
 
 Cato's Soliloquy y 
 
 On the Immortality of the Soul. 
 
 Cato sitting in a thoughtful posture : in his hand 
 
 Plato's book on the Immortality of the Soul. 
 
 A drawn Sword on the table by him. 
 
 It must be so! — Plato! thou reasonest well: 
 
 Else, whence this pleasing hope, (a) this fond desire, 
 
 This longing after Immortality? 
 
 Or, whence this secret dread , and inward horror, 
 
 Of falling into naught? W T hy shrinks the Soul 
 
 Back on herself, and startles at Destruction? (J>) 
 
 'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us; (V) 
 
 (a) Else, whence this pleasing hope — Vanwaar anders t deze 
 aangename hoop? 
 
 (b) And startles at Destruction?— Enschrikt voorde Vernietiging? 
 
 (c) That stirs within us — Die in ana werkt. 
 
so4 
 
 'Tis Heaven itself that points out an Hereafter; 
 And intimates (d) Eternity to man. 
 Eternity! thou pleasing — dreadful thought! 
 Through what variety of untried being , (e) 
 Through what new scenes and changes must we pass ? 
 The wide , the unbounded prospect lies before me ; 
 But shadows, clouds, and darkness, rest upon it. 
 Here will I hold — If there's a Power above us, 
 (And that there is , all Nature cries aloud 
 Through all her works,) He must delight in Virtue; 
 And that which He delights in, must be happy! 
 But when ! or where! this world was made for Cesar (/) 
 I'm weary of conjectures — This must must end 'em ! 
 
 {Laying his hand on his Sword, 
 Thus am I doubly armed; my death and life, 
 My bane and antidote, (g) are both before me — 
 This in a moment brings me to an endj 
 But this informs me I shall never die. 
 The Soul , secured in her existence , smiles 
 At the drawn dagger, and defies its point: Q/i) 
 The Stars shall fade away, the Sun himself 
 Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years, 
 But Thou! shalt flourish in Immortal Youth, 
 Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
 The wreck of matter , and the crush of worlds ! 
 
 "What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? 
 This lethargy that creeps through all my senses? 
 Nature oppressed, and harrassed out with care, 
 Sinks down to rest! This once I'll favor her, 
 
 That my awakened soul may take her flight 
 Renewed in all her strength, and fresh with life, 
 An Offering fit for Heaven (t). Let guilt or fear 
 
 Disturb man's rest , Cato knows neither of 'em — • 
 Indifferent , in his choice , to Sleep or Die. 
 
 Addison* 
 
 (</) Intimates — geeft te lennen. 
 
 (<?) Uutried being — onbeproefd bestaan. 
 
 {/) This world was made for Cesar — for , had it not been so , 
 the Gods, whom I have endeavoured to servo, would surely have 
 permitted me to have conquered Cesar; instead of which, He goes 
 on, from conquest to conquest, in spite of all oppositions; and now, 
 at length, I see that the Gods ordain that Cesar, and not Cato, must 
 be victorious. 
 
 (g) My bane and antidote — mijn vergift en tegengift ; that is, 
 my cross and blessedness. 
 
 (A) Smiles at the drawn dagger, and defies its point — Glimlagt 
 tegen de uitgetogene dolk , en tarts zijn punt, 
 
 (i) An Offering lit lor Heaven — Bene ojferhande geschikt poor 
 den Hsinel, 
 
ao5 
 
 Maria , of Moullnes, 
 
 — They were the sweetest notes I ever heard ; and I 
 instantly let down the foreglass to hear them more distinctly 
 
 'Tis Maria: said the postillion, observing I was 
 
 listening — Poor Maria! continued he, (leaning his body 
 on one side to let me see her, for he was in a line between 
 us) is sitting upon a bank playing her Vespers upon her 
 pipe , with her little Goat beside her. 
 
 The young fellow uttered this with an accent and a look 
 so perfectly in tune to a feeling heart, that I instantly made 
 a vow, I would give him a four-and-twenty sous piece , 
 when I got to Moulines : 
 
 — And who is poor Maria? said I. 
 
 The love and pity of all the villages around us ; said the 
 postillion — it is but three years ago , that the sun did not 
 shine upon so fair, so quick-witted, and amiable a maid; 
 and better fate did Maria deserve, than to have her banns 
 forbid, by the intrigues of the curate of the parish who 
 published them — 
 
 He was going on , when Maria , who had made a short 
 pause, put the pipe to her mouth and began the air again 
 
 — they were the same notes — yet were ten times sweeter: 
 It is the evening service to the Virgin ; said the young man 
 — but who has taught her to play it — or how she came by 
 her pipe, no one knows; we think that Heaven has assisted 
 her in both; for ever since she has been unsettled in her 
 mind, it seems her only consolation— she has never once 
 had the pipe out of her hand, but plays that Service upon 
 it almost night and day. 
 
 The postillion delivered this with so much discretion and 
 natural eloquence , that I could not help deciphering some- 
 thing in his face above his condition , and should have sifted 
 out his history, had not poor Maria taken such fall pos- 
 session of me. 
 
 We had got up by this time almost to the bank where 
 Maria was sitting; she was in a thin white jacket , with her 
 hair, all but two tresses, drawn up in a sik net, with a few 
 olive leaves twisted a little fantastically on one side — she 
 was beautiful ; and if ever I felt the full force of an honest 
 heart-ake, it was the moment I saw her. 
 
 God help her! poor damsel! above a hundred masses, 
 said the postillion , have been said in the several parish 
 churches and convents around for her — but without effect; 
 we have still hopes, as she is sensible for short intervals, 
 
2o6 
 
 that the Virgin at last will restore her to herself; but her 
 parents , who know her best, are hopeless upon that score 
 and think her senses are lost for ever." 
 
 As the postillion said this, Maria made a cadence so 
 melancholy, so tender and querulous , that I sprung out of 
 the chaise to help her, and found myself sitting betwixt her 
 and her goat before I relapsed from my enthusiasm. 
 
 Maria looked wistfully for some time at me , and then at 
 her goat — and then at me — and then at her goat again — 
 and so on alternately : 
 
 — 'Well, Maria/ said I softly — What resemblance do 
 you find ? 
 
 I do entreat the'"candid reader to believe me , that it was 
 from the humblest conviction of what a Beast man is, 
 that I asked the question ; and that I would not have let 
 fall an unseasonable pleasantry in the venerable presence 
 of Misery, to be entitled to all the wit that ever Rabelais 
 scattered. 
 
 Adieu, Maria! — adieu, poor hapless damsel! — some 
 time, but not now, I may hear thy sorrows from thy own 
 lips— but I was deceived; for, that moment she took her 
 pipe, and told me such a tale of wo with it, that I rose 
 up, and with broken and irregular steps walked softly to 
 my chaise. 
 
 Second part. 
 
 When we had got within half a league of Moulines , at 
 a little opening in the road leading to a thicket , I discov- 
 ered poor Maria sitting under a poplar — she was sitting 
 with her elbow in her lap , and her head leaning on one 
 side within her hand — a small brook ran at the foot of 
 the tree. 
 
 I bade the postillion go on with the chaise to Moulines 
 — and La Fleur to bespeak my supper— and that I would 
 walk after him. 
 
 She was dressed in white, and much as my friend des- 
 cribed her, except that her hair hung loose , which before 
 was twisted within a silk net. She had superadded likewise 
 to her jacket, a pale green ribband, which fell across her 
 shoulder to the waist; at the end of which hung her pipe. 
 Her Goat had been as faithless as her Lover; and she had 
 got a little Dog in lieu of him, which she had kept tied by 
 a string to her girdle; as I looked at her dog, she drew 
 him towards her with the string— " Thou shalt not leave 
 me,Sylvio," said she. I looked in Maria's eyes, and saw 
 she was thinking more of her Father than of her lover or 
 
20J 
 
 her little goat ; for as she uttered them , the tears trickled 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 I sat down close by her; and Maria let me wipe them 
 away as they fell , with my handkerchief. I then steeped it 
 in my own — and then in her's — and then in mine — i and 
 then I wiped her's again — and, as I did it, I felt such un- 
 describable emotions within me , as I am sure could not be 
 accounted for from any combinations of matter and motion. 
 
 I am positive I have a soul ; nor can all the books with 
 -which Materialists have pestered the world ever convince 
 me of the contrary. 
 
 "When Maria had come a little to herself, I asked her if 
 she remembered a pale thin person of a man, who had sat 
 down betwixt her and her goat, about two years before? 
 She said, she was unsettled much at that time , but remem- 
 bered it upon two accounts— that , ill as she was , she saw 
 the person pitied her; and next, that her goat had stolen 
 his handkerchief, and she had beat him for the theft — she 
 had washed it, she said, in the brook, and kept it ever 
 since in her pocket , to restore it to him in case she should 
 ever see him again ; which , she added , he had half prom- 
 ised her. As she told me this , she took the handkerchief 
 out of her pocket, to let me see it; she had folded it up 
 neatly in a couple of vine leaves , tied round with a tendril 
 — on opening it, I saw an S marked in one of the corners. 
 
 She had since that , she told me , strayed as far as Rome , 
 and walked round St. Peter's once — and returned back — 
 that she found her way alone across the Appenines — had 
 travelled over all Lombardy, without money — and through 
 the flinty roads of Savoy, without shoes : how she had borne 
 it, and how she had got supported, she could not tell — 
 but God tempers the wind , said Maria , to the shorn lamb. 
 
 Shorn indeed! and to the quick, said * ; and wert thou 
 in my own land , where I have a cottage , I would take 
 thee to it and shelter thee ; thou shouldst eat of my own 
 bread, and drink of my own cup — I would be kind to thy 
 Sylvio — in all thy weaknesses and wanderings I would seek 
 after thee, and bring thee back — when the sun went down 
 I would say my prayers , and when I had done, thou 
 shouldst play thy evening song upon thy pipe: nor would 
 the incence;of my sacrifice be worse accepted, for entering 
 heaven along with that of a broken heart. 
 
 Nature melted within me, as I uttered this; and Maria 
 observing, as I took out my handkerchief, that it was 
 steeped too much already to be of use, would needs go 
 wash it in the stream — And were will you dry it, Maria? 
 
so8 
 
 said I — I will dry it in my bosom f said she — it will Ad 
 me good. 
 
 And is your heart still so warm, Maria? said I. 
 
 I touched upon the string on which hung all her sorrows 
 •— she looked with wistful disorder for some time in my 
 face ; and then , without saying anything , took her pipe , 
 and played her service to the Virgin — The string I had 
 touched ceased to vibrate -— in a moment or two Maria re- 
 turned to herself — let her pipe fall — and rose up. 
 
 And where are you going , Maria ? said I — She said to 
 Moulines — Let us go, said I, together — Maria put her 
 arm within mine, and lengthening the string to let the dog 
 follow — in that order we entered Moulines. 
 
 Though I hate salutations and greetings in the market- 
 place, yet when we got into the middle of this , I stopped 
 to take my last look and last fareWel of Maria. 
 
 Maria, though not tall, was, nevertheless, of the first order 
 of fine forms ; Affliction had touched her looks with some- 
 thing that was scarce earthly — still she was feminine: and 
 so much was there about her of all that the heart wishes , 
 or the eyes look for in Woman, that could the traces be 
 ever worn out of her brain , and those of Eliza's out of 
 mine, she should not only eat of my bread and drink of my 
 own cup , but Maria should lie in my bosom , and be unto 
 me as a daughter. 
 
 Adieu, poor luckless maiden ! —imbibe the oil and wine 
 which the compassion of a stranger, as he journeyeth on 
 his way, now pours into thy wounds — that Being only, 
 who has twice bruised thee , can bind them up for ever. 
 
 Sterne. 
 
 The Orphan and Lord Linsey-Wolsey. 
 
 "Pity, my lord ! the wretched plight 
 Of a lone Orphan, faint and weary; 
 
 No home by day, no bed by night , 
 Exposed to tempests wild and dreary: 
 
 "I have no friend, I have no food, 
 Alas! I know not "Where to wander; 
 
 But I was told, you folks were good, 
 Who roll in weallh and shine in grandeur." 
 
2og 
 
 c Young gipsy! if your tale be true, 
 
 Say, Where your parents Life departed?' 
 
 "My Father fell at Waterloo; 
 
 My Mother died quite broken-hearted: 
 
 " She sought my Sire among the dead ,' 
 And sunk upon his bosom gory" -— 
 
 c 0, if they died on Honor's bed, 
 My child, they're covered o'er with Glory V 
 
 "And what is Glory, my good lord? 
 
 Will it relieve the Orphan's hunger, 
 A shelter, food, and clothes, afford? 
 
 O say — for I can't live much longer !" 
 
 'The Nation, child! will see you fed, 
 
 Posterity will learn your story; 
 Your parents died on Honor's bed, 
 
 And they are covered o'er with Glory !' 
 
 This said, he, with a hasty pace, 
 
 From the lone Orphan, whistling, parted; 
 
 The tears bedewed her pallid face, 
 And down she sunk, half broken-hearted: 
 
 When , to her aid , a Soldier flew, 
 Who had o'erheard her artless story; 
 
 He knew her Sire at Waterloo , 
 And saw him — covered o'er with Glory — • 
 
 " Come , Orphan ! to my arms ," he cried , 
 "And I will screen thee from the weather; 
 
 " Close at my side thy parents died , 
 "And, for their sakes, we'll lodge together: 
 
 "I have a pension — and a cot, 
 "Where thou shalt live till I am hoary; 
 
 "Here, wrap thee, in this old Watch-coat, 
 "'Tis warmer than his lordship's Glory" 
 
 Anonymous, 
 
 H 
 
2lO 
 
 The Beading of the Common-Prayer. 
 
 The well Reading of the Common-Prayer is of so great 
 importance, and so much neglected, that I take the liberty 
 to offer to your consideration some particulars on that sub- 
 ject. And what more worthy your observation than this ? 
 A thing so public , and of so high consequence. It is indeed 
 wonderful, that the frequent exercise of it should not 
 make the performers of that duty more expert in it. This 
 inability, as I conceive, proceeds from the little care that 
 is taken of their Reading while Boys , and at School, where , 
 when they have got into Latin , they are looked upon as 
 above English, the reading of which is wholly neglected, 
 or at least read to very little purpose , without any due 
 observations made to them of the proper accent and man- 
 ner of reading; by this means they have acquired such ill 
 habits as will not easily be removed. The only way, that 
 I know of, to remedy this, is, to propose some person of 
 great ability in that way, as a Pattern for them; example 
 being most effectual to convince the Learned, as well as 
 instruct the Ignorant. 
 
 You must know, Sir, I have been a constant frequenter 
 of the Service of the Church of England for above these 
 four years last past, and until Sunday was seven-night 
 never discovered, to so great a degree, the excellency of 
 the Common-Prayer. When , being at Saint James's Garlic- 
 Hill Church, I heard the Service read so distinctly, so em- 
 phatically, and so fervently, that it was next to an im- 
 possibility to be unattentive. My eyes and my thoughts could 
 not wander as usual , but were confined to my Prayers. I 
 then considered that I addressed myself to the Almighty, 
 and not to a beautiful face. And when I reflected on my 
 former performances of that duty, I found I had run it over 
 as a matter of form, in comparison to the manner in which 
 I then discharged it. My mind was really affected, and 
 fervent wishes accompanied my words. The Confession 
 was read with such a resigned humility, the absolution 
 with such a comfortable authority, the Thanksgivings with 
 such a religious joy, as made me feel those affections of the 
 mind in a manner I never did before. To remedy, there- 
 fore , the grievance above complained of, I humbly pro- 
 pose , that this excellent Reader, (a) upon the next and every 
 annual Assembly of Sion-College, and all other Conventions, 
 should Read Prayers before them. For then those that 
 are afraid of stretching their mouths , and spoiling their 
 (a) Mr. Philip Stubbs — the Rector of the Parish. 
 
211 > 
 
 soft voices, will learn to read with clearness, loudness , 
 and strength. Others that affect a rakish , negligent air, by 
 folding their arms and lolling on their books, will be 
 taught a decent behaviour, and comely erection of body. 
 Those that read so fast , as if impatient of their work , 
 may learn to speak deliberately. There is another sort of 
 persons whom I call Pindaric-Readers , as being confined 
 to no set measure; these pronounce five or six words with 
 great deliberation, and the five or six subsequent ones with 
 as great celerity : the. first part of a sentence with a very 
 exalted voice, and the latter part with a very submissive 
 one : sometimes with one sort of a tone, and immediately 
 after with a very different one. These gentlemen will learn 
 of my admired Reader an evenness of voice and delivery; 
 and all who are innocent of these affectations , but Read 
 with such an indifferency as if they did not understand 
 the language, may then be informed of the Art of Heading 
 movingly and fervently, how to place the emphasis, and 
 give the proper accent to each word , and how to vary the 
 voice according to the nature of the sentence. There cer- 
 tainly is a very great difference between the reading of a, 
 Prayer and a Gazette, which I beg of you to inform a set 
 of Readers , who affect, forsooth, a certain gentlemanlike 
 familiarity of tone, and mend the language as they go on, 
 crying, instead of "pardoneth and absolveth," ' pardons 
 and absolves? These are often pretty classical scholars , 
 and would think it an unpardonable sin to read Virgil or 
 Martial with so little taste as they do Divine Service. &c 
 As the matter of Worship is now managed in Dissenting 
 Congregations, you find insignificant words and phrases 
 raised by a lively vehemence; in our own Churches, the 
 most exalted sense depreciated by a dispassionate indo- 
 lence. I remember to have heard Doctor S — e (a) 
 say in his pulpit, of the Common-Prayer , that, at least, 
 it was as perfect as anything of human institution. If the 
 gentlemen who err in this kind would please to recollect 
 tbe many pleasantries they have read upon those who recite 
 good things with an ill grace , they would go on to think 
 that what in that case is only ridiculous, in themselves 
 is impious. But leaving this to their own reflections, I 
 shall conclude this essay with what Cesar said upon the 
 irregularity of tone in one who read before him ■ — 6l Do 
 you Read or Sing ? If you Sing , you sing very ill." 
 
 Steele. 
 (a) S— — e. Dr. Smalridge. 
 
212 
 
 An Evening Address 
 To the Nightingale. 
 
 Sweet Bird! that, kindly perching near, 
 Pourest forth thy plaints, melodious, in my earj 
 Not like base Worldlings , tutored to forego 
 The melancholy haunts of Wo 5 
 
 Thanks ! for thy sorrow-soothing strain : 
 For surely thou hast known to prove, 
 Like me, the pangs of hapless love; 
 
 Else, why so feelingly complain, 
 And with thy piteous notes thus sadden all the grove? 
 Say, dost Thou mourn thy ravished Mate , 
 
 That oft enamored on thy strains has hung? 
 Or, has the cruel hand of fate 
 Bereft thee of thy Young? 
 
 Alas — for BOTH I weep ! ! ! 
 
 In all the pride of youthful charms , 
 A beauteous Bride — torn from my circling arms ! 
 A lovely Babe — that should have lived to bless 
 And fill my doating eyes with frequent tears, 
 At once the source of Rapture and Distress, 
 The flattering prop of my declining years! * 
 In vain from Death to rescue I essayed, 
 By every art that Science could devise; 
 Alas ! It languished for a Mother's aid , 
 And winged its flight, to seek her in the skies! 
 Then, O! our comforts be the same — 
 
 At evening's peaceful hour , 
 To shun the noisy paths of wealth and fame, 
 And breathe our Sorrows in this lonely bower. 
 
 But why, aks ! to Thee complain — 
 
 To Thee, unconscious of my pain! 
 
 Soon slialt Thou cease to mourn thy lot severe , 
 
 And hail the dawning of a Happier year: 
 The genial warmth of joy-renewing Spring 
 Again shall plume thy shattered wing; 
 Again thy little heart shall Transport prove, 
 Again shall flow thy notes responsive to thy Love. 
 But, Oh! for Me in vain may Seasons roll, 
 
 Naught can dry up the fountain of my tears , 
 Deploring still the Comfort of my Soul, 
 
 I count my Sorrows by increasing years. 
 
2l3 
 
 Tell me , thou Syren Hope ! deceiver , say, 
 Where is the promised Period of my woes ? 
 Fall three long lingering Years have rolled away, 
 And yet I weep, a stranger to Repose: 
 O, what Delusion did thy tongue employ! 
 
 "That Emma's fatal Pledge of Love — 
 ** Her last bequest — with all a Mother's care , 
 "The bitterness of sorrow should remove, 
 
 "Soften the horrors of DespairN, 
 "And cheer a Heart long lost to joy!", 
 
 How oft , when fondling in my arms , 
 
 Gazing — enraptured — on its angel face," 
 My soul the maze of Fate would vainly trace; 
 And burn with all a Father's fond alarms ! 
 
 And, O, what flattering scenes had Fancy feigned — « 
 How did I rave of Blessings yet in store ! 
 Till every aking sense was sweetly pained, 
 
 Nor my full Heart could bear, nor Tongue could utter, more. 
 
 'Just Heaven!' I cried, with recent Hopes elate, 
 'Yet I will Live — will live, though Emma's dead — 
 ' So long bowed down beneath the storms of Fate , 
 'Yet will I raise my wo-dejected head! 
 ' My little Emma — now, my all — 
 'Will want a Father's care; 
 'Her looks, her wants, my rash resolves recal , 
 'And for her Sake, the Ills of Life I'll bear: 
 ' And oft together we'll complain — 
 ' Complaint — the only bliss my soul can know! 
 
 'From Me, my Child shall learn the mournful strain, 
 
 ' And prattle Tales of Wo : 
 'And, O, in that auspicious hour, 
 ' When Fate resigns her persecuting power, 
 * With duteous zeal, Her hand shall close — -; 
 'Ko more to Weep — I my Sorrow-streaming eyes, 
 ' When Death gives Misery repose , 
 ' And opes a glorious passage to the skies.' 
 
 Vain thought! it must not be — She too is Dead! 
 
 The flattering scene is o'er! 
 
 My Hopes for ever — ever fled <—• 
 
 And Vengeance can no more ! 
 Crushed by Misfortune — blasted by Disease — 
 And none — None left to bear a friendly part ! 
 
2l4 
 
 To meditate my welfare, health, or ease, 
 Or soothe the anguish of my aking heart! 
 Now all one gloomy scene, till welcome Death, 
 With lenient hand — O , falsely deemed severe — 
 Shall kindly stop my Grief-exhausted breath, 
 
 And dry up every tear: 
 Perhaps, obsequious to my will ± 
 
 (But ah! from my affection, far removed!) 
 The last sad office Strangers may fulfil — 
 As if I ne'er had heen beloved: 
 As if, unconscious of Poetic fire, 
 I ne'er had touched the trembling lyre ; 
 As if my niggard hand ne'er dealt relief, 
 Nor my heart melted at another's Grief, 
 
 Yet, while this weary life shall last, 
 While yet my tongue can form the impassioned strain, 
 In piteous accents shall the Muse complain, 
 And dwell, with fond delay, on Blessings past: 
 For, O, how grateful to a wounded heart, 
 The Tale of Misery to impart! 
 From other's eyes bid artless sorrows flow, 
 And raise Esteem upon the base of Wo! 
 E'en He , the noblest of the Tuneful throng , (a) 
 
 Shall deign my Love-lorn Tale to hearj 
 Shall catch the soft contagion of my Song, 
 And pay my pensive Muse the tribute of — a Tear. 
 
 Shaw. 
 
 (a) Lord Lyttleton ; whose Monody was considered the finest in 
 the Language, until Shaw's Monody appeared; (see page 173 of this 
 Volume j) when his Lordship , in a eulogium on Shaw's production , 
 resigned all claim to eminence. 
 
 Cowper's are classed among the best-written Familiar Letters in 
 the English Language. The following has not been selected, bat taken 
 indiscriminately, merely as a specimen of his easy style. 
 
 From Rev Wm, Cowper to Rev. Wm. Unwin. 
 
 My dear William, Nov. 10, 1783. 
 
 I have lost, and wasted, almost all my writing 
 time, in making an alteration in the Verses I either inclose, 
 or subjoin , for I know not which will be the case at pre- 
 sent. If Prose comes readily, I shall transcribe them on 
 another sheet, otherwise on this. You will understand, 
 before you have read many of them , that they are not for 
 
2l5 
 
 the Press. I lay you under no other injunctions. The 
 unkind behaviour of our acquaintance , though it is possi- 
 ble that, in some instances, it may not much affect our 
 happiness , nor engage many of our thoughts , will some- 
 times obtrude itself upon us with a degree of importunity 
 not easily resisted; and then, perhaps, though almost in- 
 sensible of it before , we feel more than the occasion will 
 justify. In such a moment it was , that I conceived this 
 poem, and gave loose to a degree of resentment, which 
 perhaps I ought not to have indulged, but which in a. 
 cooler hour I cannot altogether condemn. My former inti- 
 macy with the two characters was such , that I could not but 
 feel myself provoked by the neglect with which they both 
 treated me on a late occasion. So much by way of preface. 
 You ought not to have supposed, that if you had visited 
 us last summer, the pleasure of the interview would have 
 been all your own. By such an imagination you wrong 
 both yourself and us. Do you suppose we do not love 
 you? You cannot suspect your Mother of coldness ; and as 
 to me, assure yourself I have no friend in the world with 
 whom I communicate without the least reserve , yourself 
 excepted. Take heart then ; and when you find a favorable 
 opportunity to come , assure yourself of such a welcome 
 from us both , as you have a right to look for. But I have 
 observed in your two last letters , somewhat of a dejection 
 and melancholy, that I am afraid you do not sufficiently 
 strive against. I suspect you of being too Sedentary. 
 You cannot IValh — Why you cannot is best known to 
 yourself. I am sure your legs are long enough , and your 
 person does not overload them. But I beseech you Ride, 
 and ride often. I think I have heard you say you cannot 
 even do that without an Object. Is not Health an object? 
 Is not a new prospect, which in most countries is gained 
 at the end of every mile, an object? Assure yourself, 
 that Easy-chairs are no friends to Cheerfulness , and that 
 a long winter, spent by the Fire-side, is a prelude to an 
 Unhealthy spring. Everything I see in the fields , is to 
 me an object; and I can look at the same Rivulet or at 
 a handsome Tree, every day of my life , with new pleasure. 
 This indeed, is partly the effect of a Natural taste for 
 Rural beauty, and partly the effect of Habit; for I never, 
 in all my life, have let slip the opportunity of breathing 
 Fresh-air , and conversing with Nature, when I could fairly 
 catch it. I earnestly recommend a cultivation of the same 
 Taste to you , suspecting that you have neglected it , and 
 suffer for doing so. 
 
2l6 
 
 HENRY VtKs Address to his Soldiers, 
 at the Siege of Harfleur. 
 
 Alarums, Enter King henry, Exeter, Bedford, gloster, 
 and Soldiers, with scaling Ladders. 
 
 Once more unto the breach (a) , dear friends ! once more 5 
 Or close the wall up with our English dead. 
 In Peace , there's nothing so becomes a man 
 As modest stillness and humility: 
 But when the blast of War blows in our ears, 
 Then , imitate the action of the Tiger ; 
 Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, 
 Disguise fair nature with hard-favored rage: 
 Then lend the eye a terrible aspect ; 
 Let it pry through the portage of the head , 
 Like the brass cannon ; let the brow o'erwhelm it > 
 As fearfully , as doth a galled rock 
 O'erbang and jutty (b) his confounded base, 
 Swilled with the wild and wasteful ocean. 
 Now set the teeth, and stretch the nostril wide ; 
 Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit 
 To his full height. On — on , you Noblest English ! 
 "Whose blood is fetched from Fathers of War proof 5 
 Fathers ! that like so many Alexanders, 
 Have, in these parts, from morn till even fought, 
 And sheathed their swords for lack of argument. 
 Dishonor not your Mothers; now attest 
 That those, whom you called Fathers , did beget you. 
 Be copy now to men of grosser blood, 
 
 And teach them how to war ! — And you , good Yeomen ! (c) 
 Whose limbs were made in England , show us here 
 The mettle of your pasture; let us swear 
 That you are worth your breeding! which I doubt not; 
 For there is none of you so mean and base, 
 That hath not noble lustre in your eyes. 
 I see you stand like Greyhounds in the slips, 
 Straining upon the start: the game's afoot; 
 Follow your spirit; and, upon this Charge, 
 Cry — God for Harry! England! and Saint George I 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 (a) [{reach — bres. 
 
 \b) Jutly — vooruitstelcend. 
 
 (c) Yeomen — lijfwachten, here landlieden. 
 
LECTURE X. 
 
 On the Pronunciation of the English Language , 
 concluded. 
 
 Lord Chatham. 
 
 The Secretary stood alone. Modern degeneracy had not 
 reached him. Original and unaccommodating , the features 
 of his character had the hardihood of antiquity. His august 
 mind overawed Majesty itself. No state chicanery, no 
 narrow system of vicious politics , no idle contest for min- 
 isterial victories , sunk him to the vulgar level of the 
 Great; but, overbearing, persuasive, and impracticable , 
 his object was England, his ambition was Fame. Without 
 dividing, he destroyed party; without corrupting, he made 
 a venal age unanimous. France sunk beneath him. With 
 one hand he smote the House of Bourbon, and wielded in 
 the other the Democracy of England. The sight of his 
 mind was Infinite; and his schemes were to aflect, not 
 merely England, not the present age only, but Europe and 
 posterity. Wonderful were the means by which these schemes 
 were accomplished; always seasonable, always adequate— 
 the suggestions of an understanding animated by ardor, 
 and enlightened by prophecy. 
 
 The ordinary feelings which make life amiable and in- 
 dolent were unknown to Him. No domestic difficulties , no 
 domestic weakness reached Him : but , aloof from the sordid 
 occurrences of life, and unsullied by its intercourse, he 
 came occasionally into our system , to counsel and to decide. 
 
 A character so exalted, so strenuous, so various, so 
 authoritative, astonished a corrupt age, and the Treasury 
 trembled at the name of Pitt, through all her classes of 
 Venality. Corruption imagined , indeed , that she had found 
 defects in this Statesman, and talked much of the inconsis- 
 tency of his glory, and much of ihe ruin of his victories, 
 but the History of his Country and the Calamities of the 
 Enemy, answered and refuted her. 
 
2l8 
 
 Nor were his Political abilities his only talents. His 
 Eloquence was an era in the Senate , peculiar and sponta- 
 neous, familiarly expressing gigantic sentiments and in- 
 stinctive wisdom; not like the torrent of Demosthenes , or 
 the splendid conflagration ofTullyjit resembled sometimes 
 the thunder, and sometimes the music of the spheres. He 
 •did not conduct the understanding through the painful sub- 
 lilty of argumentation ; nor was he for ever on the rack 
 of exertion; but rather lightened upon the subject, and 
 reached the point by the flashings of the mind — which , 
 like those of his eye, were felt, but could not be followed. 
 
 Upon the whole, there was in this man something that 
 could create, subvert, or reform; an understanding, a 
 spirit, and an eloquence, to summon mankind to society, 
 to break the bonds of slavery assunder, and to rule the 
 wildness of free minds with unbounded authority ; some- 
 thing that could establish or overwhelm Empire , and strike 
 a blow in the world, that should resound through the 
 Universe, 
 
 Robertson. 
 
 The Actor. 
 
 The Player's province they but vainly try 
 
 Who want these powers — Deportment , Voice, and Eye. 
 
 The Critic's sight 'tis only grace can please; 
 
 No figure charms us if it has not ease. 
 
 There are, who think the stature all in all; 
 
 Nor like the hero , if lie is not tall. 
 
 The feeling sense all other want supplies > 
 
 I rate no Actor's merit from his size: 
 
 Superior height requires superior grace ; 
 
 And what's a giant with a vacant face ? 
 
 Theatric monarchs , in their tragic gait, 
 Affect to mark the solemn pace of state; 
 One foot put forward, in position strong, 
 The other, like its vassal, dragged along: 
 So grave each motion , so exact and slow, 
 Like wooden monarchs at a puppet-show. 
 The mein delights us that has native grace, 
 But affectation ill supplies its place. 
 
 Unskilful Actors, like your mimic apes, 
 Will writhe their bodies in a thousanJ shapes — 
 
2ig 
 
 However foreign from the Poet's art, 
 
 No tragic Hero but admires a Start: 
 
 What though unfeeling of the nervous line, 
 
 "Who but allows — his attitude is fine? 
 
 While a whole minute equipoised he stands, 
 
 Till Praise dismiss him with her echoing hands ! 
 
 Resolved , though nature hate the tedious pause , 
 
 JBy perseverence to extort applause: 
 
 When Romeo, sorrowing at his Juliet's doom, 
 
 With eager madness bursts the canvas tomb, 
 
 The sudden whirl, stretched leg, and lifted staff, 
 
 Which please the Vulgar, make the Critic laugh. 
 
 To paint the Passion's force, and mark it well, 
 The proper Action nature's self will tell : 
 No pleasing power Distortions e'er express, 
 And nicer judgement always lothes excess. 
 
 Of all the evils which the Stage molest , 
 I hate your Fool who overacts his jest; 
 Who murders what the poet finely writ, 
 And , like a bungler , haggles all his Wit — 
 With shrug , and grin , and gesture out of place , 
 And writes a foolish comment , with his face. 
 
 The Word and Action should conjointly suit, 
 Rut Acting words is labor too minute. 
 Grimace will ever lead the Judgement wrong ; 
 While sober Humor marks the impression strong. 
 Her proper traits the fixed attention hit, 
 Arid bring me closer to the poet's wit; 
 With her, delighted, o'er each scene I go, 
 Well-pleased — and not ashamed of being so. 
 
 Rut let the generous Actor still forbear 
 To copy features with a Mimic's care : 
 'Tis a poor skill , which every fool can reach , 
 A vile stage-custom, honored in the breach: 
 W r orse as more close — the disengenuous art 
 Rut shows the wanton looseness of the heart. 
 When I behold a wretch , of talents mean , 
 Drag private foibles on the public scene, 
 Forsaking nature's fair and open road 
 To mark some whim , some strange , peculiar mode ; 
 Fired with disgust, I lothe his servile plan, 
 Despise the mimic, and abhor the Man! 
 Go to the Lame, to Hospitals repair, 
 And hunt for humor in distortions there ! 
 Fill up the measure of the moteley whim 
 With shrug, wink, snuffle, and convulsive limb; 
 
220 
 
 Then shame, at once, to please a trifling Age, 
 Good sense, good manners, virtue, and the stage! 
 
 'Tis not enough the "Voice be sound and clear, 
 'Tis modulation that must charm the ear. 
 "When desperate heroines grieve with tedious moan, 
 And whine their sorrows in a see-saw tone , 
 The same soft sounds of unimpassioned woes 
 Can only make the yawning hearers — doze. 
 The Voice all modes of passion can express , 
 "Which marks the proper word with proper stress: 
 But none emphatic can that Actor call, 
 Who lays an equal emphasis on all. 
 
 Some o'er the tongue the labored measures roll 
 Slow and deliberate as the parting toll^ 
 Point every stop , mark every pause so strong , 
 Their words, like stage-processions, stalk along: 
 All Affectation bat creates disgust — 
 And e'en in Speaking we may seem too just. 
 In vain for them the pleasing measure flows 
 Whose Recitation runs it all to prose ; 
 Repeating what the poet set not down — 
 The verb disjointing from its friendly noun, 
 "While pause, and break, and repetition join 
 To make a Discord in each tuneful line. 
 
 Some placid natures fill the allotted scene 
 "Willi lifeless drone , insipid and serene : 
 "While others thunder every couplet o'er, 
 And almost crack your ears with rant and roar; 
 
 More Nature oft, and finer strokes, are shown 
 In the low whisper, than tempestuous tone: 
 And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixed amaze 
 More powerful terror to the mind conveys , 
 Than he, who, swolen with big, impetuous rage, 
 Bullies the bulky phantom off the stage. 
 
 He who in earnest studies o'er his part, 
 "Will find true Nature cling about his heart. 
 The modes of grief are not included all 
 In the white handerchief and mournful drawl; 
 A single look more marks the internal wo , 
 Than all the windings of the lengthened Oh! 
 Up to the face the quick sensation flies, 
 And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes; 
 Love Transport, Madness, Anger, Scorn, Despair, 
 And all the Passions — all the Soul is there. 
 
 O, ne'er may Folly seize the throne of Tasle , 
 Nor Dulness lay the realms of Genius waj>tei 
 
321 
 
 No bouncing crackers ope the thunderers fire, 
 
 No tumbler float upon the bending wire ! 
 
 More natural uses to the Stage belong, 
 
 Than tumblers , monsters , pantomime , or song ; 
 
 For other purpose was that spot designed — 
 
 To purge the Passions and reform the Mindj 
 
 To give to Nature all the force of Art, 
 
 And while it Charms the Ear > to Mend the Heart, 
 
 Lloyd, 
 
 Few men have left behind such purity of character , or such monu- 
 ments of laborious piety, as Dr. Watts. He has provided instruction 
 for all ages , from those who are lisping their first lessons , to the en- 
 lightened readers of Malbranche and Locke ; he has left neither cor- 
 poreal nor spiritual nature unexamined j he has taught the Art of 
 Ileasoning, and the Science of the Stars. 
 
 As his mind was capacious, his curiosity excursive , and his industry 
 continual, his writings are very numerous, and his subjects various. 
 With his theological works I am only enough acquainted to admire his 
 meekness of opposition , and his mildness of censure. It was not only in 
 his book, but in his mind, that orthodoxy was united with charity* 
 Of his philosophical pieces , his Logic has been received into the 
 Universities , and therefore wants no private recommendation. 
 
 Few books have been perused by me with gTeater pleasure than his 
 " Improvement of the Blind;" of which the radical principles may 
 indeed be found in Locke's " Conduct of the Understanding ;" but 
 they are so expanded and ramified by Watts , as to confer upon him 
 the merit of a work in the highest degree useful and pleasing. Who- 
 ever HAS THE CARE OF INSTRUCTING OTHERS, MAY BE CHARGED WITH 
 DEFICIEKCE IN HIS DUTY IF THIS BOOK IS NOT RECOMMENDED. 
 
 Every man acquainted with the common principles of human action , 
 will look with Feneration on the writer, who is at one time com- 
 bating Locke, and at another making a Catechism for children in their 
 Fourth year ! A voluntary descent from the dignity of Science , 
 is, perhaps, the hardest lesson that Humility can teach. 
 
 His character must be formed from the multiplicity and diversity of 
 his attainments , rather than from any single performance. 
 
 Johnson. 
 
 Watls's intire Works may be had in 6 volumes, quarto, and 12 
 volumes , octavo , closely printed. 
 
 On Living Instructions and Lectures , 
 
 and 
 
 On Teachers and Learners. 
 
 * I. There are few persons of so penetrating a genius , and 
 so just a judgement, as to be capable of learning the Arts 
 
222 
 
 and Sciences without the assistance of Teachers. There is 
 scarce any Science so safely and so speedily learned , even 
 by the noblest genius and the best books , without a Tutor. 
 Books are a sort of dumb teachers; they point out the way 
 to learning ; but if we labor under any doubt or mistake , 
 they cannot answer sudden questions , or explain present 
 doubts or difficulties : this is properly the work of a Livin<* 
 instructer. 
 
 II. There are very few Tutors who are sufficiently fur- 
 nished with such universal learning as to sustain all the 
 parts and provinces of Instruction. The Sciences are 
 numerous, and many of them lie far wide of each other; 
 and it is best to enjoy the instructions of Two or Three 
 tutors at least, in order to run through the whole ency- 
 clopedia, or circle of Sciences, where it maybe obtained; 
 then we may expect that each will teach the few parts of 
 learning which are committed to his care in greater per- 
 fection. But where this advantage cannot be had with 
 convenience , one great man must supply the place of two 
 or three common instructers. 
 
 III. It is not sufficient that Instructers be competently 
 skilful in those sciences which they profess and teach; but 
 they should have Skill also in the Art or Method of 
 Teaching , and Patience in the Practice op it. 
 
 It is a great unhappiness indeed , when persons by a 
 spirit of party, or faction , or interest, or by purchace, are 
 set up for Tutors , wbo have neither due Knowledge of 
 Science, nor Skill in the way of Communication. And, 
 alas ! there are others , who , with all their Ignorance and 
 Insufficiency, have self-admiration and effrontery enough 
 to set up themselves ; and the poor Pupils fare accordingly, 
 and grow lean in their understandings. 
 
 And let it be observed also, there are some very Learned 
 men, who know much themselves , but have not the talent 
 of communicating their own knowledge ; or , else , they 
 are lazy , and will take no pains to do it. They have an 
 obscure and perplexed way of talking — or they show their 
 Learning uselessly, and make a long periphrasis on every 
 word of the book they explain — or they cannot conde- 
 scend to beginners — or they run presently into the elevated 
 parts of the Science , because it gives themselves greater 
 pleasure — or they are soon angry and impatient, and can- 
 not bear with a few impertinent questions of a young in- 
 quisitive and sprightly genius — or, else, they skim over 
 a Science, and never lead their Disciples into the depths 
 of it. 
 
223 
 
 IV. A good Tutor should have characters and qualifica- 
 tions very different from all these. He is such a one a$ 
 both can and will supply himself with diligence and concern, 
 and indefatigable Patience, to effect what he undertakes; 
 to teach his disciples, and see that they learn ; to adapt 
 his way and method, as near as may be, to the various 
 Dispositions , as well as to the Capacities , of those whom 
 he instructs, and to inquire often into their progress and 
 improvement. 
 
 And he should take particular care of his own Temper 
 and Conduct, that there be nothing in him or about him 
 which may be of ill example; nothing that may savor of 
 a haughty temper , or a mean and sordid spirit ; nothing 
 that may expose him to the aversion or to the contempt 
 of his Scholars, or create a prejudice in their minds against 
 him and his instructions : but , if possible , he should have 
 so much of a natural candor and sweetness mixed with ail 
 the improvements of learning, as might convey knowledge 
 into the minds of his Disciples with a sort of gentle insin- 
 uation and sovereign delight, and may tempt them into 
 the highest improvements of their Reason by a resistless 
 and insensible force. 
 
 V. The Learner should attend with constancy and care 
 on all the instructions of his Tutor; and if he happens to 
 be at any time unavoidably hindered, he must endeavour 
 to retrieve the loss by double industry for the time to come. 
 He should always recollect and review his Lectures , read 
 over some other author or authors upon the same subject, 
 confer upon it with his Instructer, or with his Associates, 
 and write down the clearest result of his present thoughts , 
 reasonings , and inquiries , which he may have recourse to 
 hereafter, either to re-examine them and to apply them to 
 proper use , or to improve them farther to his own advantage. 
 
 VI. A Student should never satisfy himself with bare 
 attendance on the Lectures of his Tutor, unless he clearly 
 takes up his sense and meaning, and understands the things 
 •which he teaches. A Disciple should behave himself so well 
 as to gain the affection and ear of his Jnstructer, that upon 
 every occasion, he may, with the utmost freedom, ask 
 questions, and talk over his own sentiments, his doubts, 
 and difficulties with him, and in an humble and modest 
 manner desire the solution of them. 
 
 VII. Let the Learner endeavour to maintain an honora- 
 ble opinion of his Instructer, and needfully listen to his 
 Instructions, as one willing to be led by an experienced 
 guide; and though he is not bound to fall in with every 
 
224 
 
 sentiment of his Tutor , yet lie should so far comply with 
 him as to resolve upon a just Consideration of the matter, 
 and try and examine it thoroughly, with an honest heart, 
 before he presume to determine against him : and then it 
 should be done with great modesty, with an humble jealousy 
 of himself, and apparent unwillingness to differ from his 
 Tutor , if the force of argument and truth did not con- 
 strain him. 
 
 VIII. It is a frequent and growing folly in our age , that 
 pert young Disciples soon fancy themselves wiser than 
 those who teach them: at the first view, or upon a very 
 little thought they can discern the insignificancy, weakness , 
 and mistake of what their Teacher asserts. The Youth of 
 our day, by an early petulancy, and pretended liberty of 
 thinking for themselves , dare reject at once, and that with 
 a sort of scorn, all those Sentiments and Doctrines which 
 their Teachers have determined, perhaps, after long and 
 repeated consideration , after years of mature study, careful 
 observation , and much prudent experience. 
 
 IX. It is true, Teachers and Masters are not Infallible , 
 nor are they always in the right ; and it must be acknow- 
 ledged , it is a matter of some difficulty for younger minds 
 to maintain a just and solemn veneration for the authority 
 and advice of their Parents and the instructions of their 
 Tutors , and yet , at the same time , to secure to themselves 
 a just freedom in their own thoughts. We are sometimes 
 too ready to imbibe all their sentiments without exam- 
 ination , if we reverence and love them ; or , on the other 
 hand, if we take all freedom to contest their opinions, we 
 are sometimes tempted to cast off that love and reverence 
 to their persons which God and Nature dictate. Youth is 
 ever in danger of these two extremes. 
 
 X. But 1 think I may safely conclude thus — Though the 
 Jluthority of a Teacher must not absolutely determine the 
 Judgement of his Pupil , yet young , and raw, and unexpe- 
 rienced Learners should pay all the deference that can be 
 to the Instructions of their Parents and Teachers , sJwri of 
 absolute submission to their dictates. Yet, still we must 
 maintain this , that they should never receive any opinion 
 into their assent, whether it be conformable or contrary to 
 the Tutor's mind, without sufficient evidence of it first 
 given to their own Reasoning Powers. 
 
 Watts. 
 
2525 
 
 An Emblejn* 
 
 Enter not into Judgement with thy servant / for in thy 
 sight shall no man living be justified* 
 
 Psalm cxliii. a. 
 
 JESUS. JUSTICE. SINNER. 
 
 Jesus. Bring forth the prisoner, Justice* 
 
 Justice, Thy commands 
 
 Are done, just Judge! see, here the prisoner stands. 
 Jesus. What has the prisoner done — say, what's the cause 
 
 Of his commitment? 
 Justice. He hath hroke the laws 
 
 Of his too gracious god ; conspired the death 
 Of that great Majesty that gave him breath , 
 And heaps transgression , lord , upon transgression. 
 Jesus. How knowest thou this ? 
 
 Justice. E'en by his own confession : 
 
 His' sins are crying — and they cried aloud; 
 They cried to Heaven — they cried to Heaven for blood. 
 Jesus. What sayest thou, Sinner — hast thou aught to plead 
 That sentence should not pass ? hold up thy head, 
 And show thy brazen , thy rebellious face. 
 Sinner.' Ah mel I dare not: I'm too vile and base 
 To tread upon the earth, much more to lift 
 My eyes to Heaven; I need no other shrift 
 Than my own conscience ; lord! I must confess," 
 I am no more than dust, and no whit less 
 Than my indictment styles me. Ah! if Thou 
 Search too severe , with too severe a brow , 
 What flesh can stand? I have transgressed thy laws 5 
 My merits plead thy vengeance — not my cause. 
 Justice. Lord! shall I strike the blow? 
 Jesus. Hold ! Justice , stay — 
 
 Sinner, speak on; what hast thou more to say? 
 Sinner. Vile as I am, and of myself abhorred, 
 I am thy handy -work, thy creature, lord; 
 Stamped with thy glorious image, and, at first, 
 Most like to Thee, though now, a poor, accursed, 
 Convicted caitiff, and degenerate creature, 
 
 i5 
 
226 
 
 Here trembling at thy bar. 
 Justice, Thy fault's the greater! 
 
 Lord! shall I strike the blow? 
 Jesus. Hold! Justice, stay — 
 
 Speak, Sinner — hast thou nothing else to say? 
 Sinner, Nothing but Mercy — Mercy — lord ! my state 
 Is miserably, poor, and desperate \ 
 
 I quite renounce myself, the world, and flee 
 
 From lord to Jesus — - from Thyself ■ to thee# 
 
 Justice, Cease thy vain hopes ! my angry god has vowed , 
 
 Abused Mercy must have blood for blood — 
 
 Shall I now strike the blow? 
 Jesus, Stay! Justice, hold — 
 
 My bowels yearn, my fainting blood grows cold, 
 
 To view the trembling wretch: methinks I spy 
 
 My Father's image in the prisoner's eye. — 
 Justice, I cannot hold ! — 
 Jesus, Then turn thy thirsty blade 
 
 Into my side — - let there the wound be made! 
 
 Cheer up, dear Soul! redeem thy life with mine; 
 
 My soul shall smart, my heart shall bleed for thine. 
 Sinner, O, groundless deep! O love beyond degree! 
 The Offended dies — to set the Offender free!!! 
 
 q_uari.es. 
 
 From Lord Chesterfield to his Son* 
 
 [The Son in his Nineteenth year,) 
 
 London, July the 9th, o.s. 1750. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I should not deserve that appellation in 
 return from you, if I did not freely and explicitly inform 
 you of every corrigible defect, which I may either hear 
 of, suspect, or at any time discover in you. Those who 
 in the common course of the world will call themselves 
 your friends , or whom , according to the common notions' 
 of friendship , you may possibly think such, will neper tell 
 you of your Faults , still less of your Weaknesses. But, on 
 the contrary, more desirous to make you their friend , than 
 to prove themselves yours, they will flatter both, and, in 
 truth , not be sorry for either. Interiorly, most people enjoy 
 
227 
 
 the inferiority of their best friends. The useful and essen- 
 tial part of Friendship, to you, is reserved singly for 
 Mr. Harte and myself; our relations to you stand pure, 
 and unsuspected of all private views. In whatever we say 
 to you , we can have no interest but yours. We can have 
 no competition, no jealousy, no secret envy or malignity. 
 We are therefore authorised to represent, advise, and re- 
 monstrate; and your Reason must tell you that you ought 
 to attend to and believe us. 
 
 I am credibly informed, that there is still a considera- 
 ble hitch or hobble in your Enunciation; and that when 
 you speak fast , you sometimes speak unintelligibly. I have 
 formerly and frequently laid my thoughts before you so 
 fully upon this subject, that I can say nothing New upon 
 it now. I must therefore only repeat , that your whole 
 depends upon it. Your trade is to speak well, both in pub- 
 lic and in private. The manner of your speaking is full 
 as important as the matter, as more people have ears to 
 be tickled, than understandings to judge. Be your produc- 
 tions ever so good, they will be of no use, if you stifle 
 and strangle them in their birth. The best compositions 
 of Corelli, if ill executed, and played out of tune, instead 
 of touching, (as they do when well performed,) would 
 only excite the indignation of the hearers, when murdered 
 by an unskilful performer. But to murder your own pro- 
 ductions , and that coram populo , is a Medean cruelty, 
 which Horace absolutely forbids. Remember of what im- 
 portance Demosthenes , and one of the Gracchi, thought 
 Enunciation ; read what stress Cicero , and Quintilian lay 
 upon it; even the herb -women at Athens were correct 
 judges of it. Oratory, with all its graces — that of Enun- 
 ciation in particular — is full as necessary in our govern- 
 ment , as it ever was in Greece or Rome. No man can 
 make a fortune or a figure in this Country, without speak- 
 ing , and speaking Well in public. If you will Persuade, 
 you must first Please; and if you will Please , you must 
 tune your voice to Harmony, you must articulate every 
 Syllable distinctly, your emphases and cadences must be 
 strongly and properly Marked ; and the whole together must 
 be Graceful and Engaging; if you do not speak in that man- 
 ner , you had much better not speak at ail. All the Learn- 
 ing you have , or ever can have , is not worth one Groat 
 without it. It may be a comfort and an amusement to you 
 in your Closet, but can be of no use to you in the World, 
 Let me conjure you, therefore, to r^ake this your only 
 object, till you have absolutely conquered it— for that is 
 
228 
 
 in your power; think of nothing else , read and speak for 
 nothing else. Piead aloud, though, alone, and read articu- 
 lately and distinctly, as if you were reading in public and 
 on the most important occasion. Recite pieces of eloquence, 
 declaim scenes of tragedies to Mr. Harte , as if he were a 
 numerous audience. If there is any particular Consonant 
 which you have a difficulty in articulating — as I think you 
 had with the R — utter it millions and millions of times , 
 till you have uttered it right. Never speak quick , till you 
 have first learned to speak well. In short, lay aside every 
 Book and every Thought that does not directly tend to 
 this great object, absolutely decisive of your future for- 
 tune and figure. 
 
 The next thing necessary in your Destination, is , Writ- 
 ing correctly, elegantly, and in a good hand too ; in which 
 three particulars , I am sorry to tell you, that you hitherto 
 fail. Your Hand-writing is a very bad one, and would make 
 a scurvy figure in an Office-book of letters, or even in a 
 Lady's pocket-book. But that fault is easily cured by care, 
 since every man who has the use of his Eyes and of his 
 Right-hand, can Write whatever Hand he pleases. As to 
 the Correctness and Elegancy of your writing, attention 
 to Grammar does the one , and to the best Authors the other. 
 
 Thus 1 have, with truth and freedom of the tenderest 
 affection, told you all your defects , at least all that I know 
 or have heard of. Thank God ! they are all very curable , 
 they must be cured, and I am sure you will cure them. 
 That once done, nothing remains for you to acquire, or 
 for me to wish you, but the turn , the manners, the ad- 
 dress, and the graces, of the Polite World; which expe- 
 rience , observation, and good-company, will insensibly 
 give you. Few people at your age have Piead, Seen, and 
 Known, so much as you have; and, consequently, few 
 are so near as yourself to what I call perfection — by 
 which , I only mean , being very near as well as the best. 
 Far , therefore , from being discouraged by what you still 
 want., what you already have should encourage you to 
 attempt, and convince you that by attempting you will 
 inevitably obtain it. The difficulties which you have sur- 
 mounted were much greater than any you have now to 
 encounter. Till very lately, your way has been only through, 
 thorns and briers; the few that now remain are mixed with 
 roses. Pleasure is now the principal remaining part of your 
 Education. It will soften and polish your manners; it will 
 make you pursue and, at last, overtake the Graces. Plea- 
 sure is, necessarily, reciprocal; no one feels, who does 
 
ssg 
 
 not at the same time give it. To be pleased, one must 
 please. "What pleases you in others, will, in general , please 
 them in you. Paris is, indisputably, the Seat of the 
 Graces ; they will even court you, if you are not too coy. 
 Frequent and Observe the best companies there , and you 
 will soon be naturalised among them ; jou will soon find 
 how particularly attentive they are to the correctness and 
 elegancy of their Language, and to the graces of their 
 Enunciation : they would even call the Understanding of a 
 man in question, who should neglect, or not know the 
 infinite advantages arising from them, Narrer , Me'citer , 
 D ec lamer , bien — are serious studies among them, and 
 well deserve to be so everywhere. The conversations , 
 even among the women, frequently turn upon the elegan- 
 cies and minutest delicacies of the French Language. &c. 
 
 Shut up your Books then now, as a business , and open 
 them only as a pleasure: but let the great Book-of-the- 
 World be your serious study ; read it over and over, get 
 it by heart, adopt its style, and make it your own. 
 
 When I cast up your account, as it now stands, I re- 
 joice to see the Balance so much in your favor; and that 
 the items per contra are so few, and of such a nature that 
 they may be very easily cancelled. By way of debtor and 
 creditor, it stands thus: 
 
 Creditor by French , Debtor to English , 
 
 German, Enunciation, 
 
 Italian, Manners. 
 
 Latin , 
 
 Greek , 
 
 Logic, 
 
 Ethics , 
 
 History, 
 
 SNatura , 
 Gentium , 
 Publicum. 
 
 This, my dear friend, is a very true Account, and a 
 very encouraging one for you. A man who owes so little, 
 oan clear it off in a very little time, and if he is a prudent 
 man will; whereas , a man, who by long negligence owes 
 a great deal, despairs of ever being able to payj and there- 
 fore never looks into his accounts at all. 
 
 Cultivate your Italian , while you are at Florence ; where 
 it is spoken in its utmost purity, but ill pronounced. 
 
 Adieu. Endeavour to please others, and divert yourself 
 as muck as ever you can, en honnete et galant Homme* 
 
230 
 
 A Paraphrase on xm Chap, u Corinthians. 
 
 Did sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue, 
 Than ever man pronounced , or angel sungj 
 Had I all knowledge, human and divine, 
 That thought can reach, or science can define; 
 And had I power to give that knowledge birth, 
 In all the speeches of the babbling earth; 
 Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire, 
 To weary tortures , and rejoice in fire ; 
 Or had I faith like that which Israel saw , 
 "When Moses gave them miracles , and law — 
 Yet , gracious Charity, indulgent guest ! 
 "Were not thy power exerted in my breast, 
 Those speeches would send up unheeded prayer; 
 That scorn of life would be but wild despair; 
 A cymbal's sound were better than my voice; 
 My faith were form ; my eloquence were noise. 
 
 Charity, decent, modest, easy, kind, 
 Softens the high, and rears the abject mind; 
 Knows with j ust reins , and gentle hand , to guide 
 Betwixt vile shame, and arbitrary pride: 
 Not soon provoked , she easily forgives ; 
 And much she suffers , as she much believes ; 
 Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives; 
 She builds our quiet , as she forms our lives ; 
 La3 r s the rough paths of peevish nature even , 
 And opens in each breast a present heaven. 
 
 Each Other gift which God on man bestows , 
 
 Its proper bounds and due restriction knows ; 
 
 To one fixed purpose dedicates its power, 
 
 And finishing its act, exists no more. 
 
 Thus , in obedience to what heaven decrees , 
 
 Knowledge shall fail , and prophecy shall cease — 
 
 But lasting Charity's more ample sway, 
 
 Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay, 
 
 In happy triumph shall for ever live , 
 
 And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive I 
 
 As through the Artist's intervening glass , 
 
 Our eye perceives the distant planets pass , 
 
 A little we discover ; but allow 
 
 That more remains unseen, than Art can show—* 
 
23i 
 
 So whilst our mind its knowledge would improve , 
 (Its feeble eye intent on things above ,) 
 High as we may, we lift our Reason up, 
 By Faith directed , and confirmed by Hope : 
 Yet we are only able to survey 
 Dawnirigs of beams , and promises of day — 
 Heaven's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight; 
 .Too great its swiftness , and too strong its light ! 
 
 But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispelled: 
 The Son shall soon be face to face beheld , 
 In all his robes, with all his glory on, 
 Seated sublime on his meridian throne. 
 Then constant Faith, and holy Hope shall die"; 
 One lost in certainty, and One in joy : 
 Whilst thou ! more happy power , fair Charity, 
 Triumphant Sister, greatest of the Three, 
 Thy office, and thy nature still the same, 
 Lasting thy lamp, and unconsumed thy flame, 
 Shalt still survive ! ! ! 
 
 Shall stand before the host of heaven confessed , 
 For ever blessing, and for ever blessed. 
 
 Prior. 
 
 Temporary Evil productive of Lasting Good. 
 
 Could creatures , without the experience of any lapse or 
 evil, have been made duely sensible of the darkness and 
 dependance of their created nature , and of the distance and 
 distinction between themselves and their God ; could they 
 have known the nature and extent of his attributes, with 
 the infinity of his love; could they have known the dreadful 
 consequences of falling off from him , without seeing any 
 example, or experiencing any consequence of such a fall; 
 could all intelligent creatures have been continued in that 
 lowliness, that resignation, that gratitude of burning affec- 
 tion which the slain will of the mortified sinner feels , when 
 called up into the grace and enjoyment of his God; could 
 those endearing relations have subsisted in creation, which, 
 have since newly arisen between God and his lapsed crea- 
 tures , wholly subsequent thereto; those relations of re- 
 demption , of regeneration , of a power of conversion that 
 extracts good out of evil; if these eternal benefits could 
 
252 
 
 have been introduced, without the admission of Evil, no 
 lapse would ever have been.; 
 
 In the dark and the boundless mirror, called Nature , 
 God beheld and contemplated, from all eternity, the lovli- 
 ness of his own light , and the beauty of his own ideas : 
 lie saw, that, without intelligence no creature could be 
 excellent, or formed in his likeness: but he also saw, that, 
 unless such intelligence should be ruled by his wisdom , 
 and wholly conformable to his will , the creature could 
 not be wise, the creature could not be happy. — In the 
 impossibility of the creature's desire of independance, God 
 saw the possibility of moral and natural Evil : but he saw 
 that such partial and temporary Evil might be converted to 
 the production of an infinity of Good; and he saw, that 
 without the admission of such evil, the good that bore 
 
 relation thereto could not arise. He knew , that , till 
 
 the Lapse of some of his creatures , his own infinite attri- 
 butes could not duely be manifested, could not be duely 
 adored in the glory of their contrast: that no creature, 
 till then , could be- duely sensible of its own fallibility, could 
 be duely sensible that sufficiency and perfection were solely 
 an God, and that all things depended on him, as well for 
 every quality of blessedness as of being. — He foresaw all 
 the misery that would attend upon error; but he saw also 
 how beneficial was the Sense of such error; how it might 
 sap the self-confidence of the creature, and engage him to 
 cast his trust where his strength alone lay. — And he the 
 more willingly permitted the sufferings of his fallen off- 
 spring, as the future blissful period was already present to 
 him,, when the miseries of the short parenthesis, called 
 Time , should be for ever shut up between the two Eter- 
 nities; and when all his beloved and rectified creatures 
 should enter upon the fulness of the enjoyment of their God. 
 — - From the blackness of guilt, and the cloud of pains , 
 calamities, diseases, and deaths, God saw remorse, con- 
 trition, humility, patience, and resignation, beaming forlli 
 into new wonders of light and eternal life. — He saw new 
 relations , new connections, new endearments arise , between 
 created good and created evil , between transgression and 
 redemption, repentance and pardon; and he joyed, in call- 
 ing his loved offspring from error to rectitude, from low- 
 liness to exaltation, from death into life, from time to 
 eternity, and from transitory afflictions into ever enduring 
 and ever increasing blessedness. 
 
 God foresaw, in future worlds of new and wondei Tul 
 construction, the frailty and lapse of his favorite family 
 
233 
 
 of Man — He saw him sunk into the inclemency of out- 
 ward elements , and into the inward darkness of his distinct 
 and limited nature: externally besieged and tempted by 
 lying offers of enjoyment, and internally rent by dissap- 
 pointed desires and malignant passions — But he had pro- 
 Tided a redemption of such stupendous potency, as would 
 not suffer the perverse creature to tear itself out of the 
 arms of his affection — He had provided a seed, in the 
 son of his love, that should take root in Man's world of 
 inward and outward evil , that should grow as a fragrant 
 flower through corruption , into the freedom , the light , 
 and the purity of heaven; that should reprove his unrigh- 
 teousness , that should convict him of wickedness , that 
 should convince him of weakness, and soften him into 
 sorrow for his transgressions; that should melt him into 
 a sense of the calamity of others; that should diffuse, as 
 a dawning light through his dark nature, subduing his 
 pride , assuaging his passions ; calling him forth into the 
 expansion of benevolence , into all the charities and amities, 
 the feelings and offices of the human heart thus made divine; 
 and lastly, maturing in him a different nature; that God 
 may be in all men the one will to the one goodness , 
 thereby uniting all men , as one man , in their God. 
 
 That a creature , inexperienced or newly brought into 
 being, should fall by attempting something through its own 
 will, and the presumption of its own power, does not ap- 
 pear to have anything wonderful in it; but that a creature, 
 fallen into the misery and depravity of a second and base 
 nature, should rise again superior to its original goodness 
 and glory, this is the work produced in Time that will be 
 matter of amazement throughout Eternity — That man 
 fallen into a body of mortal flesh , fallen into an evil na- 
 ture , fallen into circling elements of hostility, distempera- 
 ture and dissolution to his frame; that man , thus degraded, 
 thus oppressed and assaulted from within and from with- 
 out, should yet advance and proceed through his course of 
 appointed warfare, denying his own appetites, pulling 
 down his own pride, combating sufferings with patience , 
 subduing injuries with love, delighting to labor under 
 the hinder part of that cross which Simon the Cyrenian 
 was compelled to bear; conquering, rising, triumphing 
 over desires, disappointments, tribulations, languor, sick- 
 ness , and death; and all this , without any violation of that 
 principle of liberty which his eternally free progenitor 
 imparted unto him; this indeed is a wonder to Cherubim 
 and Seraphim, and, from Eternity to Eternily, the great- 
 est work or god!!! Brooke. 
 
234 
 
 The Love of Country and Home. 
 
 There is a Land — of every land the pride — 
 
 Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; 
 
 Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
 
 And milder moons emparadise the night; 
 
 A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
 
 Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth: 
 
 The wandering Mariner, whose eye explores 
 
 The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, 
 
 Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 
 
 Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ; 
 
 In every clime the magnet of his soul, 
 
 Touched by remembrance , trembles to that pole : 
 
 For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace , 
 
 The heritage of nature's noblest race , 
 
 There is a Spot of earth supremely blessed, 
 
 A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest; 
 
 "Where Man — creation's tyrant — casts aside 
 
 His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, 
 
 While in his softened looks benignly blend 
 
 The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend: 
 
 Here Woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, 
 
 Strews with fresh flowers the rugged path of life; 
 
 In the clear heaven of her delightful eye 
 
 An Angel-guard of loves and graces lie; 
 
 Around her knees domestic duties meet, 
 
 And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet. 
 
 " Where shall that Land, that Spot of Earth, be found?" 
 
 Art thou a man? a patriot? — look around — 
 
 O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 
 
 That Land thy Country, and that Spot thy Home I 
 
 Montgomery, 
 
 On War with America; 
 and on the employment of Indians therein. 
 
 cannot , my Lords , I will not join in congratulation , 
 misfortune and disgrace. This, my Lords, is a perilous 
 
 I 
 
 on mi 
 
 and tremendous moment : it is not a time for adulation j 
 
235 
 
 the smoothness of flattery cannot save ns in this rugged 
 and aweful crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the 
 Throne in the language of truth. We must, if possible, 
 dispel the delusion and darkness which envelope it; and 
 display, in its full danger and genuine colors, the ruin 
 which is brought to our doors. Can Ministers still pre- 
 sume to expect support in their infatuation ? Can Parlia- 
 ment be so dead to their dignity and duty, as to give their 
 support to measures thus obtruded and forced upon them ? 
 Measures, my Lords, which have reduced this late flour- 
 ishing empire to scorn and contempt! But yesterday, and 
 England might have stood against the world; now, none 
 so poor to do her reverence I The people whom we at first 
 despised as rebels, but whom we now acknowledge as 
 enemies , are abetted against you , supplied with every mi- 
 litary store, have their interest consulted, and their am- 
 bassadors entertained by your inveterate enemy — and 
 Ministers do not , and dare not , interpose with dignity or 
 effect. The desperate state of our army abroad , is , in 
 part , known. No man more highly esteems and honors the 
 British troops , than I do ; I know their virtues and their 
 valor; I know they can achieve anything but Impossibili- 
 ties ; and I know that the conquest of English America is 
 an Impossibility. You cannot, my Lords, you cannot con- 
 quer America! "What is your present situation there? We 
 do not know the worst — but we know , that , in three 
 campaigns we have done nothing and suffered much. You 
 may swell every expense , accumulate every assistance , and 
 extend your traffic to the shambles of every German despot; 
 your attempts will be for ever vain and impotent — doubly 
 so , indeed, from this mercenary aid on which you rely; 
 for it irritates, to an incurable resentment, the minds of 
 your adversaries, to over-run them with the mercenary 
 sons of rapine and plunder , devoting them and their pos- 
 sessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty. Were I an 
 American, my Lords, as I am an Englishman, while a 
 foreign troop was landed in my country, I never would 
 lay down my arms ■ Never, never, never! But, my 
 
 Lords , Who is the man , that , in addition to the disgraces 
 and mischiefs of the War, has dared to authorise, and 
 associate to our arms , the Tomohawh and Scalpingknife 
 of the Savage ? to call , into civilized alliance , the wild 
 and inhuman inhabitant of the woods ? to delegate to the 
 merciless Indian the defence of disputed rights , and to wage 
 the horrors of his barbarous war , against our bretheren ? 
 My Lords, these enormities cry aloud for redress and 
 
236 
 
 punishment. But , my Lords , this barbarous measure has 
 been defended, not only on the principles of policy and 
 necessity, but also on those of morality; ." for it is per- 
 fectly allowable," says Lord Suffolk, "to use all the means 
 which God and Nature have put into our hands'' — I am 
 astonished, I am shocked, to hear such principles con- 
 fessed^ to hear them avowed in this House, or in this 
 Country! My Lords, I did not intend to encroach so much 
 on your attention; but 1 cannot repress my indignation — - 
 1 feel myself impelled to speak. My Lords, we are called 
 upon as Members of this House, as Men, as Christians, 
 to protest against such horrible barbarity! "That God and 
 Mature have put into our hands" — What ideas of God and 
 Nature that noble Lord may entertain, I know not; but 
 1 know, that such detestable principles, are equally ab- 
 horrent to Religion and to Humanity. What ! attribute the 
 sacred sanction of God and Nature to the massacres of the 
 Indian-scalpingknife! to the Cannibal-savage, torturing, 
 murdering , devouring , drinking the blood of his mangled 
 victims! Such notions shock every precept of Morality, 
 every feeling of Humanity, every sentiment of Honor. These 
 .abominable principles , and this more abominable avowal 
 of them, demand the most decisive indignation. I call upon 
 that Right Reverend and this most Learned Bench, to vin- 
 dicate the Religion of their God, to support the Justice of 
 their Country. I call upon the Bishops, to interpose the 
 unsullied sanctity of their lawn; upon the Judges, to in- 
 terpose the purity of their ermine, that we may be pre- 
 served from this pollution I I call upon the honor of your 
 Lordships , to reverence the dignity of your ancestors , and 
 to maintain your own. I call upon the spirit and humanity 
 of my Country, to vindicate the national character. 1 invoke 
 the Genius of the Constitution! !! From the tapestry that 
 adorns these Walls, the immortal ancestor of this noble 
 Lord , frowns with indignation at the disgrace of his Country. 
 Jn vain did he defend the liberty, and establish the religion 
 of Britain, against the tyranny of Rome , if these worse 
 than I'opish cruelties and Inquisitorial practices, are en- 
 dured among us. To send forth the merciless Cannibal, 
 thirsting for blood — against whom ? your Protestant 
 brelhren! — to lay waste their country, to desolate their 
 dwellings, and extirpate their race and name , by the aid 
 and instrumentality of such horrible hell-hounds of war! 
 Spain can no longer boast pre-eminence in Barbarity. She 
 armed herself with Blood-hounds, to extirpate the wretched 
 natives of Mexico; we — more ruthless! loose these Indian- 
 
237 
 
 dogs of war against our countrymen in America, endeared 
 to us , as they are , by every tie that can sanctify Human- 
 ity. I solemnly call upon your Lordships, and upon every 
 order of men in the state, to stamp upon this infamous 
 procedure the indeieble stigma of the public abhorrence. 
 More particularly, I call upon the holy Prelates of our re- 
 ligion, to do away this iniquity; let them perform a lus- 
 tration, to purify the country from this deep and deadly 
 sin. My Lords, t am old and weak, and at present unable 
 to say more; but my feelings and indignation were too 
 strong, to have said less. I could not have slept this night 
 on ray bed, nor even reposed ray head upon my pillow, 
 without giving vent to my eternal abhorrence of such enor- 
 mous and preposterous principles. 
 
 Chatham. 
 
 Shakespeare's Epitaph. 
 
 From iv Act of The Tempest, 
 
 The cloud capped towers, 
 
 The gorgeous palaces , 
 
 The solemn temples , 
 
 The great globe itself, 
 Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
 And, like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
 Leave not a wreck behind ! ! ! 
 
 ShAKESFEARBi 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Dedication to Professor van Assen 
 
 Address to the Subscribers to the Lectures 
 
 Address to the General Reader • . 
 
 On the Genius of Shakespeare 
 
 Satan's Soliloquy 
 
 The Starling , and Captive 
 
 The Dying Christian to his Soul 
 
 A Letter, to Lord Chesterfield 
 
 An Address to the Ocean..* 
 
 On Study and Books 
 
 Saint Philip Neri and a Student 
 
 On a Charge brought against certain Members 
 of the House , as being Sowers of Sedition 
 in America • 
 
 Antony's Funeral Oration over Cesar 
 
 Fielding and Smollett , compared 
 
 Extracts, from an Essay on Criticism 
 
 A Letter, to Philip Stanhope 
 
 Eulogy on Pitt. • 
 
 Some account of the Manner in which a Modern 
 Lady of Fashion Spends her Time 
 
 The Joy of Grief. 
 
 Species of Spirits. . • 
 
 On the Burial of Sir John Moore 
 
 On Tate's Alteration of Shakespeare's Tragedy 
 
 of King Lear • 
 
 King Lear's Soliloquy, in the Storm 
 
 Character of Addison , as a Writer 
 
 Manfred's Nocturnal Soliloquy . .....r.. 
 
 A Letter , to Henry vm • 
 
 The Morning Hymn • . 
 
 On Satirical Wit 
 
 The Beggar and the Divine * 
 
 On Duelling 
 
 The Parting of Hector and Andromache 
 
 Finite and Infinite 
 
 Othello's Apology to the Senate 
 
 Page. 
 
 I HI. 
 
 IT. 
 
 V. 
 
 ScHLEGEL J . . . • 1. 
 
 Milton ; 4. 
 
 Sterne j ..... . 6. 
 
 Pope j 9. 
 
 Johnson j 10. 
 
 Byron; ...... . 11. 
 
 Bacon; i3. 
 
 Byrom; i5. 
 
 Chatham; 16. 
 
 Shakespeare; . 18. 
 
 Scott; 22. 
 
 Pope; 2 5. 
 
 Chesterfield;. 3i. 
 
 Canning: 
 
 34. 
 
 * Chaponej 35. 
 
 * Montgomery ;. . 67. 
 
 # Locke ; 3g. 
 
 # Wolfe j 4i. 
 
 # Lame; 42. 
 
 4 Shakespeare; . 44. 
 
 * Johnson; 46. 
 
 Byron ; 48. 
 
 AnneBullenj. ho. 
 
 Milton ; 52. 
 
 Sterne ;....:.. 53. 
 
 Byrom ; 54. 
 
 Paleyj 57. 
 
 Pope; 5g. 
 
 Unknown ; . . . . 62. 
 
 Shakespeare;. 64. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Byron and Scott , contrasted . 
 
 The Grave* 
 
 A Letter, to Philip Stanhope. 
 
 On the Receipt of My Mother** Picture 
 
 An Extract , from an Old Book* 
 
 The Pilgrim 
 
 Advice to a Young Tradesman.. 
 
 Domestic Love and Happiness. 
 
 On Taxing America 
 
 Macbeth's Soliloquy 
 
 On Johnson * 
 
 Fare Thee Well 
 
 On Sensibility ••... 
 
 An Apostrophe to England 
 
 The Death of Altamont 
 
 On the Death of Rev. Charles Wesley 
 
 On Lies 
 
 An Elegy, written in a Country-Church-Yard. 
 
 A Letter , from a Mother to a Daughter 
 
 Henry v Address to his Soldiers , at Agincourt. 
 
 Dryden and Pope , in Parallelism 
 
 Alexander's Feast 
 
 An Agreeable Man 
 
 An Ode , on Education. • 
 
 A Letter , to Philip Stanhope 
 
 A Hymn, on Gratitude 
 
 On the Perishable Nature of Poetical Fame... 
 
 The Last Man... »»••»%»««•»»•, 
 
 On Female Accomplishments • 
 
 Henry IV Soliloquy, on Sleep • 
 
 On Canning • 
 
 An Address to the Deity * 
 
 Corporal Trim' s Eloquence 
 
 An Apology, to Miss Linley 
 
 The Folly of Inconsistent Expectations....... 
 
 Farewel 
 
 A Letter , on Byron's Writings 
 
 On the Death of Sheridan 
 
 On Quartering Soldiers in America 
 
 Portia's Speech on Mercy 
 
 Ou Sterne 
 
 On Hope 
 
 On Discretion 
 
 Page. 
 by Hazlitt ;..,.,. G6. 
 
 * MONTGOMERY ; . 70. 
 
 9 Chesterfield j. 73. 
 
 Cowper; 77. 
 
 * Unknown; .... 80. 
 
 * 9 .... 83. 
 
 * Franklin ; . . . . 86. 
 
 * Thomson ;..... 88. 
 
 Chatham; 89. 
 
 Shakespeare;. 91. 
 
 Scott ; 0,2. 
 
 Byron j g5. 
 
 Sterne ; 97, 
 
 Cowper; 98. 
 
 Young j 99. 
 
 Unknown; . .. .102. 
 
 Paley; io4. 
 
 Grey j 107. 
 
 Taylor; n4. 
 
 * Shakespeare;., ix 8. 
 
 * JonNsON; 121. 
 
 Dryden ; 123. 
 
 Russell; 126. 
 
 * Montgomery ; . . 1 28. 
 9 Chesterfield 5.129. 
 9 Marvel; i33» 
 
 * Jepfry; i34. 
 
 Campbell; . ...157. 
 
 9 H. More ;..... 1 5g. 
 
 9 Shakespeare ;.i42. 
 
 9 .i44. 
 
 9 Young; i46. 
 
 9 Sterne; 147. 
 
 * Sheridan; i48. 
 
 9 Aitkin; i5o. 
 
 Unknown ,*.... i52« 
 
 E. Brydges;.. .i54. 
 
 Moore; 157. 
 
 9 Chatham; i5g. 
 
 Shakespeare,*. 161 • 
 
 « Scott; 162. 
 
 * Montgomery; .i64. 
 9 Addison; 1C6. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 On The Austrians entering Naples 
 
 A Letter , to Philip Stanhope 
 
 A Monody, to the Memory of a Young Lady.. 
 
 On Voltaire , and his Followers 
 
 The two Orphans 
 
 The Whistle 
 
 Hamlet's Soliloquy, on Suicide 
 
 On Sir Humphry Davy 
 
 A Hymn , on the Goodness of God 
 
 On Courage and Chastity. 
 
 Cato's Soliloquy, on the Immortality of the Soul . . 
 
 Maria of Moulines 
 
 An Orphan and Lord Linsey Wolsey 
 
 On the Reading of the Common-Prayer 
 
 An Address to the Nightingale 
 
 A Letter, to Rev. Mr. Unwin 
 
 Henry v Haiangue to his Soldiers, at the Siege 
 of Harfleur 
 
 Character of Lord Chatham 
 
 The Actor 
 
 On Living Instructions and Lectures , and on 
 Teachers and Learners 
 
 An Emblem 
 
 A Letter , to Philip Stanhope 
 
 XJir Ch. i Ep. to the Corinthians, Paraphrased. 
 Temporary Evil productive of Lasting Good . . 
 
 The Love of Countiy and of Home 
 
 On War with America; and On the Employment 
 of Indians therein 
 
 Shakespeare's Epitaph 
 
 
 
 Page, 
 
 by 
 
 Moore ; 
 
 .169. 
 
 £ 
 
 Chesterfield \ 
 
 .170. 
 
 tf 
 
 Shaw ; 
 
 .i 7 3. 
 
 S 
 
 Croly; 
 
 .180. 
 
 <■ 
 
 Unknown ; . . , 
 
 ,.i85. 
 
 * 
 
 Franklin ;. . . , 
 
 ,.187. 
 
 4 
 
 Shakespeare ; 
 
 .189. 
 
 «5 
 
 Stebbing ; . . . . 
 
 .190. 
 
 * 
 
 "Wesley; 
 
 ..196. 
 
 5* 
 
 Brooke; 
 
 .198. 
 
 4 
 
 Addison;.. . . . 
 
 . .203. 
 
 i» 
 
 Sterne; 
 
 ,.205. 
 
 * 
 
 Unknown; . . , 
 
 ,.208. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Steele;.. .. . . 
 
 
 * 
 
 Shaw; , 
 
 ..212. 
 
 ss 
 
 Cowper ; 
 
 .2l4. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Shakespeare ; 
 
 ..2l6. 
 
 * 
 
 Robertson ; . , 
 
 ,.21 7 . 
 
 * 
 
 Lloyd ; 
 
 ..2l8. 
 
 
 Watts ; 
 
 
 # 
 
 Quarles;. 
 
 . .225. 
 
 * 
 
 Chesterfield 
 
 ;.226. 
 
 ■> 
 
 Prior; 
 
 ,.2.50. 
 
 „_ 
 
 Brooke; 
 
 ,.25l. 
 
 * 
 
 Montgomery; 
 
 .'.204. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Chatham;... 
 
 ..254. 
 
 * 
 
 Shakespeare; 
 
 ..207. 
 
 Printed, for the Compiler, by J. G. Bentinck, Amsterdam, 
 
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