On the CONDUCT of YOUTH.

THERE ſeems to be a peculiar propriety in addreſſing moral precepts to the riſing generation. Beſides that, like travellers entering on a journey, they want direction, there are circumſtances which render it probable, that inſtruction will be more efficacious in youth than at a maturer period. Long habits of buſi⯑neſs or pleaſure, and an indiſcriminate intercourſe with mankind, often ſuperinduce a great degree of inſenſibility; and the battered veteran at laſt conſiders the admonitions of the moraliſt as the vain babbling of a ſophiſt, and the declamation of a ſchool-boy. The keen edge of moral perception is blunted by long and reiterated colliſion; and to him who has loſt the finer ſenſibilities, it is no leſs fruitleſs to addreſs a moral diſcourſe, than to repreſent to the deaf the charms of melody, or to the blind the beauties of a picture.

But youth poſſeſſes ſenſibility in perfection; and unleſs education has been totally neglected, or errone⯑ouſly purſued, its habits are uſually virtuous. Furniſh⯑ed with a natural ſuſceptibility, and free from any ac⯑quired impediment, the mind is then in the moſt fa⯑vourable ſtate for the admiſſion of inſtruction, and for learning how to live.

[2]I will then ſuppoſe a young man preſent who has paſſed through the forms of a liberal education at ſchool, and who is juſt entering on the ſtage of life, to act his part according to his own judgment. I will addreſs him with all the affection and ſincerity of a parent, in the following manner:

On an exceſſive and indiſcriminate LOVE of COMPANY.

THE love of company and of ſocial pleaſures is natural to us, and attended with ſome of the ſweeteſt ſatisfactions of human life; but, like every other love, when it proceeds beyond the limits of mo⯑deration, it ceaſes to produce its natural effects, and ter⯑minates in diſguſtful ſatiety. The foundation-ſtone and the pillar on which we build the fabric of our fe⯑licity, muſt be laid in our own hearts. Amuſement, mirth, agreeable variety, and even improvement, may be ſometimes ſought in the gaiety of mixed company, and in the uſual diverſions of the world; but, if we found our general happineſs on theſe, we ſhall do little more than raiſe caſtles in the air, or build houſes on the ſand.

To derive the proper pleaſure and improvement from company, it ought to be ſelect, and to conſiſt of perſons of character, reſpectable both for their morals and their underſtandings. Mixed and undiſtinguiſhed ſociety tends only to diſſipate our ideas, and induce a laxity of principles and practice. The pleaſure it affords is of a coarſe, vulgar, noiſy, and rude kind. Indeed, it com⯑monly ends in wearineſs and diſguſt, as even they are ready to confeſs, who yet conſtantly purſue it, as if their chief good conſiſted in living in a crowd.

Among thoſe, indeed, who are exempted by their circumſtance from profeſſional and official employ⯑ments, and who profeſſedly devote themſelves to a life of pleaſure, little elſe ſeems to conſtitute the idea of it, but and unceaſing ſucceſſion of company, public or pri⯑vate. The dreſs, and other circumſtances preparatory to the enjoyment of this pleaſure, ſcarcely leave a mo⯑ment for reflection. Day after day is ſpent in the ſame [6]toilſome round, till a habit is formed, which renders diſſipation neceſſary to exiſtence. What, indeed, is life or its enjoyments without ſettle principles, lauda⯑ble purpoſes, mental exertions, and internal comfort? It is a ſtate worſe than non-entity, ſince it poſſeſſes a reſtleſs power of action, productive of nothing but miſery.

I very ſeriouſly recommend, therefore, to all who wiſh to enjoy their exiſtence, (and who entertains not that wiſh?) that they ſhould acquire not only a power of bearing, but of taking a pleaſure in temporary ſoli⯑tude. Every one muſt, indeed, ſometimes be alone. Let him not repine when he is alone, but learn to ſet a value on the golden moments. It is then that he is enabled to ſtudy himſelf and the world around him. It is then that he has an opportunity of ſeeing things as they are, and of removing the deceitful veil, which almoſt every thing aſſumes in the buſy ſcene of worldly employments. The ſoul is enabled to retire into her⯑ſelf, and to exert thoſe energies which are always at⯑tended with ſublime pleaſure. She is enabled to ſee the dependent, frail, and wretched ſtate of man as the child of nature, and incited by her diſcovery to implore grace and protection from the Lord of the univerſe. They, indeed, who fly from ſolitude, can ſeldom be religious; for religion requires meditation. They may be ſaid to live without God in the world; not, it is true, from atheiſtical principles, but from a care⯑leſſneſs of diſpoſition; a truly deplorable ſtate, the conſciouſneſs of which could not fail to cloud the gaiety of thoſe halcyon beings, who ſport in the ſunſhine of unremitted pleaſure.

I may, I believe, aſſert, that the love of pleaſure, the follies of faſhion, and the extravagancies of diſſipation, are greater enemies to religion, than all the writers who have endeavoured to attract notice by attacking Chriſ⯑tianity. Many, it is to be feared, have lived and died in the regions of gaiety, without ever having felt a ſenſe of religion.

[7]Not only religion, virtue, and prudence, will be pro⯑moted by occaſional ſolitude, but a reliſh will be given to the rational enjoyment of a pleaſurable life. Vi⯑ciſſitude is eſſential to every ſtate of durable enjoyment. He who has ſpent a little part of his time in his cloſet, or in his groves, will partake of the gaieties of the aſ⯑ſembly with freſh delight, as a man, when he is hungry finds an additional flavour in his daily food.

But it muſt be remembered, that, in recommending ſolitude, I mean only occaſional ſolitude. There is no doubt but man is made for action, and that his duties and pleaſures are often moſt numerous and moſt important amidſt the "buſy hum of men." Many vices, and many corrupt diſpoſitions, have been foſtered in a ſolitary life.

But nothing without moderation is durable or wiſe. Let there be a ſweet interchange of retirement and aſ⯑ſociation, of repoſe and activity. A few hours ſpent every day by the votaries of pleaſure in ſerous medita⯑tion, would render their pleaſure pure, and more un⯑mixed with miſery. It would give them knowledge, ſo that they would ſee how far they might advance in their purſuit without danger; and reſolution, ſo that they might retreat when danger approached. It would teach them how to live; a knowledge, which indeed they think they poſſeſs already; and it would alſo teach them, what they are often too little ſolicitous to learn, how to die.

The JOURNEY of a DAY, a PICTURE of HUMAN LIFE; the STORY of OBIDAH.

OBIDAH, the ſon of Abenſina, left the caravanſera early in the morning, and purſued his journey through the plains of Indoſtan. He was freſh and vigorous with reſt; he was animated with hope; he was incited by deſire; he walked ſwiftly forward over the vallies, and ſaw the hills gradually riſing before him. As he paſſed along, his ears were delighted with the morning ſong of the bird of paradiſe; he was fanned by the laſt ſtutters of the ſinking breeze, and ſprinkled with dew by groves of ſpices; he ſometimes contem⯑plated the towering height of the oak, monarch of the hills; and ſometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primroſe, eldeſt daughter of the ſpring: All his ſenſes were gratified, and all care was baniſhed from the heart.

Thus he went on till the ſun approached his meridi⯑an, and the increaſing heat preyed upon his ſtrength; he then looked round about him for ſome more com⯑modious path. He ſaw, on his right hand, a grove that ſeemed to wave its ſhades as a ſign of invitation; he entered it, and found the coolneſs and verdure ir⯑reſiſtibly pleaſant. He did not, however, forget whither he was travelling, but found a narrow way bordered with flowers, which appeared to have the ſame direction with the main road, and was pleaſed that, by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite pleaſure with buſineſs, and to gain the rewards of diligence, without ſuffering its fatigues. He, there⯑fore, ſtill continued to walk for a time, without the leaſt remiſſion of his ardour, except that he was ſome⯑times tempted to ſtop by the muſic of the birds, whom the heat had aſſembled in the ſhade, and ſometimes [9]amuſed himſelf with plucking the flowers that covered the banks on either ſide, or the fruits that hung upon the branches. At laſt the green path began to decline from its firſt tendency, and to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with fountains, and murmuring with water falls. Here Obidah pauſed for a time, and be⯑gan to conſider whether it were longer ſafe to forſake the known and common track; but remembering that the heat was now in its greateſt violence, and that the plain was duſty and uneven, he reſolved to purſue the new path, which he ſuppoſed only to make a few meanders, in compliance with the varieties of the ground, and to end at laſt in the common road.

Having thus calmed his ſolicitude, he renewed his pace, though he ſuſpected that he was not gaining ground. This uneaſineſs of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every new object, and give way to every ſenſation that might ſoothe or divert him. He liſtened to every echo, he mounted every hill for a freſh proſ⯑pect, he turned aſide to every caſcade, and pleaſed himſelf with tracing the courſe of a gentle river that rolled among the trees, and watered a large region with innumerable circumvolutions. In theſe amuſe⯑ments the hours paſſed away unaccounted; his devia⯑tions had perplexed his memory, and he knew not towards what point to travel. He ſtood penſive and confuſed, afraid to go forward left he ſhould go wrong, yet conſcious that the time of loitering was now paſt. While he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the ſky was overſpread with clouds, the day vaniſhed form before him, and a ſudden tempeſt gathered round his head. He was now rouſed by his danger to a quick and pain⯑ful remembrance of his folly; he now ſaw how happi⯑neſs is loſt when eaſe is conſulted; he lamented the unmanly impatience that prompted him to ſeek ſhelter in the grove, and deſpiſed the petty curioſity that led him on from trifle to trifle. While he was thus re⯑flecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap of thunder broke his meditation

[10]He now reſolved to do what remained yet in his power; to tread back the ground which he had paſſed, and try to find ſome iſſue where the wood might open into the plain. He proſtrated himſelf on the ground, and commended his life to the Lord of nature. He roſe with confidence and tranquillity, and preſſed on with his ſabre in his hand, for the beaſts of the deſert were in motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage and expira⯑tion; all the horrors of darkneſs and ſolitude ſurround⯑ed him; the winds roared in the woods, and the tor⯑rents tumbled from the hills.

Thus forlorn and diſtreſſed, he wandered through the wild without knowing whither he was going, or whether he was every moment drawing nearer to ſafety or to deſtruction. At length nor fear but labour be⯑gan to overcome him; his breath grew ſhort, his knees trembled, and he was on the point of lying down in reſignation to his fate, when he beheld through the brambles the glimmer of a taper. He advanced to⯑wards the light, and finding that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at the door, and obtained admiſſion. The old man ſet before him ſuch proviſions as he had collected for himſelf, on which Obidah fed with eagerneſs and gratitude.

When the repaſt was over, 'Tell me, ſaid the her⯑mit, 'by what chance thou haſt been brought hither; I have been now twenty years an inhabitant of this wilderneſs, in which I never ſaw a man before.' Obi⯑dah then related the occurrences of his journey, with⯑out any concealment or palliation.

'Son,' ſaid the hermit, 'let the errors and follies, the dangers and eſcape of this day, ſink deep into thy heart. Remember, my ſon, that human life is the journey of a day. We riſe in the morning of youth, [11]full of vigour and full of expectation; we ſet forward with ſpirit and hope, with gaiety and diligence, and travel on a while in the ſtraight road of piety towards the manſions of reſt. In a ſhort time we remit our fervour, and endeavour to find ſome mitigation of our duty, and ſome more eaſy means of obtaining the ſame end. We then relax our vigour, and reſolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a diſtance, but rely upon our own conſtancy, and venture to approach what we re⯑ſolve never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of eaſe, and repoſe in the ſhades of ſecurity. Here the heart ſoftens, and vigilance ſubſides; we are then wil⯑ling to enquire whether another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not, at leaſt, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleaſure. We approach them with ſcruple and heſitation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling, and always hope to paſs through them without loſing the road of virtue, which we, for a while, keep in our ſight, and to which we propoſe to return. But temptation ſucceeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for another; we in time loſe the happineſs of innocence, and ſolace our diſquiet with ſenſual gratifications. By degrees we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational deſire. We entangle ourſelves in buſineſs, immerge ourſelves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconſtancy, till the darkneſs of old age begins to invade us, and diſeaſe and anxiety obſtruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, with ſorrow, with repentance; and wiſh, but too often vainly wiſh, that we had not forſaken the ways of virtue. Happy are they, my ſon, who ſhall learn from the example not to deſpair, but ſhall remember, that though the day is paſt, and their ſtrength is waſted, there yet remains one e [...] to be made; that reformation is never hope⯑leſs, nor ſincere endeavours ever unaſſiſted; that the wanderer may at length return after all his errors; and that he who implores ſtrength and courage from [12]above, ſhall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my ſon, to thy repoſe; commit thyſelf to the care of Omnipotence, and when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life.'

On VIRTUE.

I Do not remember to have read any diſcourſe written expreſsly upon the beauty and lovelineſs of virtue, without conſidering it as a duty, and as the means of making us happy both now and hereafter. I deſign therefore this ſpeculation as an eſſay upon that ſubject, in which I will conſider virtue no farther than as it is in itſelf of an amiable nature, after having premiſed, that I underſtand by the word virtue ſuch a general notion as is affixed to it by the writers of morality, and which by devout men generally goes under the name of religion, and by men of the world under the name of honour.

Hypocriſy itſelf does great honour, or rather juſtice, to religion, and tacitly acknowledges it to be an orna⯑ment to human nature. The hypocrite would not be at ſo much pains to put on the appearance of virtue, if he did not know it was the moſt proper and effectu⯑al means to gain the love and eſteem of mankind.

We learn from Hierocles, it was a common ſaying among the heathens, that the wiſe man hates nobody, but loves only the virtuous.

Tully has a very beautiful gradation of thoughts to ſhew how amiable virtue is. We love a virtuous man, ſays he, who lives in the remoteſt parts of the earth, though we are altogether out of the reach of his virtue, and can receive from it no manner of benefit; nay, one who died ſeveral years ago, raiſes a ſecret fondneſs and benevolence for him in our minds, when we read [13]his ſtory: Nay what is ſtill more, one who had been the enemy of our country, provided his wars were reg⯑ulated by juſtice and humanity, as in the inſtance of Pyrrhus, whom Tully mentions on this occaſion in op⯑poſition to Hannibal. Such is the natural beauty and lovelineſs of virtue!

It is a common obſervation, that the moſt abandon⯑ed to all ſenſe of goodneſs, are apt to wiſh thoſe who are related to them to be of a different character; and it is very obſervable, that none are more ſtruck with the charms of virtue in the fair ſex, than thoſe who by their very admiration of it are carried to a deſire of ruining it.

A virtuous mind in a fair body is indeed a fine picture in a good light, and therefore it is no wonder that it makes the beautiful ſex all over charms.

As virtue in general is of an amiable and lovely na⯑ture, there are ſome particular kinds of it which are more ſo than others, and theſe are ſuch as diſpoſe us to do good to mankind. Temperance and abſtinence, faith and devotion, are in themſelves perhaps as lauda⯑ble as any other virtues; but thoſe which make a man popular and beloved, are juſtice, charity, munificence, and, in ſhort, all the good qualities that render us be⯑neficial to each other. For which reaſon even an ex⯑travagant man, who has nothing elſe to recommend him but a falſe generoſity, is often more beloved and eſteemed than a perſon of a much more finiſhed character, who is defective in this particular.

The two great ornaments of virtue, which ſhew her in the moſt advantageous views, and make her altoge⯑ther lovely, are chearfulneſs and good-nature. Theſe generally go together, as a man cannot be agreeable to others who is not eaſy within himſelf. They are both very requiſite in a virtuous mind, to keep out melan⯑choly from the many ſerious thoughts it is engaged in, and to hinder its natural hatred of vice from ſouring in⯑to ſeverity and cenſoriouſneſs.

FAMILY DISAGREEMENTS the frequent CAUSE of IMMORAL CONDUCT.

AFTER all our complaints of the uncertainty of human affairs, it is undoubtedly true, that more miſery is produced among us by the irregularities of our tempers, than by real misfortunes.

And it is a circumſtance particularly unhappy, that theſe irregularities of the temper are very apt to diſplay themſelves at our fire-ſides, where every thing ought to be tranquil and ſerene. But the truth is, we are awed by the preſence of ſtrangers, and are afraid of appearing weak or ill-natured when we act in the ſight of the world; and ſo, very heroically, reſerve all our ill-humour for our wives, children, and ſervants. We are meek where we might meet with oppoſition, but feel ourſelves undauntedly bold where we are ſure of no effectual reſiſtance.

The perverſion of the beſt things converts them to the worſt. Home is certainly well adapted to repoſe and ſolid enjoyment. Among parents and brothers, and all the tender ties of private life, the gentler affec⯑tions, which are always attended with feelings purely and permanently pleaſurable, find an ample ſcope for proper exertion. The experienced have often declared, after wearying themſelves in purſuing phantoms, that they have found a ſubſtantial happineſs in the domeſtic circle. Hither they have returned from their wild ex⯑curſions in the regions of diſſipation; as the bird, after fluttering in the air, deſcends into her neſt, to partake and to increaſe its genial warmth with her young ones.

Such and ſo ſweet are the comforts of home, when it is not perverted by the folly and weakneſs of man. Indifference, and a careleſſneſs on the ſubject of pleaſing thoſe whom it is our beſt intereſt to pleaſe, often ren⯑der it a ſcene of dulneſs and inſipidity. Happy if the [15]evil extended no farther. But the tranſition from the negative ſtate of not being pleaſed, to poſitive ill-hu⯑mour, is but too eaſy. Fretfulneſs and peeviſhneſs ariſe, as nettles vegetate, ſpontaneouſly, where no ſalu⯑tary plants are cultivated. One unkind expreſſion in⯑fallibly generates many others. Trifles light as air are able to kindle the blaze of contention. By frequent conflicts and unreſerved familiarity, all that mutual reſpect which is neceſſary to preſerve love, even in the moſt intimate connections, is entirely loſt, and the faint affection which remains is too feeble to be felt amid the furious operation of the hateful paſſions. Farewel peace and tranquillity, and cheerful converſe, and all the boaſted comforts of the family circle.

But it is not neceſſary to expatiate on the miſery of family diſſenſion. I mean more particularly to ſuggeſt, that family diſſenſion, beſides all its own immediate evils, is the fruitful parent of immoral conduct.

When the ſeveral parts which compoſe a family find themſelves uneaſy in that home which is naturally the feat of mutual enjoyment, they are tempted from the ſtraight road of common prudence, to purſue their happineſs through a devious wild of paſſion and ima⯑gination. The ſon, arrived at years of maturity, who is treated harſhly at home, will ſeldom ſpend his even⯑ings at the domeſtic fire-ſide. If he live in the metro⯑polis, he will fly for refuge to the places of public di⯑verſion. There, it is very probable, ſome unhappy connection will be formed, which cannot be continued without a plentiful ſupply of money. Perhaps money cannot be procured honeſtly but from the parent; but money muſt at all events be procured. What then re⯑mains, but to purſue thoſe methods which unprincipled ingenuity has invented, and which, ſooner or later, lead to their condign puniſhments, pain, ſhame, and death?

But though the conſequences are not always ſuch as the operation of human laws produces, yet they are al⯑ways terrible, and deſtructive of happineſs and virtue. Miſery is indeed the neceſſary reſult of all deviation [16]from rectitude; but early debauchery, early diſeaſe, early profligacy of all kinds, are peculiarly fruitful of wretchedneſs; as they ſow the ſeeds of miſery in the ſpring of life, when all that is ſown ſtrikes deep root, and buds and bloſſoms, and brings forth fruit in profuſe abundance.

In the diſagreements between children and parents, it is certain that the children and uſually moſt culpable. Their violent paſſions and defective experience render them diſobedient and undutiful. Their love of plea⯑ſure operates ſo violently, as often to deſtroy the force of filial affection. A parent is ſtung to the heart by the ingratitude of a child. He checks his precipitancy, and perhaps with too little command of temper; for who can always hold the reins? Aſperity produces aſ⯑perity. But the child was the aggreſſor, and therefore deſerves a great part of the miſery which enſues. It is however certain, that the parent is often imprudent, as well as the child undutiful. He ſhould endeavour to render home agreeable by gentleneſs and reaſonable in⯑dulgence: For man at every age ſeeks to be pleaſed, but more particularly at the juvenile age. He ſhould indeed maintain his authority; but it ſhould be like the mild dominion of a limited monarch, and not the iron rule of an auſtere tyrant. If home be rendered pleaſing, it will not long be deſerted. The prodigal will ſoon return, when his father's houſe is always ready to receive him with joy.

What is ſaid of the conſequences of domeſtic diſ⯑union to ſons, is equally to be applied to daughters. Indeed, as the miſconduct of daughters is more fatal to family peace, though perhaps not more heinous in a moral view, particular care ſhould be taken to render them attached to the comforts of the family circle. When their home is diſagreeable, they will be ready to make any exchange; and will often loſe their cha⯑racters, virtue, and happineſs, in the purſuit of it. In⯑deed the female character and happineſs are ſo eaſily injured, that no ſolicitude can be too great in their [17]preſervation. But prudence is neceſſary in every good cauſe, as well as zeal; and it is found by experience, that the gentleſt method of government, if it be limited and directed by good ſenſe, is the beſt. It ought in⯑deed to be ſteady, but not rigid; and every pleaſure which is innocent in itſelf and in its conſequences, ought to be admitted, with a view to render leſs diſa⯑greeable that unwinking vigilance which a delicate and ſenſible father will judge neceſſary in the care of a daughter.

To what wickedneſs, as well as wretchedneſs, ma⯑trimonial diſagreements lead, every day's hiſtory will clearly inform us. When the huſband is driven from his home by a termagant, he will ſeek enjoyment, which is denied him at his own home, in the haunts of vice, and in the riots of intemperance: Nor can female cor⯑ruption be wondered at, though it muſt be greatly pitied and regretted, when in the heart of a huſband, which love and friendſhip ſhould warm, hatred is found to rankle. Conjugal infelicity not only renders life moſt uncomfortable, but leads to that deſperate diſſoluteneſs and careleſſneſs in manners, which terminates in the ruin of health, peace, and fortune. If we may form a judgment from the divorces and ſeparations which happen in the gay world, we may conclude, that the preſent manners are highly unfavourable to conjugal fe⯑licity. And we ſee, conſiſtently with my theory, that the conſequence of theſe domeſtic diſagreements is the prevalence of vice in a very predominant degree, as well as of miſery.

But it avails little to point out evils without recom⯑mending a remedy. One of the firſt rules which ſug⯑geſts itſelf is, that families ſhould endeavour, by often and ſeriouſly reflecting on the ſubject, to convince themſelves, that not only the enjoyment, but the virtue of every individual, greatly depends on a cordial union. When they are convinced of this, they will endeavour to promote it; and it fortunately happens, that the very wiſh and attempt of every individual muſt infalli⯑bly [18]ſecure ſucceſs. It may indeed be difficult to re⯑ſtrain the occaſional ſallies of temper; but where there is, in the more diſpaſſionate moments, a ſettled deſire to preſerve domeſtic union, the tranſient violence of paſſion will not often produce a permanent rupture.

It is another moſt excellent rule, to avoid a groſs fa⯑miliarity, even where the connection is moſt intimate. The human heart is ſo conſtituted as to love reſpect. It would indeed by unnatural in very intimate friends to behave to each other with ſtiffneſs; but there is a delicacy of manner, and a flattering deference, which tends to preſerve that degree of eſteem which is neceſ⯑ſary to ſupport affection, and which is loſt in contempt when it deviates into exceſſive familiarity. An habitu⯑al politeneſs of manners will prevent even indifference from degenerating to hatred. It will refine, exalt, and perpetuate affection.

But the beſt and moſt efficacious rule is, that we ſhould not think our moral and religious duties are on⯑ly to be practiſed in public, and in the ſight of thoſe from whoſe applauſe we expect the gratification of our vanity, ambition, or avarice; but that we ſhould be equally attentive to our behaviour among thoſe who can only repay us by reciprocal love. We muſt ſhew the ſincerity of our principles and profeſſions by acting conſiſtently with them, not only in the ſenate, in the field, in the pulpit, at the bar, or in any public aſſembly, but at the fire-ſide.

The VOYAGE of LIFE; an ALLEGORY.

'LIFE,' ſays Seneca, 'is a voyage, in the progreſs of which we are perpetually changing our ſcenes: We firſt leave childhood behind us, then youth, then the years of ripened manhood, then the better or more pleaſing part of old age.'—The peruſal of this paſſage having excited in me a train of reflec⯑tions on the ſtate of man, the inceſſant fluctuation of his wiſhes, the gradual change of his diſpoſition to all external objects, and the thoughtleſſneſs with which he floats along the ſtream of time, I ſunk into a ſlum⯑ber amidſt my mediations, and, on a ſudden, found my ears filled with the tumult of labour, the ſhouts of alacrity, the ſhrieks of alarm, the whiſtle of winds, and the daſh of waters.

My aſtoniſhment for a time repreſſed my curioſity; but ſoon recovering myſelf ſo far as to enquire whither we were going, and what was the cauſe of ſuch clamour and confuſion? I was told that we were launching out into the ocean of Life; that we had already paſſed the ſtreights of Infancy, in which multitudes had per⯑iſhed, ſome by the weakneſs and fragility or negligence, of thoſe who undertook to ſteer them; and that we were now on the main ſea, abandoned to the winds and billows, without any other means of ſecurity than the care of the pilot, whom it was always in our power to chuſe, among great numbers that offered their direction and aſſiſtance.

I then looked round with anxious eagerneſs; and firſt turning my eyes behind me, ſaw a ſtream flowing through flowery iſlands, which every one that ſailed along ſeemed to behold with pleaſure; but no ſooner touched, than the current, which though not noiſy or turbulent, was yet irreſiſtible, bore him away. Be⯑yond theſe iſlands all was darkneſs, nor could any of the paſſengers deſcribe the ſhore at which he firſt em⯑barked.

[20]Before me, and on either ſide, was an expanſe of waters violently agitated, and covered with ſo thick a miſt, that the moſt perſpicacious eye could ſee but a little way. It appeared to be full of rocks and whirl⯑pools, for many ſunk unexpectedly while they were courting the gale with full ſails, and inſulting thoſe whom they had left behind. So numerous, indeed, were the dangers, and ſo thick the darkneſs, that no caution could confer ſecurity. Yet there were many, who, by falſe intelligence, betrayed their followers into whirl⯑pools, or by violence puſhed thoſe whom they found in their way againſt the rocks.

The current was invariable and inſurmountable; but though it was impoſſible to ſail againſt it, or to return to the place that was once paſſed, yet it was not ſo violent as to allow no opportunities for dexterity or courage, ſince, though none could retreat back from danger, yet they might often avoid it by oblique direc⯑tion.

It was, however, not very common to ſteer with much care or prudence; for, by ſome univerſal infa⯑tuation, every man appeared to think himſelf ſafe, tho' he ſaw his conſorts every moment ſinking round him; and no ſooner had the waves cloſed over them, than their fate and their miſconduct were forgotten; the voyage was purſue with the ſame jocund confidence; every man congratulated himſelf upon the ſoundneſs of his veſſel, and believed himſelf able to ſtem the whirl⯑pool in which his friend was ſwallowed, or glide over the rocks on which he was daſhed: Nor was it often obſerved that the ſight of a wreck made any man change his courſe; if he turned for a moment, he ſoon forgot the rudder, and left himſelf again to the diſpoſal of chance.

This negligence did not proceed from indifference, or from wearineſs of their preſent condition; for not one of thoſe who thus ruſhed upon deſtruction failed, when he was finking, to call upon his aſſociates for that help which could not now be given him: And many [21]ſpent their laſt moments in cautioning others againſt the folly by which they were intercepted in the midſt of their courſe. Their benevolence was ſometimes praiſed, but their admonitions were unregarded.

The veſſels in which we had embarked, being con⯑feſſedly unequal to the turbulence of the ſtream of life, were viſibly impaired in the courſe of the voyage, ſo that every paſſenger was certain, that how long ſo⯑ever he might by favourable accidents, or by inceſſant vigilance, be preſerved, he muſt ſink at laſt.

This neceſſity of periſhing might have been expect⯑ed to ſadden the gay, and intimidate the daring, at leaſt to keep the melancholy and timorous in perpetual tor⯑ments, and hinder them from any enjoyment of the varieties and gratifications which nature offered them as the ſolace of their labours; yet in effect none ſeemed leſs to expect deſtruction than thoſe to whom it was moſt dreadful; they all had the art of concealing their danger from themſelves; and thoſe who knew their in⯑ability to bear the ſight of the terrors that embarraſſed their way, took care never to look forward, but found ſome amuſement of the preſent moment, and generally entertained themſelves by playing with Hope, who was the conſtant aſſociate of the Voyage of Life.

Yet all that Hope ventured to promiſe, even to thoſe whom ſhe favoured moſt, was, not that they ſhould eſcape, but that they ſhould ſink laſt; and with this promiſe every one was ſatisfied, though he laughed at the reſt for ſeeming to believe it. Hope, indeed, ap⯑parently mocked the credulity of her companions; for, in proportion as their veſſels grew leaky, ſhe redoubled her aſſurances of ſafety; and none were more buſy in making proviſions for a long voyage, than they whom all but themſelves ſaw likely to periſh ſoon by irrepara⯑ble decay.

In the midſt of the current of Life was the gulf of Intemperance, a dreadful whirlpool, interſperſed with rocks, of which the pointed crags were concealed under water, and the tops covered with herbage, on which [22]Eaſe ſpread couches of repoſe; and with ſhades, where Pleaſure warbled the ſong of invitation. Within fight of theſe rocks, all who ſailed on the ocean of Life muſt neceſſarily paſs. Reaſon indeed was always at hand to ſteer the paſſengers through a narrow outlet, by which they might eſcape; but very few could, by her intreaties or remonſtrances, be induced to put the rud⯑der into her hand, without ſtipulating that ſhe ſhould approach ſo near unto the rocks of Pleaſure, that they might ſolace themſelves with a ſhort enjoyment of that delicious region, after which they always determined to purſue their courſe without any other deviation.

Reaſon was too often prevailed upon ſo far by theſe promiſes, as to venture her charge within the eddy of the gulf of Intemperance, where, indeed, the circum⯑volution was weak, but yet interrupted the courſe of the veſſel, and drew it, by inſenſible rotations, towards the centre. She then repented her temerity, and with all her force endeavoured to retreat; but the draught of the gulph was generally too ſtrong to be overcome; and the paſſenger, having danced in circles with a pleaſing and giddy velocity, was at laſt overwhelmed and loſt. Thoſe few whom Reaſon was able to extri⯑cate, generally ſuffered ſo many ſhocks upon the points which ſhot out from the rocks of Pleaſure, that they were unable to continue their courſe with the ſame ſtrength and facility as before, but floated along timor⯑ouſly and feebly, endangered by every breeze, and ſhat⯑tered by every ruffle of the water, till they ſunk, by ſlow degrees, after long ſtruggles, and innumerable ex⯑pedients, always repining at their own folly, and warn⯑ing others againſt the gulf of Intemperance.

There were artiſts who profeſſed to repair the breaches and ſtop the leaks of the veſſels which had been ſhatter⯑ed on the rocks of Pleaſure. Many appeared to have great confidence in their ſkill, and ſome, indeed, were preſerved by it from ſinking, who had received only a ſingle blow; but I remarked that few veſſels laſted long which had been much repaired, nor was it found that [23]the artiſts themſelves continued afloat longer than thoſe who had leaſt of their aſſiſtance.

The only advantage which, in the Voyage of Life, the cautious had above the negligent, was, that they ſunk later, and more ſuddenly; for they paſſed forward till they had ſometimes ſeen all thoſe in whoſe company they had iſſued from the ſtreights of Infancy, periſh in the way, and at laſt were overſet by a croſs breeze, without the toil of reſiſtance, or the anguiſh of expec⯑tation. But ſuch as had often fallen againſt the rocks of Pleaſure, commonly ſubſided by ſenſible degrees, contended long with the encroaching waters, and har⯑raſſed themſelves by labours that ſcarcely Hope herſelf could flatter with ſucceſs.

As I was looking upon the various fate of the multi⯑tude about me, I was ſuddenly alarmed with an admo⯑nition from ſome unknown power, 'Gaze not idly upon others when thou thyſelf and ſinking. Whence is this thoughtleſs tranquillity, when thou and they are equal⯑ly endangered?' I looked, and ſeeing the gulf of Intem⯑perance before me, ſtarted and awaked.

REMARKS on the SWIFTNESS of TIME.

THE natural advantages which ariſe from the po⯑ſition of the earth which we inhabit, with reſ⯑pect to the other planets, afford much employment to mathematical ſpeculation, by which it has been diſ⯑covered, that no other conformation of the ſyſtem could have given ſuch commodious diſtributions of light and heat, or imparted fertility and pleaſure to ſo great a part of a revolving ſphere.

It may be perhaps obſerved by the moraliſt, with e⯑qual reaſon, that our globe ſeems particularly fitted for the reſidence of a being, placed here only for a ſhort [24]time, whoſe taſk is to advance himſelf to a higher and happier ſtate of exiſtence, by unremitted vigilance of caution, and activity of virtue.

The duties required of man are ſuch as human nature does not willingly perform, and ſuch as thoſe are in⯑clined to delay who yet intend ſome time to fulfil them. It was therefore neceſſary that this univerſal reluctance ſhould be counteracted, and the drowſineſs of heſita⯑tion wakened into reſolve; that the danger of procraf⯑tination ſhould be always in view, and the fallacies of ſecurity be hourly detected.

To this end all the appearances of nature uniformly conſpire. Whatever we ſee on every ſide, reminds us of the lapſe of time and the flux of life. The day and night ſucceed each other; the rotation of ſeaſons diver⯑ſifies the year; the ſun riſes, attains the meridian, de⯑clines and ſets; and the moon every night changes its form.

He that is carried forward, however ſwiftly, by a motion equitable and eaſy, perceives not the change of place but by the variation of objects. If the wheel of life, which rolls thus ſilently along, paſſed on through undiſtinguiſhable uniformity, we ſhould never mark its approaches to the end of the courſe. If one hour were like another; if the paſſage of the ſun did not ſhew that the day is waſting: if the change of ſeaſons did not impreſs upon us the flight of the year, quantities of duration equal to days and years would glide unobſerv⯑ed. If the parts of time were not variouſly coloured, we ſhould never diſcern their departure of ſucceſſion, but ſhould live thoughtleſs of the paſt, and careleſs of the future, without will, and perhaps without power, to compute the periods of life, or to compare the time which is alreadly loſt with that which may probably re⯑main.

Yet it is certain that theſe admonitions of nature, however forcible, however importunate, are too often vain; and that many who mark with ſuch accuracy the courſe of time, appear to have little ſenſibility of the [25]decline of life. Every man has ſomething to do which he neglects; every man has faults to conquer which he delays to combat.

So little do we accuſtom ourſelves to conſider the effects of time, that things neceſſary and certain often ſurpriſe us like unexpected contingencies. We leave the beauty in her bloom, and, after an abſence of twen⯑ty years, wonder, at our return, to find her faded. We meet thoſe whom we left children, and can ſcarcely perſuade ourſelves to treat them as men. The travel⯑ler viſits in age thoſe countries through which he ram⯑bled in his youth, and hopes for merriment at the old place. The man of buſineſs, wearied with unſatisfac⯑tory proſperity, retires to the town of his nativity, and expects to play away the laſt years with the compa⯑nions of his childhood, and recover youth in the fields where he once was young.

From this inattention, ſo general and ſo miſchievous, let it be every man's ſtudy to exampt himſelf. Let him that deſires to ſee others happy, make haſte to give while his gift can be enjoyed, and remember, that every moment of delay takes away ſomething from the value of his benefaction. And let him who ſeeks his own happineſs, reflect, that while he forms his purpoſe the day rolls on, 'and the night cometh, when no man can work.'

The NECESSITY of forming RELIGIOUS PRINCIPLES at an early AGE.

AS ſoon as you are capable of reflection, you muſt perceive that there is a right and wrong in hu⯑man actions. You ſee that thoſe who are born with the ſame advantages of fortune, are not all equally proſperous in the courſe of life. While ſome of them, by wiſe and ſteady conduct, attain diſtinction in the world, and paſs their days with comfort and honour; others of the ſame rank, by mean and vicious behaviour, forfeit the advantages of their birth, involve themſelves in much miſery, and end in being a diſgrace to their friends, and a burden on ſociety. Early, then, you may learn that it is not on the external condition in which you find yourſelves placed, but on the part which you are to act, that your welfare or unhappi⯑neſs, your honour or infamy, depend. Now, when beginning to act that part, what can be of greater mo⯑ment, than to regulate your plan of conduct with the moſt ſerious attention, before you have yet committed any fatal or irretrievable errors? If, inſtead of exerting reflection for this valuable purpoſe, you deliver your⯑ſelves up, at ſo critical a time, to ſloth and pleaſure; if you refuſe to liſten to any counſellor but humour, or to attend to any purſuit except that of amuſement; if you allow yourſelves to float looſe and careleſs on the tide of life, ready to receive any direction which the current of faſhion may chance to give you; what can you expect to follow [...]rom ſuch beginnings? While ſo many around you are undergoing the ſad conſequences of a like indiſcretion, for what reaſon ſhall not theſe conſequences extend to you? Shall you only attain [27]ſucceſs without that preparation, and eſcape dangers without that precaution, which is required of others? Shall happineſs grow up to you of its own accord, and ſolicit your acceptance, when, to the reſt of mankind, it is the fruit of long cultivation, and the acquiſition of labour and care?—Deceive not yourſelves with ſuch arrogant hopes. Whatever be your rank, Providence will not, for your ſake, reverſe its eſtabliſhed order. By liſtening to wiſe admonitions, and tempering the vivacity of youth with a proper mixture of ſerious thought, you may enſure chearfulneſs for the reſt of your life; but by delivering yourſelves up at preſent to giddineſs and levity, you lay the foundation of laſt⯑ing heavineſs of heart.

The ACQUISITION of a VIRTUOUS DISPOSITION a neceſſary PART of EDUCATION.

WHEN you look forward to thoſe plans of life, which either your circumſtances have ſug⯑geſted, or your friends have propoſed, you will not heſitate to acknowledge, that in order to purſue them with advantage, ſome previous diſcipline is requiſite. Be aſſured, that whatever is to be your profeſſion, no education is more neceſſary to your ſucceſs, than the acquirement of virtuous diſpoſitions and habits. This is the univerſal preparation for every character, and every ſtation of life. Bad as the world is, reſpect is always paid to virtue. In the uſual courſe of human affairs it will be found, that a plain underſtanding, joined with acknowledged worth, contributes more to proſperity than the brighteſt parts without probity or honour. Whether ſcience, or buſineſs, or public life, [28]be your aim, virtue ſtill enters, for a principal ſhare, into all thoſe great departments of ſociety. It is con⯑nected with emiuence, in every liberal art; with repu⯑tation, in every branch of fair and uſeful buſineſs; with diſtinction, in every public ſtation. The vigour which it gives the mind, and the weight which it adds to character; the generous ſentiments which it breathes; the undaunted ſpirit which it inſpires, the ardour of diligence which it quickens, the freedom which it procures from pernicious and diſhonourable avoca⯑tions, are the foundations of all that is high in fame, or great in ſucceſs among men. Whatever orna⯑mental or engaging endowments you now poſſeſs, virtue is a neceſſary requiſite, in order to their ſhining with proper luſtre. Feeble are the attractions of the faireſt form, if it be ſuſpected that nothing within correſponds to the pleaſing appearance without. Short are the triumphs of wit, when it is ſuppoſed to be the vehicle of malice. By whatever arts you may at firſt attract the attention, you can hold the eſteem and ſecure the hearts of others only by amiable diſpoſitions and the accompliſhments of the mind. Theſe are the qualities whoſe influence will laſt, when the luſtre of all that once ſparkled and dazzled has paſſed away.

RELIGION never to be treated with LEVITY.

IMPRESS your minds with reverence for all that is ſacred. Let no wantonneſs of youthful ſpirits, no compliance with the intemperate mirth of others, ever betray you into profane follies. Beſides the guilt which is thereby incurred, nothing gives a more odious appearance of petulance and preſumption to youth, than the affectation of treating religion with levity. [29]Inſtead of being an evidence of ſuperior underſtanding, it diſcovers a pert and ſhallow mind; which, vain of the firſt ſmatterings of knowledge, preſumes to make light of what the reſt of mankind revere. At the ſame time, you are not to imagine, that when exhorted to be religious, you are called upon to become more for⯑mal and ſolemn in your manners than others of the ſame years; or to erect yourſelves into ſupercilious re⯑provers of thoſe around you. The ſpirit of true reli⯑gion breathes gentleneſs and affability It gives a na⯑tive unaffectected caſe to the behaviour. It is ſocial, kind, and chearful; far removed from that gloomy and illiberal ſuperſtition which clouds the brow, ſharpens the temper, dejects the ſpirit, and teaches men to fit themſelves for another world, by neglecting the concerns of this. Let your religion, on the con⯑trary, connect preparation for heaven with an honour⯑able diſcharge of the duties of active life. Of ſuch religion diſcover, on every proper occaſion, that you are not aſhamed; but avoid making any unneceſſary oſtentation of it before the world.

To piety join modeſty and docility, reverence of your parents, and ſubmiſſion to thoſe who are your ſuperiors in knowledge, in ſtation, and in years. De⯑pendence and obedience belong to youth. Modeſty is one of its chief ornaments; and has ever been eſteem⯑ed a preſage of riſing merit. When entering on the career of life, it is your part, not to aſſume the reins as yet into your hands; but to commit yourſelves to the guidance of the more experienced, and to become wiſe by the wiſdom of thoſe who have gone before you. Of all the follies incident to youth, there are none which either deform its preſent appearance, or blaſt the proſpect of its future proſperity, more than ſelf⯑conceit, preſumption, and obſtinacy. By checking its natural progreſs in improvement, they ſix it in long immaturity; and frequently produce miſchiefs which can never be repaired. Yet theſe are vices too com⯑monly found among the young. Big with enterprize, [30]and elated by hope, they reſolve to truſt for ſucceſs to none but themſelves. Full of their own abilities, they deride the admonitions which are given them by their friends, as the timorous ſuggeſtions of age. Too wiſe to learn, too impatient to deliberate, too forward to be reſtrained, they plunge with precipitant indiſcretion, into the midſt of all the dangers with which life a⯑bounds.

On BENEVOLENCE and HUMANITY.

YOUTH is the proper ſeaſon of cultivating the be⯑nevolent and humane affections. As a great part of your happineſs is to depend on the connections which you form with others, it is of high importance that you acquire betimes the temper and the manners which will render ſuch connections comfortable. Let a ſenſe of juſtice be the foundation of all ſocial quali⯑ties. In your moſt early intercourſe with the world, and even in your youthful amuſements, let no unfair⯑neſs be found. Engrave on your mind that ſacred rule, of 'doing in all things to others, according as you wiſh that they ſhould do unto you.' For this end, impreſs yourſelves with a deep ſenſe of the original and natu⯑ral equality of men. Whatever advantages of birth or fortune you poſſeſs, never diſplay them with an oſtentatious ſuperiority. Leave the ſubordinations to rank, to regulate the intercourſe of more advanced years. At preſent it becomes you to act among your companions, as man with man. Remember how un⯑known to you are the viciſſitudes of the world; and how often they, on whom ignorant and contemptuous young men once looked down with ſcorn, have riſen to be their ſuperiors in future years. Compaſſion is [31]an emotion, of which you never ought to be aſhamed. Graceful in youth is the tear of ſympathy, and the heart that melts at the tale of woe. Let not eaſe and indulgence contract your affections, and wrap you up in ſelfiſh enjoyment. Accuſtom yourſelves to think of the diſtreſſes of human life; of the ſolitary cottage, the dying parent, and the weeping orphan. Never ſport with pain and diſtreſs, in any of your amuſements; nor treat even the meaneſt inſect with wanton cruelty.

In order to render yourſelves amiable in ſociety, cor⯑rect every appearance of harſhneſs in behaviour. Let that courteſy diſtinguiſh your demeanour, which ſprings not ſo much from ſtudied politeneſs, as from a mild and gentle heart. Follow the cuſtoms of the world in matters indifferent; but ſtop when they become ſinful. Let your manners be ſimple and natural; and of courſe they will be engaging. Affectation is certain deformi⯑ty. By forming yourſelves on fantaſtic models, and vying with one another in every reigning folly, the young begin with being ridiculous, and end in being vicious.

VALUABLE OPPORTUNITIES once LOST cannot be RECALLED.

LET not any one vainly imagine, that the time and valuable opportunities which are now loſt, can hereafter be recalled at will; or that he who has run out his youthful days in diſſipation and pleaſure, will have it in his power to ſtop when he pleaſes, and make a wiſer uſe of his riper years. Yet this is too general⯑ly the fallacious hope that flatters the youth in his ſen⯑ſual indulgences, and leads him inſenſibly on in the treacherous ways of vice, till it is too late to return. There are few, who at one plunge ſo totally immerge in [32]pleaſures, as to drown at once all power of reaſon and conſcience: They promiſe themſelves, they can indulge their appetites to ſuch a point only, and can check and turn them back when they have run their allotted race. I do not indeed ſay that there never have been perſons in whom the ſtrong ferment of youthful luſts may have happily ſubſided, and who may have brought forth fruits of amendment, and diſ⯑played many eminent virtues. God forbid! that even the moſt licentious vices of youth ſhould be abſolutely incorrigible. But I may venture to affirm, that the in⯑ſtances in this caſe have been ſo rare, that it is very dangerous for any one to truſt to the experiment, upon a preſumption that he ſhall add to the number. The only ſure way to make any proficiency in a virtuous life, is to ſet out in it betimes. It is then, when our inclinations are trained up in the way that they ſhould lead us, that cuſtom ſoon makes the beſt habits the moſt agreeable; the ways of wiſdom become the ways of pleaſantneſs, and every ſtep we advance, they grow more eaſy and more delightful. But, on the contrary, when vicious, headſtrong appetites are to be reclaimed, and inveterate habits to be corrected, what ſecurity can we give ourſelves, that we ſhall have either incli⯑nation, reſolution, or power, to ſtop and turn back, and recover the right way from which we have ſo long and ſo widely wandered, and enter upon a new life, when perhaps our ſtrength now faileth us, and we know not how near we may be to our journey's end? Theſe reflections I have ſuggeſted principally for the ſake of thoſe, who, allowing themſelves in greater in⯑dulgences than are conſiſtent with a liberal and virtu⯑ous education, give evident proofs that they are not ſufficiently aware of the dangerous encroachments, and the peculiar deceitfulneſs of pleaſurable ſin. Happy for them, would they once seriouſly conſider their ways! and no time can be more proper, than when theſe ſolemn ſeaſons of recollection and religious. [...]iſ⯑cipline ſhould particularly diſpoſe them to ſeriouſneſs [33]and thought. They would then diſcover, that though they are awhile carried gently and ſupinely down the ſmooth ſtream of pleaſure, yet ſoon the torrent will grow too violent to be ſtemmed; the waves will ariſe, and daſh them upon rocks, or ſink them in whirlpools. It is therefore the part of prudence to ſtop ſhort while they may, and to divert their courſe into a different channel; which, whatever obſtructions and difficulties they may labour with at firſt, will every day become more practicable and pleaſing, and will aſſuredly carry them to a ſerene and ſecure haven.

The VIRTUE of GENTLENESS.

GENTLENESS corrects whatever is offenſive in our manners; and, by a conſtant train of hu⯑mane attentions, ſtudies to alleviate the burden of com⯑mon miſery. Its office, therefore, is extenſive. It is not, like ſome other virtues, called forth only on pe⯑culiar emergencies; but it is continually in action, when we are engaged in intercourſe with men. It ought to form our addreſs, to regulate our ſpeech, and to diffuſe itſelf over our whole behaviour.

But, perhaps, it will be pleaded by ſome, that this gentleneſs on which we now inſiſt, regards only thoſe ſmaller offices in life, which, in their eyes, are not eſ⯑ſential to religion and goodneſs. Negligent, they con⯑feſs, on ſlight occaſions, of the government of their temper, or the regulation of their behaviour, they are attentive, as they pretend, to the great duties of bene⯑ficence; and ready, whenever the opportunity pre⯑ſents, to perform important ſervices to their fellow-creatures. But let ſuch perſons reflect, that the occa⯑ſions of performing thoſe important good deeds very rarely occur. Perhaps their ſituation in life, or the [34]nature of their connections, may, in a great meaſure, exclude them from ſuch opportunites. Great events give ſcope for great virtues: but the main tenor of hu⯑man life is compoſed of ſmall occurrences. Within the round of theſe, lie the materials of the happineſs of moſt men; the ſubjects of their duty, and the trials of their virtue. Virtue muſt be formed and ſupported, not by unfrequent acts, but by daily and repeated ex⯑ertions. In order to its becoming either vigorous or uſeful, it muſt be habitually active; not breaking forth occaſionally with a tranſient luſtre, like the blaze of the comet; but regular in its returns, like the light of day; not like the aromatic gale, which ſometimes feaſts the ſenſe; but, like the ordinary breeze, which puri⯑fies the air, and renders it healthful.

Years may paſs over our heads, without affording any opportunity for acts of high beneficence, or exten⯑ſive utility. Whereas, not a day paſſes, but in the common tranſactions of life, and eſpecially in the in⯑tercourſe of domeſtic ſociety, gentleneſs finds place for promoting the happineſs of others, and for ſtrength⯑ening in ourſelves the habit of virtue.

Gentleneſs is, in truth, the great avenue to mutual enjoyment. Amidit the ſtrife of interfering intereſts, it tempers the violence of contention, and keeps alive the ſeeds of harmony.

Whatever ends a good man can be ſuppoſed to pur⯑ſue, gentleneſs will be found to favour them; it pre⯑poſſeſſes and wins every heart; it perſuades, when every other argument fails; often diſarms the fierce, and often melts the ſtubborn. Whereas, harſhneſs con⯑firms the oppoſition it would ſubdue; and, of an in⯑different perſon, creates an enemy.

Whatever may be the effect of this virtue on our external condition, its influence on our internal enjoy⯑ment is certain and powerful. That inward tranquilli⯑ty which it promotes, is the firſt requiſite to every pleaſurable feeling. It is the calm and clear atmoſ⯑phere, the ſerenity and ſunſhine of the mind. When [35]benignity and gentleneſs reign within, we are always leaſt in hazard of being ruffled from without; every perſon, and every occurrence, are beheld in the moſt favourable light. But let ſome clouds of diſguſt and ill-humour gather on the mind, and immediately the ſcene changes: Nature ſeems transformed; and the appearance of all things is blackened to our view. The gentle mind is like the ſmooth ſtream, which re⯑flects every object in its juſt proportion, and in its faireſt colours. The violent ſpirit, like troubled wa⯑ters, renders back the images of the things diſtorted and broken; and communicates to them all that diſordered motion which ariſes ſolely from its own agitation.

The BALANCE of HAPPINESS EQUAL.

AN extenſive contemplation of human affairs, will lead us to this concluſion, that among the dif⯑ferent conditions and ranks of men, the balance of happineſs is preſerved in a great meaſure equal; and that the high and the low, the rich and the poor, ap⯑proach, in point of real enjoyment, much nearēr to each other, than is commonly imagined. In the lot of man, mutual compeſations, both of pleaſure and of pain, univerſally take place. Providence never intend⯑ed that any ſtate here ſhould be either completely happy, or entirely miſerable. If the feelings of plea⯑ſure are more numerous, and more lively, in the high⯑er departments of life, ſuch alſo are thoſe of pain. If opulence increaſes our gratifications, it increaſes, in the ſame proportion, our deſires and demands. If the poor are confined ot a more narrow circle, yet within that cir⯑cle lie moſt of thoſe natural ſatisfaction which, after all the refinements of art, are found t [...] [...] the moſt genuine [36]and true. In a ſtate, therfore, where there is neither ſo much to be coveted on the one hand, nor to be dreaded on the other, as at fiſt appears, how ſubmiſ⯑ſive ought we to be to the diſpoſal of Providence! How temperate in our deſires and purſuits! How much more attentive to preſerve our virtue, and to improve our minds, than to gain the doubtful and equivocal ad⯑vantages of worldly proſperity!

When we read the hiſtory of nations, what do we read but the hiſtory of the follies and crimes of men? We may dignify thoſe recorded tranſactions, by calling them the intrigues of ſtateſmen, and the exploits of conquerors; but they are, in truth, no other than the efforts of diſcontent to eſcape from its miſery, and the ſtruggles of contending paſſions among unhappy men. The hiſtory of mankind has ever been a continued tra⯑gedy; the world, a great theatre, exhibiting the ſame repeated ſcene, of the follies of men ſhooting forth into guilt, and of their paſſions fermenting, by a quick proceſs, into miſery.

But can we believe, that the nature of man came forth in this ſtate from the hands of its gracious Crea⯑tor? Did he frame this world, and ſtore it with inha⯑bitants, ſolely that it might be repleniſhed with crimes and misfortunes? In the moral, as well as in the na⯑tural world, we may plainly diſcern the ſigns of ſome violent contuſion, which has ſhattered the original workmanſhip of the Almighty. Amidſt this wreck of human nature, traces ſtill remain which indicate its author. Thoſe high powers of conſcience and reaſon, that capacity for happineſs, that ardour of enterprize, that glow of affection, which often break through the gloom of human vanity and guilt, are like the ſcattered columns, the broken arches, and defaced ſculptures of ſome fallen temple, whoſe ancient ſplendour appears a⯑midſt its ruins. So conſpicuous in human nature are thoſe character [...] of a high origin and of a de⯑graded ſtate, that, by many religious ſects throughout the earth, they have been ſeen and confeſſed. A tra⯑dition [37]ſeems to have pervaded almoſt all nations, that the human, race had either, through ſome offence, for⯑feited, or through ſome mifortune, loſt, that ſtation of primaeval honour, which they once poſſeſſed. But while, from this doctrine, ill-underſtood, and involved in many fabulous tales, the nations wandering in Pa⯑gan darkneſs could draw no conſequences that were juſt; while, totally ignorant of the nature of the diſ⯑eaſe, they ſought in vain for the remedy; the ſame di⯑vine revelation, which has informed us in what manner our apoſtacy aroſe, from the abuſe of our rational powers, has inſtructed us alſo how we may be reſtored to virtue and to happineſs.

On the ADVANTAGES of CONVERSATION.

IT is with much pleaſure I look back upon that phi⯑loſophical week which I lately enjoyed at —; as there is no part, perhaps, of ſocial life which affords more real ſatisfaction than thoſe hours, which one paſſes in rational and unreſerved converſation. The free communication of ſentiments amongſt a ſet of inge⯑nious and ſpeculative friends, ſuch as thoſe you gave me the opportunity of meeting, throws the mind into the moſt advantageous exerciſe, and ſhews the ſtrength or weakneſs of its opinions, with greater force of convic⯑tion than any other method we can employ.

That "it is not good for man to be alone," is true in more views of our ſpecies than one; and ſociety gives ſtrength to our reaſon, as well as poliſh to our manners. The ſoul, when left entirely to her own ſo⯑litary contemplations, is inſenſibly drawn by a ſort of conſtitutional bias, which generally leads her opinions to the ſide of her inclinations. Hence it is that ſhe [38]contracts thoſe peculiarities of reaſoning, and little ha⯑bits of thinking, which ſo often confirm her in the moſt fantaſtical errors. But nothing is more likely to recover the mind from this falſe bent, than the coun⯑terwarmth of impartial debate. Converſation opens our views, and gives our faculties a more vigorous play; it puts us upon turning our notions on every ſide, and holds them up to a light that diſcovers thoſe latent flaws which would probably have lain concealed in the gloom of unagitated abſtraction. Accordingly, one may remark, that moſt of thoſe wild doctrines, which have been let looſe upon the world, have generally owed their birth to perſons whoſe circumſtances or diſpoſitions have given them the feweſt opportunities of canvaſſing their reſpective ſyſtems in the way of free and friendly debate. Had the authors of many an extra⯑vagant hypotheſis diſcuſſed their principles in private circles, ere they had given vent to them in public, the obſervation of Varro had never, perhaps, been made, (or never, at leaſt, with ſo much juſtice) that ‘there is no opinion ſo abſurd, but has ſome philoſopher or other to produce in its ſupport.’

On GOOD-NATURE.

MAN is ſubject to innumerable pains and ſorrows by the very condition of humanity, and yet, as if nature had not ſown evils enough in life, we are continually adding grief to grief, and aggravating the common calamity by our cruel treatment of one another. Every man's natural weight of afflictions is ftill made more heavy by the envy, malice, treachery, or injuſtice of his neighbour. At the ſame time that the ſtorm betas upon the whole ſpecies, we are falling foul upon one another.

[39]Half the miſery of human life might be extinguiſhed, would men alleviate the general curſe they lie under, by mutual offices of compaſſion, benevolence, and huma⯑nity. There is nothing therefore which we ought more to encourage in ourſelves and others, than that diſpoſi⯑tion of mind which in our language goes under the title of good-nature.

Good-nature is more agreeable in converſation than wit, and gives a certain air to the countenance which is more amiable than beauty. It ſhews virtue in the faireſt light, takes off in ſome meaſure from the de⯑formity of vice, and makes even folly and impertinence ſupportable.

There is no ſociety or converſation to be kept up in the world without good-nature, or ſomething which muſt bear its appearance, and ſupply its place. For this reaſon mankind have been forced to invent a kind of artificial humanity, which is what we expreſs by the word good-breeding. For if we examine thoroughly the idea of what we call ſo, we ſhall find it to be nothing elſe but an imitation and mimickry of good-nature, or in other terms, affability, complaiſance and eaſineſs of temper reduced into an art.

Theſe exterior ſhows and appearances of humanity render a man wonderfully popular and beloved when they are founded upon a real good-nature; but without it are like hypocriſy in religion, or a bare form of holi⯑neſs, which when it is diſcovered, makes a man more deteſtable than profeſſed impiety.

Good-nature is generally born with us: Health, proſ⯑perity and kind treatment from the world are great cheriſhers of it where they find it: But nothing is ca⯑pable of forcing it up, where it does not grow of itſelf. It is one of the bleſſings of a happy conſtitution, which education may improve but not produce.

FILIAL AFFECTION; the STORY of FIDELIA.

FIDELIA is the only child of a decrepid father, whoſe life is wound up in hers. This gentleman has uſed Fidelia from her cradle with all the tender⯑neſs imaginable, and has viewed her growing perfec⯑tions with the partiality of a parent, that ſoon thought her accompliſhed above the children of all other men, but never thought ſhe was come to the utmoſt im⯑provement of which ſhe was capable. This fond⯑neſs has had very happy effects upon his own happi⯑neſs; for ſhe reads, ſhe dances, ſhe ſings, uſes her ſpinet and lute to the utmoſt perfection: And the lady's uſe of all theſe excellencies, is to divert the old man in his eaſy chair, when he is free from the pangs of a chronical diſtemper. Fidelia is now in the twenty-third year of her age; but the application of many lovers, her vigorous time of life, her quick ſenſe of all that is truly gallant and elegant in the enjoyment of a plentiful fortune, are not able to draw her from the ſide of her good old father. Certain it is, that there is no kind of affection ſo pure and angelic as that of a father to a daughter. He beholds her both with, and without regard to her ſex. In love to our wives there is deſire, to our ſons there is ambition; but in that to our daugh⯑ters, there is ſomething which there are no words to expreſs. Her life is deſigned wholly domeſtic, and ſhe is ſo ready a friend a companion, that every thing that paſſes about a man is accompanied with the idea of her preſence. Her ſex alſo is naturally ſo much expo⯑ſed to hazard, both as to fortune and innocence, that there is perhaps a new cauſe of fondneſs ariſing from that conſideration alſo. None but fathers can have a true ſenſe of theſe ſort of pleaſures and ſenſations.

[41]Fidelia, on her part, as accompliſhed as ſhe is; with all her beauty, wit, air and mien, employs her whole time in care and attendance upon her father. How have I been charmed to ſee one of the moſt beautiful women the age has produced on her knees helping on an old man's ſlipper! Her filial regard to him is what ſhe makes her diverſion, her buſineſs, and her glory. When ſhe was aſked by a friend of her deceaſed mother to admit of the courtſhip of her ſon, ſhe anſwered, That ſhe had a great reſpect and gratitude to her for the o⯑verture in behalf of one ſo dear to her, but that during here father's life ſhe would admit into her heart no value for any thing that ſhould interfere with her endeavour to make his remains of life as happy and eaſy as could be expected in his circumſtance. The lady admoniſh⯑ed her of the prime of life with a ſmile; which Fide⯑lia anſwered with a frankneſs that always attends un⯑feigned virtue; "It is true, Madam, there are to be ſure very great ſatisfactions to be expected in the com⯑merce of a man of honour, whom one tenderly loves; but I find ſo much ſatisfaction in the reflection, how much I mitigate a good man's pains, whoſe welfare de⯑pends upon my aſſiduity about him, that I willingly ex⯑clude the looſe gratifications of paſſion for the ſolid re⯑fletions of duty. I know not whether any man's wife would be allowed, and (what I ſtill more fear) I know not whether I, a wife, ſhould be willing to be as offici⯑ous as I am at preſent about my my parent." The happy father has her declaration that ſhe will not marry du⯑ring his life, and the pleaſure of ſeeing that reſolution not uneaſy to her. Were one to paint filial affection in its utmoſt beauty, he could not have a more lively idea of it than in beholding Fidelia ſerving her father at his hours of riſing, meals, and reſt.

Whilſt the general crowd of female youth are con⯑ſulting their glaſſes, preparing for balls, aſſemblies, or plays; for a young lady who could be regarded among the foremoſt in thoſe places either for her perſon, wit, fortune, or converſation, yet to contemn all theſe enter⯑tainments, [42]to ſweeten the heavy hours of a decrepid parent, is a reſignation truly heroic. Fidelia performs the duty of a nurſe with all the beauty of a bride; nor does ſhe neglect her perſon, becauſe of her attendance on him, when he is too ill to receive company, to whom ſhe may make an appearance.

What adds to the entertainment of the good old man, is, that Fidelia, where merit and fortune cannot be overlooked by epiſtolary lovers, reads over the accounts of her conqueſts, plays on her ſpinet the gayeſt airs, (and while ſhe is doing ſo, you would think her formed only for gallantry) to intimate to him the pleaſures ſhe depiſes for his ſake.

Thoſe who think themſelves the pattern of good breeding and gallantry, would be aſtoniſhed to hear that in thoſe intervals when the old gentleman is at eaſe, and can bear company, there are at his houſe in the moſt regular order aſſemblies of people of the higheſs merit; where there is converſation without mention of the faults of the abſent, benevolence be⯑tween men and women without paſſion, and the higheſt ſubjects of morality treated of as natural and accidental diſcourſe; all which is owing to the genius of Fidelia, who at once makes her father's way to another world eaſy, and herſelf capable of being an hounour to his name in this.

On AMBITION.

IF we look abroad upon the great multitude of man⯑kind, and endeavour to trace out the principles of action in every individual, it will, I think, ſeem highly probable, that ambition runs through the whole ſpecies, and that every man, in proportion to the vigour of his complexion, is more or leſs actuated by it. If is in⯑deed no uncommon thing to meet with men, who by [43]the natural bent of their inclinations, and without the diſcipline of philoſophy, aſpire not to the heights of power and grandeur; who never ſet their hearts upon a numerous train of clients and dependencies, nor other gay appendages of greatneſs; who are contented with a competency, and will not moleſt their tranquillity to gain an abundance: But it is not therefore to be con⯑cluded, that ſuch a man is not ambitious: His deſires may cut out another channel, and determine him to other purſuits; the motive may be, however, ſtill the ſame; and in thoſe caſes, likewiſe, the man may be equally puſhed on with the deſire of diſtinction.

Though the pure conſciouſneſs of worthy actions, abſtracted from the views of popular applauſe, be to a generous mind an ample reward, yet the deſire of diſ⯑tinction was doubtleſs implanted in our natures as an additional incentive to exert ourſelves in virtuous ex⯑cellence.

Ambition, therefore, is not to be confined only to on paſſion or purſuit; for as the ſame humours in conſtitution otherwiſe different affect the body after different manners, ſo the ſame aſpiring principle within us ſometimes breaks forth upon one object, ſometimes upon another.

It cannot be doubted, but that there is as great a de⯑ſire of glory in a ring of wreſtlers or cudgel-players, as in any other more refined competition for ſuperiority.

It is a known ſtory of Domitian, that after he had poſſeſſed himſelf of the Roman empire, his deſires turned upon catching flies. Active and maſculine ſpirits, in the vigour of youth, neither can nor ought to remain at reſt: If they debar themſelves from aiming at a noble object, their deſires will move downwards, and they will feel themſelves actuated by ſome low and abject paſſion. Thus if you cut off the top branches of a tree, and will not ſuffer it to grow higher, it will not therefore ceaſe to grow, but will quickly ſhoot out at the bottom. The man indeed who goes into the world only with the narrow views of ſelf-intereſt, who catches [44]at the applauſe of an idle multitude, as he can find no ſolid contentment at the end of his journey, ſo he de⯑ſerves to meet with diſappointments in his way: But he who is actuated by a noble principle, whoſe mind is ſo far enlarged as to take in the proſpect of his coun⯑try's good, who is enamoured with that praiſe which is one of the fair attendants of virtue, and values not thoſe acclamations which are not ſeconded by the im⯑partial teſtimony of his own mind; who repines not at the low ſtation which Providence has at preſent allotted him, but yet would willingly advance himſelf by juſti⯑fiable means to a more riſing and advantageous ground; ſuch a man is warmed with a generous emulation; it is a virtous movement in him to wiſh, and to endea⯑vour, that his power of doing good may be equal to his will. The man who is fitted out by nature, and ſent into the world with great abilities, is capable of doing great good or miſchief in it. It ought therefore to be the care of education, to infuſe into the untainted youth early notions of juſtice and honour, that ſo the poſſible advantages of good parts may not take a bad turn, nor be perverted to baſe and unworthy purpoſes. It is the buſineſs of religion and philoſophy not ſo much to extinguiſh our paſſions, as to regulate and direct them to valuable, well-choſen objects. When theſe have pointed out to us which courſe we may lawfully ſteer, it is no harm to ſet out all our ſail: If the ſtorms and tempeſts of adverſity ſhould riſe upon us, and not ſuffer us to make the haven where we would be, it will however prove no ſmall conſolation to us in theſe cir⯑cumſtances, that we have neither miſtaken our courſe, nor fallen into calamities of our own procuring.

On BETRAYING PRIVATE CONVERSATION.

AMONGST all the beauties and excellencies of the ancient writers, of which I profeſs myſelf an admirer, there are none which ſtrike me with more veneration, than the precepts they have delivered to us for our conduct in ſociety. The fables of the poets, and the narrations of the hiſtorians, amuſe and delight us with their reſpective qualifications; but we feel ourſelves particularly concerned, when a moral virtue, or a ſocial obligation is ſet before us, the practice of which is our indiſpenſible duty: And, perhaps, we are more ready to obſerve theſe inſtructions, or at leaſt acquieſce ſooner in the propriety of them, as the au⯑thority of the teacher is unqueſtionable, the addreſs not particularly confined or levelled, and the cenſure conſequently leſs dogmatical.

Of all the virtues which the ancients poſſeſſed, the zeal and fidelity of their friendſhips appear to me as the higheſt diſtinctions of their characters. Private perſons, and particular affinities amongſt them, have been long celebrated and admired; and if we examine their conduct as companions, we ſhall find, that the rites of their religion were not more ſacred, more ſtrongly ratified, nor more ſeverely preſerved, than their laws of ſociety.

The table of friendſhip, and the altar of ſacrifice, were equally uncontaminated: The myſteries of Bacchus were enveloped with as many leaves as thoſe of Ceres; and the profanation of either deity, excluded the offenders from the aſſemblies of men: The revealer was judged accurſed, and impiety was thought to ac⯑company his ſtep.

Without inveighing againſt the practice of the pre⯑ſent, times, or comparing it with that of the paſt, I ſhall [46]only remark, that if we cannot meet together upon the honeſt principles of ſocial beings, there is reaſon to fear that we are placed in the moſt unfortunate and lament⯑able aera ſince the creation of mankind. It is not the increaſe of vices inſeparable from humanity that alarms us, the riots of the licentious, or the outrages of the profligate; but it is the abſence of that integrity, the neglect of that virtue, the contempt of that honour, which by connecting individuals formed ſociety, and without which ſociety can no longer exiſt.

Few men are calculated for that cloſe connection, which we diſtinguiſh by the appellation of friendſhip; and we well know the difference between a friend and an acquaintance: The acquaintance is in a poſt of pro⯑greſſion; and after having paſſed through a courſe of proper experience, and given ſufficient evidence of his merit, takes a new title, and ranks himſelf higher. He muſt now be conſidered as in a place of conſe⯑quence; in which all the ornaments of our nature are neceſſary to ſupport him. But the great requiſites, thoſe without which all others are uſeleſs, are fidelity and taciturnity. He muſt not only be ſuperior to lo⯑quacious imbecility, he muſt be well able to repreſs the attacks of curioſity, and to reſiſt thoſe powerful engines that will be employed againſt him, wine and reſentment. Such are the powers that he muſt conſtantly exert, after a truſt is repoſed in him: And that he may not overload himſelf, let him not add to his charge, by his own enquiries; let it be a devolved, not an acquired commiſſion.

There are as few inſtigations in this country to a breach of confidence, as ſincerity can rejoice under. The betrayer is for ever ſhut out from the ways of men, and his diſcoveries are deemed the effects of ma⯑lice. We wiſely imagine, he muſt be actuated by other [47]motives than the promulgation of truth; and we receive his evidence, however we may uſe it, with contempt. Political exigencies may require a ready reception of ſuch private advices: But though the neceſſities of go⯑vernment admit the intelligence, the wiſdom of it but barely encourages the intelligencer. There is no name ſo odious to us, as that of an informer. The very alarm in our ſtreets at the approach of one, is a ſuffi⯑cient proof of the general abhorrence of this character.

Since theſe are the conſequential conditions upon which men acquire this denomination, it may be aſked, what are the inducements to the treachery. I do not ſuppoſe it always proceeds from the badneſs of the mind, and indeed I think it impoſſible that it ſhould; who only deſigned to gratify his own loquacity, or the importunity of his companion.

On a CLASSICAL EDUCATION.

THE faireſt diamonds are rough till they are poliſh⯑ed, and the pureſt gold muſt be run and waſhed, and ſifted in the ore. We are untaught by nature; and the fineſt qualities will grow wild and degenerate, if the mind is not formed by diſcipline, and cultivated with an early care. In ſome perſons, who have run up to men without a liberal education, we may obſerve many great qualities darkened and eclipſed; their minds are cruſted over like diamonds in the rock, they flaſh out ſometimes into an irregular greatneſs of thought, in their actions an unguided force, and unmanaged virtue; ſomething very great and very noble may be diſcerned, but it looks cumberſome and aukward, and is alone of all things the worſe for being natural. Na⯑ture is undoubtedly the beſt miſtreſs, and apteſt ſcho⯑lar; but nature herſelf muſt be civilized, or ſhe will look [48]ſavage, as ſhe appears in the Indian princes, who are veſted with a native majeſty, a ſurpriſing greatneſs and generoſity of ſoul, and diſcover what we always regret, fine parts, and excellent natural endowments, without improvement. In thoſe countries which we call bar⯑barous, where art and politeneſs are not underſtood, nature hath the greater advantage in this, that ſimplici⯑ty of manners of ten ſecures the innocence of the mind; and as virtue is not, ſo neither is vice, civilized and re⯑fined: But in theſe politer parts of the world, where virtue excels by rules and diſcipline, vice alſo is more inſtructed, and with us good qualities will not ſpring up alone: Many hurtful weeds will riſe with them, and choak them in their growth, unleſs removed by ſome ſkilful hand; nor will the mind be brought to a juſt perfection, without cheriſhing every hopeful ſeed, and repreſſing every ſuperflous humour: The mind is like the body in this regard, which cannot fall into a decent and eaſy carriage, unleſs it be faſhioned in time: An untaught behaviour is like the people that uſe it, truly ruſtic, forced, and uncouth, and art muſt be applied to make it natural.

Knowledge will not be won without pains and ap⯑plication: Some parts of it are eaſier, ſome more dif⯑ficult of acceſs: We muſt proceed at once by ſap and battery; and when the breach is practicable, you have nothing to do, but to preſs boldly on, and enter: It is troubleſome and deep digging for pure waters, but when once you come to the ſpring, they riſe and meet you: The entrance into knowledge is oftentimes very narrow, dark, and tireſome, but the rooms are ſpacious, and gloriouſly furniſhed: The country is admirable, and every proſpect entertaining.

VALENTINE and UNNION.

AT the ſiege of Namur by the allies, there were in the ranks of the company commanded by captian Pincent, in colonel Frederic Hamilton's regiment, one Unnion, a corporal, and one Valentine, a private cen⯑tinel: There happened a diſpute between theſe two men about an affair of love, which, upon ſome aggrava⯑tions, grew to an irreconcileable hatred. Unnion being the Officer of Valentine, took all opportunities even to ſtrike his rival, and profeſs the ſpite and revenge which moved him to it. The centinel bore it without reſiſt⯑ance; but frequently ſaid, he would die to be revenged of that tyrant. They had ſpent whole months in this manner, the one injuring, the other complaining; when, in the midſt of this rage towards each other, they were commanded upon the attack of the caſtle, where the corporal received a ſhot in the thigh, and fell; the French preſſing on, and he expecting to be trampled to death, called out to his enemy, "Ah, Va⯑lentine! can you leave me here?" Valentine immedi⯑ately ran back, and in the midſt of a thick fire of the French, took the corporal upon his back, and brought him through all that danger as far as the abbey of Sal⯑ſine, where a cannon ball took off his head: His body fell under his enemy whom he was carrying off. Un⯑nion immediately forgot his wound, roſe up, tearing his hair, and then threw himſelf upon the bleeding carcaſe, crying, "Ah, Valentine! was it for me, who have ſo barbarouſly uſed thee, that thou haſt died? I will not live after thee." He was not by any means to be force from the body, but was removed with it bleeding in his arms, and attended with tears by all their comrades who knew their enmity. When he was brought to a tent his wounds were dreſſed by force; but the next day, ſtill calling upon Valentince, and lamenting his cruelties to him, he died in the pangs of remorſe.

DAMON and PYTHIAS.

DAMON and Pythias, of the Pythagorean ſect in philoſophy, lived in the time of Dionyſius, the tyrant of Sicily. Their mutual friendſhip was ſo ſtrong, that they were ready to die for one another. One of the two (for it is now known which) being con⯑demned to death by the tyrant, obtained leave to go into his own country, to ſettle his affairs, on condition that the other ſhould conſent to be impriſoned in his ſtead, and put to death for him, if he did not return before the day of execution. The attention of every one, and eſpecially of the tyrant himſelf, was excited to the higheſt pitch; as every body was curious to ſee what ſhould be the event of ſo ſtrange an affair. When the time was almoſt elapſed, and he who was gone did not appear, the raſhneſs of the other, whoſe ſanguine friendſhip had put him upon running ſo ſeemingly deſperate a hazard, was univerſally blamed. But he ſtill declared, that he had not the leaſt ſhadow of doubt in his mind of his friend's fidelity. The event ſhewed how well he knew him. He came in due time, and ſurrendered himſelf to that fate, which he had no reaſon to think he ſhould eſcape; and which he did not deſire to eſcape by leaving his friend to ſuffer it in his place. Such fidelity ſoftened even the ſavage heart of Dionyſius himſelf. He pardoned the condemned. He gave the two friends to one another; and begged that they would take himſelf in for a third.

The CONTINENCE of SCIPIO AFRICANUS.

THE ſoldiers, after the taking of New Carthage, brought before Scipio a young lady of ſuch diſ⯑tinguiſhed beauty, that ſhe attracted the eyes of all wherever ſhe went. Scipio, by enquiring concerning her country and parents, among other things learned, that ſhe was betrothed to Allucius, prince of the Cel⯑tiberians. He immediately ordered her parents and bridegroom to be ſent for. In the mean time he was informed, that the young prince was ſo exceſſively enamoured of his bride, that he could not ſurvive the loſs of her. For this reaſon, as ſoon as he appeared, and before he ſpoke to her parents, he took great care to talk with him. "As you and I are both young," ſaid he, ‘we can converſe together with greater free⯑dom. When your bride, who had fallen into the hands of my ſoldiers, was brought before me, I was informed that you loved her paſſionately; and, in truth, her perfect beauty left me no room to doubt of it. If I were at liberty to indulge a youthful paſſion, I mean honourable and lawful wedlock, and were not ſolely engroſſed by the affairs of my republic, I might have hoped to have been pardoned my exceſſive love for ſo charming a miſtreſs. But as I am ſituated, and have it in my power, with pleaſure I promote you happineſs. Your future ſpouſe has met with as civil and modeſt treatment from me, as if ſhe had been amongſt her own pa⯑rents, who are ſoon to be your too. I have kept her pure, in order to have it in my power to make you a preſent worthy of you and of me. The only return I aſk of you for this favour is, that you will be a friend to the Roman people; and that if you believe me to be a man of worth, as the ſtates of [52]Spain formerly experienced my father and uncle to be, you may know there are many in Rome who re⯑ſemble us; and that there are not a people in the univerſe, whom you ought leſs to deſire to be an enemy, or more a friend, to you or yours.’ The youth, covered with bluſhes, and full of joy, embraced Scipio's hands, praying the immortal gods to reward him, as he himſelf was not capable to do it in the de⯑gree he himſelf deſired, or he deſerved. Then the pa⯑rents and relations of the virgin were called. They had brought a great ſum of money to ranſom her. But ſeeing her reſtored without it, they began to beg Scipio to accept that ſum as a preſent; proteſting they would acknowledge it as a favour, as much as they did the reſtoring the virgin without injury offered to her. Scipio, unable to reſiſt their importunate ſolicitations, told them, he accepted it; and ordering it to be laid at his feet, thus addreſſed Allucius: ‘To the portion you are to receive from your father-in-law, I add this, and beg you would accept it as a nuptial pre⯑ſent.’ So he deſired him to take up the gold, and keep it for himſelf Tranſported with joy at the pre⯑ſents and honours conferred on him, he returned home, and expatiated to his countrymen on the merits of Sci⯑pio. "There is come amongſt us," ſaid he, ‘a young hero like the gods, who conquers all things, as well by generoſity and beneficence, as by arms.’ For this reaſon, having raiſed troops among his own ſub⯑jects, he returned a few days after to Scipio with a body of 1400 horſe.

ALCANDER and SEPTIMIUS.

ATHENS, long after the decline of the Roman empire, ſtill continued the ſeat of learning, politeneſs, and wiſdom. Theodoric, the Oſtrogoth, re⯑paired the ſchools which barbarity was ſuffering to fall into decay, and continued thoſe penſions to men of learning, which avaricious governors had monopolized.

In this city, and about this period, Alcander and Septimius were fellow-ſtudents together. The one, the moſt ſubtle reaſoner of all the Lyceum; the other, the moſt eloquent ſpeaker in the academic grove. Mutual admiration ſoon begot a friendſhip. Their fortunes were nearly equal, and they were natives of the two moſt celebrated cities in the world; for Al⯑cander was of Athens, Septimius came from Rome.

In this ſtate of harmony they lived for ſome time together, when Alcander, after paſſing the firſt part of youth in the indolence of philoſophy, thought at length of entering into the buſy world; and as a ſtep pre⯑vious to this, placed his affections on Hypatia, a lady of exquiſite beauty. The day of their intended nup⯑tials was fixed; the previous ceremonies were per⯑formed; and nothing now remained but her being conducted in triumph to the apartment of the intended bridegroom.

Alcander's exultation in his own happineſs, or being unable to enjoy any ſatisfaction without making his friend Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him to in⯑troduce Hypatia to his fellow ſtudent; which he did with all the gaiety of a man who found himſelf equal⯑ly happy in friendſhip and love. But this was an in⯑terview fatal to the future peace of both; for Septi⯑mius no ſooner ſaw her, but he was ſmitten with an involuntary paſſion; and though he uſed every effort [54]to ſuppreſs deſires at once ſo imprudent and ſo unjuſt, the emotions of his mind in a ſhort time became ſo ſtrong, that they brought on a fever, which the phyſi⯑cians judged incurable.

During this illneſs, Alcander watched him with all the anxiety of fondneſs, and brought his miſtreſs to join in thoſe amiable offices of friendſhip. The ſaga⯑city of the phyſicians, by theſe means, ſoon diſcovered that the cauſe of their patient's diſorder was love; and Alcander being apprized of their diſcovery, at length extorted a confeſſion from the reluctant dying lover.

It would but delay the narrative to deſcribe the con⯑flict between love and friendſhip in the breaſt of Alcan⯑der on this occaſion; it is enough to ſay, that the A⯑thenians were at that time arrived at ſuch refinement in morals, that every virtue was carried to exceſs. In ſhort, forgetful of his own felicity, he gave up his in⯑tended bride in all her charms to the young Roman. They were married privately by his connivance, and this unlooked for change of fortune wrought as unex⯑pected a change in the conſtitution of the now happy Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly recovered, and ſet out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by an exertion of thoſe talents which he was ſo eminently poſſeſſed of, Septimius, in a few years, arrived at the higheſt dignities of the ſtate, and was conſtituted the city-judge, or praetor.

In the mean time Alcander not only felt the pain of being ſeparated from his friend and his miſtreſs, but a proſecution was alſo commenced againſt him by the relations of Hypatia, for having baſely given up his bride, as was ſuggeſted, for money. His innocence of the crime laid to his charge, and even his eloquence in his own defence, were not able to withſtand the influ⯑ence of a powerful party. He was caſt, and condemned to pay an enormous fine. However, being unable to raiſe ſo large a ſum at the time appointed, his poſſeſ⯑ſions were confiſcated, he himſelf was ſtripped of the [55]habit of freedom, expoſed as a ſlave in the market-place, and ſold to the higheſt bidder.

A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaſer, Al⯑cander, with ſome other companions of diſtreſs, was carried into that region of deſolation and ſterility. His ſtated employment was to follow the herds of an im⯑perious maſter, and his ſucceſs in hunting was all that was allowed him to ſupply his precarious ſubſiſtence. Every morning waked him to a renewal of famine or toil, and every change of ſeaſon ſerved but to aggravate his unſheltered diſtreſs. After ſome years of bondage, however, an opportunity of eſcaping offered; he em⯑braced it with ardour; ſo that, travelling by night, and lodging in caverns by day, to ſhorten a long ſtory, he at laſt arrived in Rome. The ſame day on which Al⯑cander arrived, Septimius ſat adminiſtering juſtice in the Forum, whither our wanderer came, expecting to be inſtantly known, and publicly acknowledged by his former friend. Here he ſtood the whole day amongſt the crowd, watching the eyes of the judge, and ex⯑pecting to be taken notice of; but he was ſo much al⯑tered by along ſucceſſion of hardſhips, that he continued unnoticed amongſt the reſt; and, in the evening, when he was going up to the praetor's chair, he was brutally repulſed by the attending lictors. The attention of the poor is generally driven from one ungrateful object to another; for night coming on, he now found him⯑ſelf under a neceſſity of ſeeking a place to lie in, and yet knew not where to apply. All emaciated, and in rags as he was, none of the citizens would harbour ſo much wretchedneſs; and ſleeping in the ſtreets might be attended with interruption or danger: In ſhort, he was obliged to take up his lodging in one of the tombs without the city, the uſual retreat of guilt, poverty, and deſpair. In this manſion of horror, laying his head upon an inverted urn, he forgot his miſeries for a while in ſleep; and found, on his flinty couch, more eaſe than beds of down can ſupply to the guilty.

As he continued here, about midnight, two robbers [56]came to make this their retreat; but happening to diſ⯑agree about the diviſion of their plunder, one of them ſtabbed the other to the heart, and left him weltering in blood at the entrance. In theſe circumſtances he was found next morning dead at the mouth of the vault. This naturally inducing a farther enquiry, an alarm was ſpread; the cave was examined; and Alcander was apprehended, and accuſed of robbery and murder. The circumſtances againſt him were ſtrong, and the wretchedneſs of his appearance confirmed ſuſpicion. Misfortune and he were now ſo long acquainted, that he at laſt became regardleſs of life. He deteſted a world where he had found only ingratitude, falſehood, and cruelty; he was determined to make no defence; and, thus lowering with reſolution, he was dragged, bound with cords, before the tribunal of Septimius. As the proofs were poſitive againſt him, and he offered nothing in his own vindication, the judge was proceed⯑ing to doom him to a moſt cruel and ignominious death, when the attention of the multitude was ſoon divided by another object. The robber, who had been really guilty, was apprehended ſelling his plunder, and, ſtruck with a panic, had confeſſed his crime. He was brought bound to the ſame tribunal, and acquitted every other perſon of any partnerſhip in his guilt. Al⯑cander's innocence therefore appeared, but the ſullen raſhneſs of his conduct remained a wonder to the ſur⯑rounding multitude; but their aſtoniſhment was ſtill farther encreaſed when they ſaw their judge ſtart from his tribunal to embrace the ſuppoſed criminal: Septi⯑mius recollected his friend and former benefactor, and hung upon his neck with tears of pity and of joy. Need the ſequel be related? Alcander was acquitted; ſhared the friendſhip and honours of the principal citizens of Rome; lived afterwards in happineſs and eaſe; and left it to be engraved on his tomb, That no circum⯑ſtances are ſo deſperate which Providence may not relieve.

The HILL of SCIENCE; a VISION.

IN that ſeaſon of the year when the ſerenity of the ſky, the various fruits which cover the ground, the diſcoloured foliage of the trees, and all the ſweet, but fading graces of inſpiring autumn, open the mind to benevolence, and diſpoſe it for contemplation, I was wandering in a beautiful and romantic country, till curioſity began to give way to wearineſs; and I ſat me down on the fragment of a rock overgrown with moſs, where the ruſtling of the falling leaves, the daſh⯑ing of waters, and the hum of the diſtant city, ſoothed my mind into the moſt perfect tranquillity, and ſleep inſenſibly ſtole upon me, as I was indulging the agreea⯑ble reveries which the objects around me naturally in⯑ſpired.

I immediately found myſelf in a vaſt extended plain, in the middle of which aroſe a mountain higher than I had before any conception of. It was covered with a multitude of people, chiefly youth; many of whom preſſed forwards with the livelieſt expreſſion of ardour in their countenance, though the way was in many places ſteep and difficult. I obſerved, that thoſe who had but juſt begun to climb the hill thought themſelves not far from the top; but as they proceeded, new hills were continually riſing to their view, and the ſummit of the higheſt they could before diſcern ſeemed but the foot of another, till the mountain at length appeared to loſe itſelf in the clouds. As I was gazing on theſe things with aſtoniſhment, my good genius ſuddenly appear⯑ed. The mountain before thee, ſaid he, is the Hill of Science. On the top is the Temple of Truth, whoſe head is above the clouds, and a veil of pure light covers her face. Obſerve the progreſs of her votaries; be ſilent and attentive.

[58]I ſaw that the only regular approach to the mountain was by a gate, called the Gate of Languages. It was kept by a woman of a penſive and thoughtful appear⯑ance, whoſe lips were continually moving, as though ſhe repeated ſomething to herſelf. Her name was Memory. On entering this firſt incloſure, I was ſtun⯑ned with a confuſed murmur of jarring voices, and diſ⯑ſonant ſounds; which increaſed upon me to ſuch a de⯑gree, that I was utterly confounded, and could compare the noiſe to nothing but the confuſion of tongues at Babel. The road was alſo rough and ſtony; and ren⯑dered more difficult by heaps of rubbiſh continually tumbled down from the higher parts of the mountain; and broken ruins of ancient buildings, which the tra⯑vellers were obliged to climb over at every ſtep; inſo⯑much that many, diſguſted with ſo rough a beginning, turned back, and attempted the mountain no more: While others, having conquered this difficulty, had not ſpirits to aſcend further, and ſitting down on ſome rubbiſh, harangued the multitude below with the great⯑eſt marks of importance and ſelf-complacency.

About half way up the hill, I obſerved on each ſide of the path a thick foreſt covered with continual fogs, and cut out into labyrinths, croſs alleys, and ſerpentine walks, entangled with thorns and briars. This was called the Wood of Error; and I heard the voices of many who were loſt up and down in it, calling to one another, and endeavouring in vain to extricate them⯑ſelves. The trees in many places ſhot their boughs over the path, and a thick miſt often reſted on it; yet never ſo much but that it was diſcernible by the light which beamed from the countenance of Truth.

In the pleaſanteſt part of the mountain were placed the bowers of the Muſes, whoſe office it was to cheer the ſpirits of the travellers, and encourage their faint⯑ing ſteps with ſongs from their divine harps.

After I had obſerved theſe things, I turned my eye towards the multitudes who were climbing the ſteep aſcent, and obſerved amongſt them a youth of a lively [59]look, a piercing eye, and ſomething fiery and irregular in all his motions. His name was Genius. He darted like an eagle up the mountain, and left his companions gazing after him with envy and admiration; but his progreſs was unequal, and interrupted by a thouſand caprices. When Pleaſure warbled in the valley, he mingled in her train. When Pride beckoned towards the precipice, he ventured to the tottering edge. He delighted in devious and untried paths; and made ſo many excurſions from the road, that his feebler com⯑panions often outſtripped him. I obſerved that the Muſes beheld him with partiality; but Truth often frowned, and turned aſide her face. While Genius was thus waſting his ſtrength in eccentric flights, I ſaw a perſon of a very different appearance, named Appli⯑cation. He crept along with a ſlow and unremitting pace, his eyes fixed on the top of the mountain, patient⯑ly removing every ſtone that obſtructed his way, till he ſaw moſt of thoſe below him who had at firſt derided his ſlow and toilſome progreſs. Indeed there were few who aſcended the hill with equal and uninterrupted ſteadineſs; for, beſide the difficulties of the way, they were continually ſolicited to turn aſide by a numerous crowd of Appetites, Paſſions, and Pleaſures, whoſe im⯑portunity, when they had once complied with, they became leſs and leſs able to reſiſt; and though they often returned to the path, the aſperities of the road were more ſeverely felt, the hill appeared more ſteep and rugged, the fruits which were wholeſome and re⯑freſhing ſeemed harſh and ill-taſted, their ſight grew dim, and their feet tript at every little obſtruction.

I ſaw, with ſome ſurprize, that the Muſes, whoſe buſineſs was to cheer and encourage thoſe who were toiling up the aſcent, would often ſing in the bowers of Pleaſure, and accompany thoſe who were enticed away at the call of the Paſſions; they accompanied them however, but a little way, and always forſook them when they loſt ſight of the hill. The tyrants then doubled their chains upon the unhappy captives, [60]and led them away, without reſiſtance, to the cells of Ignorance, or the manſions of Miſery. Amongſt the innumerable ſeducers, who were endeavouring to draw away the votaries of Truth from the path of Science, there was one ſo little formidable in her appearance, and ſo gentle and languid in her attempts, that I ſhould ſcarcely have taken notice of her, but for the numbers ſhe had imperceptibly loaded with her chains. Indo⯑lence (for ſo ſhe was called) far from proceeding to open hoſtilities, did not attempt to turn their feet out of the path, but contented herſelf with retarding their pro⯑greſs; and the purpoſe ſhe could not force them to a⯑bandon, ſhe perſuaded them to delay. Her touch had a power like that of the torpedo, which withered the ſtrength of thoſe who came within its influence. Her unhappy captives ſtill turned their faces towards the temple, and always hoped to arrive there; but the ground ſeemed to ſlide from beneath their feet, and they found themſelves at the bottom, before they ſuſ⯑pected they had changed their place. The placid ſe⯑renity which at firſt appeared in their countenance, changed by degrees into a melancholy languor, which was tinged with deeper and deeper gloom, as they glided down the ſtream of Inſignificance; a dark and ſluggiſh water which is curled by no breeze, and en⯑livened by no murmur, till it falls into a dead ſea, where the ſtartled paſſengers are awakened by the ſhock, and the next moment burried in the gulf of Oblivion.

Of all the unhappy deſerters from the paths of Sci⯑ence, none ſeemed leſs able to return than the followers of Indolence. The captives of Appetite and Paſſion could often ſeize the moment when their tyrants were languid or aſleep to eſcape from their enchantment; but the dominion of Indolence was conſtant and unre⯑mitted, and ſeldom reſiſted, till reſiſtance was in vain.

After contemplating theſe things, I turned my eyes towards the top of the mountain, where the air was always pure and exhilarating, the path ſhaded with laurels and other ever-greens, and the effulgence which [61]beamed from the face of the goddeſs, ſeemed to ſhed a glory round her votaries. Happy, ſaid I, are they who are permitted to aſcend the mountain!—but while I was pronouncing this exclamation with uncommon ardour, I ſaw ſtanding beſide me a form of diviner features and a more benign radiance. Happer, ſaid ſhe, are thoſe whom Virtue conducts to the manſions of Content! What, ſaid I, does Virtue then reſide in the vale? I am found, ſaid ſhe, in the vale, and I illu⯑minate the mountain: I cheer the cottager at his toil, and inſpire the ſage at his meditation. I mingle in the crowd of cities, and bleſs the hermit in his cell. I have a temple in every heart that owns my influence; and to him that wiſhes for me I am already preſent. Sci⯑ence may raiſe you to eminence, but I alone can guide you to felicity! While the goddeſs was thus ſpeaking I ſtretched out my arms towards her with a vehemence which broke my ſlumbers. The chill dews were fall⯑ing around me, and the ſhades of evening ſtretched over the landſcape. I haſtened homeward, and re⯑ſigned the night to ſilence and meditation.

On CRUELTY to ANIMALS.

MONTAIGNE thinks it ſome reflection upon human nature itſelf, that few people take de⯑light in ſeeing beaſts careſs or play together, but almoſt every one is pleaſed to ſee them lacerate and worry one another. I am ſorry this temper is become al⯑moſt a diſtinguiſhing character of our own nation, from the obſervation which is made by foreigners of our beloved paſtimes, bear-baiting, cock-fighting, and the like. We ſhould find it hard to vindicate the deſ⯑troying any thing that has life, merely out of wan⯑tonnneſs: Yet in this principle our children are bred [62]up; and one of the firſt pleaſures we allow them, is the licence of inflicting pain upon poor animals: Almoſt as ſoon as we are ſenſible what life is ourſelves, we make it our ſport to take it from other creatures. I cannot but believe a very good uſe might be made of the fancy which children have for birds and inſects. Mr Locke takes notice of a mother who permitted them to her children, but rewarded or puniſhed them as they treat⯑ed them well or ill. This was no other than entering them betimes into a daily exerciſe of humanity, and improving their very diverſion to a virtue.

I fancy, too, ſome advantage might be taken of the common notion, that 'tis ominous or unlucky to deſ⯑troy ſome ſorts of birds, as ſwallows and martins. This opinion might poſſibly ariſe from the confidence theſe birds ſeem to put in us by building under our roofs; ſo that it is a kind of violation of the laws of hoſpitality to murder them. As for Robin-red-breaſts in particular, it is not improbable they owe their ſecu⯑rity to the old ballad of "The children in the wood." However it be, I don't know, I ſay, why this prejudice, well improved and carried as far as it would go, might not be made to conduce to the preſervation of many innocent creatures, which are now expoſed to all the wantonneſs of an ignorant barbarity.

There are other animals that have the misfortune, for no manner of reaſon, to be treated as common ene⯑mies, wherever found. The conceit that a cat has nine lives, has coſt at leaſt nine lives in ten of the whole race of them: Scarce a boy in the ſtreet but has, in this point, outdone Hercules himſelf, who was famous for killing a monſter that had but three lives. Whe⯑ther the unaccountable animoſity againſt this uſeful domeſtic may be any cauſe of the general perſecution of owls (who are a ſort of feathered cats) or whether it be only an unreaſonable pique the moderns have taken to a ſerious countenance, I ſhall not determine: Tho' I am inclined to believe the former; ſince I obſerve the ſole reaſon alleged for the deſtruction of frogs is [63]becauſe they are like toads. Yet, amidſt all the mis⯑fortunes of theſe unfriended creatures, 'tis ſome hap⯑pineſs that we have not yet taken a fancy to eat them: For ſhould our countrymen refine upon the French never ſo little, 'tis not to be conceived to what unheard-of torments, owls, cats, and frogs, may be yet reſerved.

When we grow up to men, we have another ſucceſ⯑ceſſion of ſanguinary ſports; in particular, hunting. I dare not attack a diverſion which has ſuch authority and cuſtom to ſupport it; but muſt have leave to be of opinion, that the agitation of that exerciſe, with the example and number of the chaſers, not a little contribute to reſiſt thoſe checks, which compaſſion would naturally ſuggeſt in behalf of the animal purſu⯑ed. Nor ſhall I ſay, with Monſieur Fleury, that this ſport is a remain of the Gothic barbarity; but I muſt animadvert upon a certain cuſtom yet in uſe with us, and barbarous enough to be derived from the Goths, or even the Scythians: I mean that ſavage compliment our huntſmen paſt upon ladies of quality, who are pre⯑ſent at the death of a ſtag, when they put the knife in their hands to cut the throat of a helpleſs, trembling, and weeping creature.

On ENVY.

ENVY is almoſt the only vice which is practicable at all times, and in every place; the only paſſion which can never lie quiet for want of irritation; its ef⯑fects, therefore, are every where diſcoverable, and its attempts always to be dreaded.

It is impoſſible to mention a name, which any ad⯑vantageous diſtinction has made eminent, but ſome la⯑tent animoſity will burſt out. The wealthy trader, however he may abſtract himſelf from public affairs, [64]will never want thoſe who hint with Shylock, that ſhips are but boards, and that no man can properly be term⯑ed rich whoſe fortune is at the mercy of the winds. The beauty adorned only with the unambitious graces of innocence and modeſty, provokes, whenever ſhe ap⯑pears, a thouſand murmurs of detraction, and whiſpers of ſuſpicion. The genius, even when he endeavours only to entertain with pleaſing images of nature, or in⯑ſtruct by unconteſted principles of ſcience, yet ſuffers perſecution from innumerable critics, whoſe acrimony is excited merely by the pain of ſeeing others pleaſed, of hearing applauſes which another enjoys.

The frequency of envy makes it ſo familiar, that it eſcapes our not [...]ce; nor do we often reflect upon its turpitude or malignity, till we happen to feel its influ⯑ence. When he that has given no provocation to ma⯑lice, but by attempting to excel in ſome uſeful art, finds himſelf purſued, by multitudes whom he never ſaw, with implacability of perſonal reſentment; when he perceives clamour and malice let looſe upon him as a public enemy, and incited by every ſtratagem of defa⯑mation; when he hears the misfortunes of his family, or the follies of his youth, expoſed to the world; and every failure of conduct, or defect of nature, aggravated and ridiculed; he then learns to abhor thoſe artifices at which he only laughed before, and diſcovers how much the happineſs of life would be advanced by the eradication of envy from the human heart.

Envy is, indeed, a ſtubborn weed of the mind, and ſeldom yields to the culture of philoſophy. There are, however, conſiderations, which, if carefully implanted, and diligently propagated, might in time overpower and repreſs it, ſince no one can nurſe it for the ſake of pleaſure, as its effects are only ſhame, anguiſh, and perturbation.

It is, above all other vices, inconſiſtent with the cha⯑racter of a ſocial being, becauſe it ſacrifices truth and kindneſs to very weak temptations. He that plunders a wealthy neighbour, gains as much as he takes away, [56]and improves his own condition, in the ſame propor⯑tion as he impairs another's; but he that blaſts a flouriſhing reputation, muſt be content with a ſmall dividend of additional fame, ſo ſmall as can afford very little conſolation to balance the guilt by which it is obtained.

I have hitherto avoided mentioning that dangerous and empirical morality, which cures one vice by means of another. But envy is ſo baſe and deteſtable, ſo vile in its original, and ſo pernicious in its effects, that the predominance of almoſt any other quality is to be de⯑ſired. It is one of thoſe lawleſs enemies of ſociety, againſt which poiſoned arrows may honeſtly be uſed. Let it it therefore be conſtantly remembered, that who⯑ever envies another, confeſſes his ſuperiority; and let thoſe be reformed by their pride, who have loſt their virtue.

It is no ſlight aggravation of the injuries which envy incites, that they are committed againſt thoſe who have given no intentional provocation; and that the ſufferer is marked out for ruin, not becauſe he has failed in any duty, but becauſe he has dared to do more than was required.

Almoſt every other crime is practiſed by the help of ſome quality which might have produced eſteem or love, if it had been well employed; but envy is a more unmixed and genuine evil; it purſues a hateful end by deſpicable means, and deſires not ſo much its own hap⯑pineſs as another's miſery. To avoid depravity like this, it is not neceſſary that any one ſhould aſpire to heroiſm or ſanctity; but only, that he ſhould reſolve not to quit the rank which nature aſſigns, and wiſh to maintain the dignity of a human being.

LEARNING ſhould be ſometimes applied to cultivate our MORALS.

ENVY, curioſity, and our ſenſe of the imperfection of our preſent ſtate, inclines us always to eſtimate the advantages which are in the poſſeſſion of others above their real value. Every one muſt have remarked what powers and prerogatives the vulgar imagine to be conferred by learning. A man of ſcience is expected to excel the unlettered and unenlightened, even on oc⯑caſions where literature is of no uſe, and among weak minds loſes part of his reverence by diſcovering no ſu⯑periority in thoſe parts of life, in which all are una⯑voidably equal; as when a monarch makes a progreſs to the remoter provinces, the ruſtics are ſaid ſome⯑times to wonder that they find him of the ſame ſize with themſelves.

Theſe demands of prejudice and folly can never be ſatisfied, and therefore many of the imputations which learning ſuffers from diſappointed ignorance, are with⯑out reproach. Yet it cannot be denied, that there are ſome failures to which men of ſtudy are peculiarly ex⯑poſed. Every condition has its diſadvantages. The circle of knowledge is too wide for the moſt active and diligent intellect, and while ſcience is purſued with ardour, other accompliſhments of equal uſe are neceſ⯑ſarily neglected; as a ſmall garriſon muſt leave one part of an extenſive fortreſs naked, when an alarm calls them to another.

The learned, however, might generally ſupport their dignity with more ſucceſs, if they ſuffered not them⯑ſelves to be miſled by ſuperfluous attainments of quali⯑fications which few can underſtand or value, and by ſkill which they may ſink into the grave without any [67]conſpicuous opportunities of exerting. Raphael, in return to Adam's enquiries into the courſes of the ſtars and the revolutions of heaven, counſels him to with⯑draw his mind from idle ſpeculations, and, inſtead of watching motions which he has no power to regulate, to employ his faculties upon nearer and more intereſt⯑ing objects, the ſurvey of his paſſions, the knowledge of duties which muſt daily be performed, and the de⯑tection of dangers which muſt daily be incurred.

This angelic counſel every man of letters ſhould al⯑ways have before him. He that devotes himſelf whol⯑ly to retired ſtudy, naturally ſinks from omiſſion to for⯑getfulneſs of ſocial duties, and from which he muſt be ſometimes awakened, and recalled to the general con⯑dition of mankind.

So many hindrances many obſtruct the acquiſition of knowledge, that there is little reaſon for wondering that it is in a few hands. To the greater part of man⯑kind the duties of life are inconſiſtent with much ſtudy, and the hours which they would ſpend upon letters muſt be ſtolen from their occupations and their fami⯑lies. Many ſuffer themſelves to be lured by more ſprightly and luxuriant pleaſures from the ſhades of contemplation, where they find ſeldom more than a calm delight, ſuch as, though greater than all others, if its certainty and its duration be reckoned with its power of gratification, is yet eaſily quitted for ſome ex⯑temporary joy, which the preſent moment offers, and another perhaps will put out of reach.

It is the great excellence of learning that it borrows very little from time or place; it is not confined to ſeaſon or climate, to cities or to the country, but may be cultivated and enjoyed where no other pleaſure can be obtained. But this quality, which conſtitutes much of its value, is one occaſion of neglect; what may be done at all times with equal propriety, is deferred from day to day, till the mind is gradually reconciled to the omiſſion, and the attention is turned to other objects. Thus habitual idleneſs gains too much power to be [68]conquered, and the ſoul ſinks from the idea of intel⯑lectual labour and intenſeneſs of meditation.

That thoſe who profeſs to advance learning ſome⯑times obſtruct it, cannot be denied; the continual mul⯑tiplication of books not only diſtracts choice, but diſ⯑appoints enquiry. To him that has moderately ſtored his mind with images, few writers afford any novelty; or what little they have to add to the common ſtock of learning is ſo buried in the maſs of general notions, that, like ſilver mingled with the ore of lead, it is too little to pay for the labour of ſeparation; and he that has often been deceived by the promiſe of a title, at laſt grows weary of examining, and is tempted to conſider all as equally fallacious.

The two BEES.

ON a fine morning in May, two bees ſet forward in queſt of honey; the one wiſe and temperate, the other careleſs and extravagant. They ſoon arrived at a garden enriched with aromatic herbs, the moſt fragrant flowers, and the moſt delicious fruits. They regaled themſelves for a time on the various dainties that were ſpread before them: The one loading his thigh at intervals with proviſions for the hive againſt the diſtant winter; the other revelling in ſweets, with⯑out regard to any thing but his preſent gratification. At length they found a wide-mouthed phial, that hung beneath the bough of a peach-tree, filled with honey ready tempered, and expoſed to their taſte in the moſt alluring manner. The thoughtleſs epicure, ſpite of all his friend's remonſtrances, plunged headlong into the veſſel, reſolving to indulge himſelf in all the pleaſures of ſenſuality. The philoſopher, on the other hand, ſipped a little with caution; but being ſuſpicious of [69]danger, flew off to fruits and flowers; where by the moderation of his meals, he improved his reliſh for the true enjoyment of them. In the evening, however, he called upon his friend, to enquire whether he would return to the hive; but found him ſurfeited in ſweets, which he was as unable to leave, as to enjoy. Clogged in his wings, enfeebled in his feet, and his whole frame totally enervated, he was but juſt able to bid his friend adieu, and to lament with his lateſt breath, that, though a taſte of pleaſure might quicken the reliſh of life, an unreſtrained indulgence is inevitable deſtruction.

On CRUELTY to inferior ANIMALS.

MAN is that link of the chain of univerſal exiſt⯑ence by which ſpiritual and corporeal beings are united: As the numbers and variety of the latter his inferiors are almoſt infinite, ſo probably are thoſe of the former his ſuperiors; and as we ſee that the lives and happineſs of thoſe below us are dependent on our wills, we may reaſonably conclude, that our lives and happineſs are equally dependent on the wills of thoſe above us; accountable, like ourſelves, for the uſe of this power, to the Supreme Creator, and Governor of all things. Should this analogy be well founded, how criminal will our account appear, when laid before that juſt and impartial Judge! How will man, that ſanguinary tyrant, be able to excuſe himſelf from the charge of thoſe innumerable cruelties inflicted on his unoffending ſubjects committed to his care, formed for his benefit, and placed under his authority by their com⯑mon Father? whoſe mercy is over all his works, and who expects that his authority ſhould be exerciſed not only with tenderneſs and mercy, but in conformity to the laws of juſtice and gratitude.

[70]But to what horrid deviations from theſe benevolent intentions are we daily witneſſes! No ſmall part of mankind derive their chief amuſements from the deaths and ſufferings of inferior animals; a much greater, conſider them only as engines of wood, or iron, uſeful in their ſeveral occupations. The carman drives his horſe, and the carpenter his nail, by repeated blows; and ſo long as theſe produce the deſired effect, and they both go, they neither reflect nor care whether either of them have any ſenſe of feeling. The butcher knocks down the ſtately ox, with no more compaſſion than the blackſmith hammers a horſe-ſhoe; and plunges his knife into the throat of the innocent lamb, with as little reluctance as the taylor ſticks his needle into the collar of a coat.

If there are ſome few, who, formed in a ſofter mould, view with pity the ſufferings of theſe defence⯑leſs creatures, there is ſcarce one who entertains the leaſt idea, that juſtice or gratitude can be due to their merits, or their ſervices. The ſocial and friendly dog is hanged without remorſe, if, by barking in defence of his maſter's perſon and property, he happens un⯑knowingly to diſturb his reſt: The generous horſe, who has carried his ungrateful maſter for many years with eaſe and ſafety, worn out with age and infirmities, contracted in his ſervice, is by him condemned to end his miſerable days in a duſt-cart, where the more he exerts his little remains of ſpirit, the more he is whip⯑ped, to ſave his ſtupid driver the trouble of whipping ſome other leſs obedient to the laſh. Sometimes, hav⯑ing been taught the practice of many unnatural and uſeleſs feats in a riding-houſe, he is at laſt turned out, and conſigned to the dominion of hackney-coachman, by whom he is every day corrected for performing thoſe tricks, which he had learned under ſo long and ſevere a diſcipline. The ſluggiſh bear, in contradiction to his nature, is taught to dance, for the diverſion of a malignant mob, by placing red-hot irons under his feet: And the majeſtic bull is tortured by every mode [71]which malice can invent, for no offence, but that he is gentle, and unwilling to aſſail his diabolical tormentors. Theſe, with innumerable other acts of cruelty, injuſtice, and ingratitude, are every day committed, not only with impunity, but without cenſure, and even without obſervation; but we may be aſſured, that they cannot finally paſs away unnoticed and unretaliated.

The laws of ſelf-defence undoubtedly juſtify us in deſtroying thoſe animals which would deſtroy us, who injure our properties, or annoy our perſons; but not even theſe, whenever their ſituation incapacitates them from hurting us. I know of no right which we have to ſhoot at a bear on an inacceſſible iſland of ice, or an eagle on the mountain's top; whoſe lives cannot injure us, nor deaths procure us any benefit. We are unable to give life, and therefore ought not wantonly to take it away from the meaneſt inſect, without ſufficient reaſon; they all receive it from the ſame benevolent hand as ourſelves, and have therefore an equal right to enjoy it.

God has been pleaſed to create numberleſs animals intended for our ſuſtenance; and that they are ſo in⯑tended, the agreeable flavour of their fleſh to our palates, and the wholeſome nutriment which it adminiſters to our ſtomachs, are ſufficient proofs: Theſe, as they are formed for our uſe, propagated by our culture, and fed by our care, we have certainly a right to deprive of life, becauſe it is given and preſerved to them on that con⯑dition; but this ſhould always be performed with all the tenderneſs and compaſſion which ſo diſagreeable an office will permit; and no circumſtances ought to be omitted, which can render their executions as quick and eaſy as poſſible. For this, Providence has wiſely and benevolently provided, by forming them in ſuch a manner, that their fleſh becomes rancid and unpalata⯑ble by a painful and lingering death; and has thus compelled us to be merciful without compaſſion, and cautious of their ſuffering, for the ſake of ourſelves: But, if there are any whoſe taſtes are ſo vitiated, and [72]whoſe hearts are ſo hardened, as to delight in ſuch in⯑human ſacrifices, and to partake of them without re⯑morſe, they ſhould be looked upon as daemons in hu⯑man ſhapes, and expect a retaliation of thoſe tortures which they have inflicted on the innocent, for the gratification of their own depraved and unnatural ap⯑petites.

So violent are the paſſions of anger and revenge in the human breaſt, that it is not wonderful that men ſhould perſecute their real or imaginary enemies with cruelty and malevolence; but that there ſhould exiſt in nature a being who can receive pleaſure from giving pain, would be totally incredible, if we were not con⯑vinced, by melancholy experience, that there are not only many, but that this unaccountable diſpoſition is in ſome manner inherent in the nature of man; for, as he cannot be taught by example, nor led to it by temp⯑tation, or prompted to it by intereſt, it muſt be derived from his native conſtitution; and is a remarkable con⯑firmation of what revelation ſo frequently inculcates—that he brings into the world with him an original de⯑pravity, the effects of a fallen and degenerate ſtate; in proof of which we need only obſerve, that the nearer he approaches to a ſtate of nature, the more predomi⯑nant this diſpoſition appears, and the more violently it operates. We ſee children laughing at the miſeries which they inflict on every unfortunate animal which comes within their power; all ſavages are ingenious in contriving, and happy in executing the moſt exquiſite tortures; and the common people of all countries are delighted with nothing ſo much as bull-baitings, prize-fightings, executions, and all ſpectacles of cruelty and horror. Though civilization may in ſome degree abate this native ferocity, it can never quite extirpate it; the moſt poliſhed are not aſhamed to be pleaſed with ſcenes of little leſs barbarity, and, to the diſgrace of human nature, to dignify them with the name of ſports. They arm cocks with artificial weapons, which nature had kindly denied to their malevolence, and, with ſhouts of [73]applauſe and triumph, ſee them plunge them into each other's hearts: They view with delight the trembling deer and defenceleſs hare, flying for hours in the ut⯑moſt agonies of terror and deſpair, and at laſt, ſinking under fatigue, devoured, by their mercileſs purſuers: They ſee with joy the beautiful pheaſant and harmleſs partridge drop from their flight, weltering in their blood, or perhaps periſhing with wounds and hunger, under the cover of ſome friendly thicket, to which they have in vain retreated for ſafety: They triumph over the unſuſpecting fiſh, whom they have decoyed by an inſidious pretence of feeding, and drag him from his native element by a hook fixed to and tearing out his entrails: And, to add to all this, they ſpare neither labour not expence to preſerve and propagate theſe in⯑nocent animals, for no other end but to multiply the objects of their perſecution.

What name ſhould we beſtow on a ſuperior being, whoſe whole endeavours were employed, and whoſe pleaſure conſiſted, in terrifying, enſnaring, tormenting, and deſtroying mankind? whoſe ſuperior faculties were exerted in fomenting animoſities amongſt them, in contriving engines of deſtruction, and inciting them to uſe them in maiming and murdering each other? whoſe power over them was employed in aſſiſting the rapacious, deceiving the ſimple, and oppreſſing the in⯑nocent? who, without provocation or advantage, ſhould continue from day to day, void of all pity and remorſe, thus to torment mankind for diverſion, and at the ſame time endeavour with his utmoſt care to preſerve their lives, and to propagate their ſpecies, in order to increaſe the number of victims devoted to his malevo⯑lence, and be delighted in proportion to the miſeries he occaſioned? I ſay, what name deteſtable enough could we find for ſuch a being? yet, if we impartially conſider the caſe, and our intermediate ſituation, we muſt acknowledge, that, with regard to inferior ani⯑mals, juſt ſuch a being is a ſportſman.

The FOLLY of inconſiſtent EXPECTATIONS.

THIS world may be conſidered as a great mart of commerce, where fortune expoſes to our view various commodities, riches, eaſe, tranquility, fame, integrity, knowledge. Every thing is marked at a ſettled price. Our time, our labour, our ingenuity, is ſo much ready money which we are to lay out to the beſt advantage. Examine, compare, chooſe, reject: But to ſtand to your own judgment; and do not, like children, when you have purchaſed one thing, repine that you do not poſſeſs another which you did not pur⯑chaſe, Such is the force of well-regulated induſtry, that a ſteady and vigorous exertion 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 patient dili⯑gence, and attention to the minuteſt articles of expence and profit. But you muſt give up the pleaſures of leiſure, of a vacant mind, of a free unſuſpicious tem⯑per. If you preſerve your integrity, it muſt be coarſe⯑ſpun and vulgar honeſty. Thoſe high and lofty no⯑tions of morals which you brought with you from the ſchools muſt be conſiderably lowered, and mixed with the baſer alloy of a jealous and worldly-minded pru⯑dence. You muſt learn to do hard, if not unjuſt things; and for the nice embarraſſments 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 under⯑ſtanding 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 [67]one beaten track, without turning aſide either to the right hand or to the left.—"But I cannot ſubmit to drudgery like this—I feel a ſpirit above it." 'Tis well: Be above it them; 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. Bow to theſe, and you ſhall be learned. "But," ſays the man of letters, "what a hardſhip is it, 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 conveniencies of life!" Was it to be rich that you grew pale over the mid⯑night 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 labours?" What reward! A large comprehenſive ſoul, well purged from vulgar fears, and perturbations, and prejudices; able to com⯑prehend and interpret the works of man—of God. A rich, flouriſhing, cultivated mind, pregnant with inex⯑hauſtible ſtores of entertainment and reflection. A perpetual ſpring of freſh ideas, and the conſcious dig⯑nity of ſuperior intelligence. Good Heaven! and what reward can you aſk beſides?

"But is it not ſome reproach upon the oeconomy of Providence, 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 outſhines you in equipage and ſhow? Lift up your brow with a noble confidence, and ſay to yourſelf, "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; I am content and ſatisfied:"

[76]You are modeſt man—you love quiet and inde⯑pendence, and have a delicacy and reſerve in your temper which renders it impoſſible for you to elbow your way into the world, and be the herald of your own merits. Be content, then, with a modeſt retirement, with the eſteem of your intimate friends, with the praiſes of a blameleſs heart, and a delicate, ingenuous ſpirit; but reſign the ſplendid 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 ſcrupu⯑lous and fearful of offending, is often heard to com⯑plain of the diſadvantages he lies under in every path of honour 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 preferment." And why can you not? What hinders you from diſcarding this troubleſome ſcrupuloſity of yours, which ſtands ſo grie⯑vouſly in your way? If it be a ſmall thing to enjoy a healthful mind, ſound at the very core, that does not ſhrink from the keeneſt inſpection; inward freedom from remorſe and perturbation; unſullied whiteneſs and ſimplicity of manners; a genuine integrity, ‘Pure in the laſt receſſes of the mind;’ if you think theſe advantages an inadequate recom⯑pence for what you reſign, diſmiſs your ſcruples this inſtant, and be a ſlave-merchant, a director—or what you pleaſe.

The SIEGE of CALAIS.

EDWARD III. after the battle of Creſſy, laid ſiege to Calais. He had fortified his camp in ſo im⯑pregnable a manner, that all the efforts of France proved ineffectual to raiſe the ſiege, or throw ſuccours into the city. The citizens, under Count Vienne, their gallant governor, made an admirable defence. France had now put the ſickle into her ſecond harveſt, ſince Edward with his victorious army, ſat down before the town. The eyes of all Europe were intent on the iſſue. At length, a famine did more for Edward than arms.—After ſuffering unheard-of calamities, they re⯑ſolved to attempt the enemy's camp. They boldly ſal⯑lied forth: The Engliſh joined battle; and, after a long and deſperate engagement, Count Vienne was taken priſoner, and the citizens who ſurvived the ſlaughter retired within their gates. The command devolving upon Euſtace St Pierre, a man of mean birth but of exalted virtue, he offered to capitulate with Edward, provided he permitted them to depart with life and liberty. Edward, to avoid the imputation of cruelty, conſented to ſpare the bulk of the plebeians, provided they delivered up to him ſix of their principal citizens with halters about their necks, as victims of due atonement for that ſpirit of rebellion with which they had inflamed the vulgar. When his meſſenger, Sir Walter Mauny, delivered the terms, conſternation and pale diſmay were impreſſed on every countenance. To a long and dead ſilence deep ſighs and groans ſuc⯑ceeded, till Euſtace St Pierre, getting up to a little emi⯑nence, thus addreſſed the aſſembly:—"My friends, we are brought to great ſtraits this day. We muſt either yield to the terms of our cruel and enſnaring con⯑queror, or give up our tender infants, our wives, and [78]daughters, to the bloody and brutal luſts of the violating ſoldiers. Is there any expedient left, whereby we may avoid the guilt and infamy of delivering up thoſe who have ſuffered every miſery with you, on the one hand, or the deſolation and horror of a ſacked city on the other? There is, my friends, there is one expedient leſt; a gracious, an excellent, a godlike expedient! Is there any here to whom virtue is dearer than life? Let him offer himſelf an oblation for the ſafety of his peo⯑ple! He ſhall not fail of a bleſſed approbation from that Power, who offered up his only ſon for the ſalva⯑tion of mankind." He ſpoke;—but an univerſal ſi⯑lence enſued. Each man looked around for the exam⯑ple of that virtue and magnanimity which all wiſhed to approve in themſelves, though they wanted the reſolu⯑tion. At length St Pierre reſumed, "I doubt not but there are many here as ready, nay more zealous, of this martyrdom than I can be; though the ſtation to which I am raiſed by the captivity of Lord Vienne, imparts a right to be the firſt in giving my life for your ſakes. I give it freely; I give it cheerfully. Who comes next?" "Your ſon," exclaimed a youth not yet come to maturity.—"Ah, my child!" cried St Pierre; "I am then twice ſacrificed.—But, no: I have rather be⯑gotten thee a ſecond time. Thy years are few, but full, my ſon. The victim of virtue has reached the utmoſt purpoſe and goal of mortality. Who next, my friends? This is the hour of heroes." "Your kinſ⯑man," cried John de Aire. "Your kinſman," cried James Wiſſant. "Your kinſman," cried Peter Wiſ⯑ſant.—"Ah!" exclaimed Sir Walter Mauny, burſting into tears, "why was not I a citizen of Calais!" The ſixth victim was ſtill wanting, but was quickly ſup⯑plied by lot from numbers who were now emulous of ſo ennobling an example. The keys of the city were then delivered to Sir Walter. He took the ſix priſoners into his cuſtody; then ordered the gates to be opened, and gave charge to his attendants to conduct the re⯑maining citizens, with their families, through the camp [79]of the Engliſh. Before they departed, however, they deſired permiſſion to take their laſt adieu of their de⯑liverers. What a parting! what a ſcene! They crowded, with their wives and children, about St Pierre and his fellow-priſoners. They embraced; they clung around; they fell proſtrate before them. They groaned; they wept aloud; and the joint clamour of their mourning paſſed the gates of the city, and was heard throughout the Engliſh camp. The Engliſh, by this time, were appriſed of what paſſed within Calais. They heard the voice of lamentation, and their ſouls were touched with compaſſion. Each of the ſoldiers prepared a por⯑tion of his own victuals to welcome and entertain the half-famiſhed inhabitants; and they loaded them with as much as their preſent weakneſs was able to bear, in order to ſupply them with ſuſtenance by the way. At length St Pierre and his fellow-victims appeared under the conduct of Sir Walter and a guard. All the tents of the Engliſh were inſtantly emptied. The ſoldiers poured from all parts, and arranged themſelves on each ſide, to behold, to contemplate, to admire, this little band of patriots as they paſſed. They bowed down to them on all ſides. They murmured their applauſe of that virtue, which they could not but revere even in enemies; and they regarded thoſe ropes which they had voluntarily aſſumed about their necks, as enſigns of greater dignity than that of the Britiſh garter. As ſoon as they had reached the preſence, "Mauny," ſays the monarch, "are theſe the principal inhabitants of Ca⯑lais?"—"They are," ſays Mauny; "they are not on⯑ly the principal men of Calais, they are principal men of France, my Lord, if virtue has any ſhare in the act of ennobling." "Were they delivered peaceably?" ſays Edward; "was there no reſiſtance, no commotion among the people?" "Not in the leaſt, my Lord; the people would all have periſhed, rather than have delivered the leaſt of theſe to your Majeſty. They are ſelf-delivered, ſelf-devoted, and come to offer up their ineſtimable heads as an ample equivalent for the ran⯑ſom [80]of thouſands." Edward was ſecretly piqued at this reply of Sir Walter; but he knew the privilege of a Britiſh ſubject, and ſuppreſſed his reſentment. "Ex⯑perience," ſays he, "has ever ſhown, that lenity only ſerves to invite people to new crimes. Severity, at times, is indiſpenſibly neceſſary to compel ſubjects to ſubmiſſion by puniſhment and example. Go," he cried to an officer, "lead theſe men to execution."

At this inſtant a ſound of triumph was heard through⯑out the camp. The Queen had juſt arrived with a powerful reinforcement of gallant troops. Sir Walter Mauny flew to receive her Majeſty, and briefly inform⯑ed her of the particulars reſpecting the ſix victims.

As ſoon as ſhe had been welcomed by Edward and his court, ſhe deſired a private audience.—"My Lord," ſaid ſhe, "the queſtion I am to enter upon, is not touching the lives of a few mechanics—it reſpects the honour of the Engliſh nation; it reſpects the glory of my Edward, my huſband, my king.—You think you have ſentenced ſix of your priſoners to death. No, my Lord, they have ſentenced themſelves; and their exe⯑cution would be the execution of their own orders, not the orders of Edward. The ſtage on which they would ſuffer, would be to them a ſtage of honour, but a ſtage of ſhame to Edward; a reproach to his conqueſts; an indelible diſgrace to his name. Let us rather diſappoint theſe haughty burghers, who wiſh to inveſt themſelves with glory at our expence. We cannot wholly deprive them of the merit of a ſacrifice ſo nobly intended, but we may cut them ſhort of their deſires; in the place of that death by which their glory would be conſum⯑mate, let us bury them under gifts; let us put them to confuſion with applauſes. We ſhall thereby defeat them of that popular opinion, which never fails to at⯑tend thoſe who ſuffer in the cauſe of virtue." "I am convinced; you have prevailed. Be it ſo," replied Ed⯑ward: "Prevent the execution; have them inſtantly before us." They came; when the Queen, with an aſ⯑pect and accents diffuſing ſweetneſs, thus beſpoke [81]them:—"Natives of France and inhabitants of Calais, ye have put us to a vaſt expence of blood and treaſure in the recovery of our juſt and natural inheritance: But you have acted up to the beſt of an erroneous judg⯑ment; and we admire and honour in you that valour and virtue, by which we are ſo long kept out of our rightful poſſeſſions. You noble burghers! you excel⯑lent citizens! though you were tenfold the enemies of our perſon and our throne, we can feel nothing on our part, ſave reſpect and affection for you. You have been ſufficiently teſted. We looſe your chains; we ſnatch you from the ſcaffold; and we thank you for that leſſon of humiliation which you teach us, when you ſhow us, that excellence is not of blood, of title, or ſta⯑tion;—that virtue gives a dignity ſuperior to that of kings; and that thoſe whom the Almighty informs with ſentiments like yours, are juſtly and eminently raiſed above all human diſtinctions. You are now free to depart to your kinsfolk, your countrymen, to all thoſe whoſe lives and liberties you have ſo nobly redeemed, provided you refuſe not the tokens of our eſteem. Yet we would rather bind you to ourſelves, by every endear⯑ing obligation; and for this purpoſe, we offer to you your choice of the gifts and honours that Edward has to beſtow. Rivals for fame, but always friends to vir⯑tue, we wiſh that England were intitled to call your her ſons." "Ah, my country!" exclaimed Pierre; "It is now that I tremble for you. Edward only wins our cities, but Philippa conquers our hearts."

LIBERTY and SLAVERY.

DISGUISE thyſelf as thou wilt, ſtill Slavery! ſtill thou art a bitter draught; and though thouſands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no leſs bitter on that account. It is thou, Liberty! thrice ſweet and gracious goddeſs! whom all, in pub⯑lic or in private, worſhip; whoſe taſte is grateful, and ever will be ſo till nature herſelf ſhall change. No tint of words can ſpot thy ſnowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy ſceptre into iron. With thee to ſmile upon him while he eats his cruſt, the ſwain is happier than his monarch, from whoſe court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven! 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.

Purſuing theſe ideas, I ſat down cloſe by my table; and, leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myſelf the miſeries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and ſo I gave full ſcope to my imagina⯑tion.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures, born to no inheritance but ſlavery; but find⯑ing, however affecting the picture was, that I 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, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door, to take his picture.

I beheld his body half waſted away with long expecta⯑tion and confinement; and felt what kind of ſickneſs of the heart it is which ariſes from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I ſaw him pale and feveriſh. In [83]thirty years the weſtern breezes had not once fanned his blood—he had ſeen no ſun, no moon, in all that time, nor lattice. His children—But here my heart began to bleed, and I 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 diſmal days and nights he had paſſed there. He had one of theſe little ſticks in his hand; and with a ruſty nail, was etching another day of miſery, to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeleſs eye towards the door—then caſt it down—ſhook his head—and went on with his work of af⯑fliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned 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 the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.

On EDUCATION.

HOWEVER widely the thinking part of mankind may have differed as to the proper mode of con⯑ducting education, they have always been unanimous in their opinion of its importance. The outward ef⯑fects of it are obſerved by the moſt inattentive. They know that the clown and the dancing-maſter are the ſame from the hand of nature; and, although a little farther reflection is requiſite to perceive the effects of culture on the internal ſenſes, it cannot be diſputed that the mind, like the body, when arrived at firmneſs and maturity, retains the impreſſions it received in a more pliant and tender age.

The greateſt part of mankind, born to labour for their ſubſiſtence, are fixed in habits of induſtry by the iron hand of neceſſity. They have little time or oppor⯑tunity for the cultivation of the underſtanding; the errors and immoralities in their conduct, that flow from the want of thoſe ſentiments which education is in⯑tended to produce, will, on that account, meet with indulgence from every benevolent mind. But thoſe who are placed in a conſpicuous ſtation, whoſe vices become more complicated and deſtructive, by the abuſe of knowledge, and the miſapplication of improved ta⯑lents, have no title to the ſame indulgence. Their guilt is heightened by the rank and fortune which protect them from puniſhment, and which, in ſome degree, preſerve them from that infamy their conduct has merited.

I hold it, then, uncontrovertible, that the higher the rank, the more urgent is the neceſſity for ſtoring the mind with the principles, and directing the paſſions to the practice, of public and private virtue.

It will be allowed by all, that the great purpoſe of [85]education is to form the man and the citizen, that he may be virtuous, happy in himſelf, and uſeful to ſocie⯑ty. To attain this end his education ſhould begin, as it were, from his birth, and be continued till he arrive at firmneſs and maturity of mind, as well as of body. Sincerity, truth, juſtice, and humanity, are to be culti⯑vated from the firſt dawnings of memory and obſerva⯑tion. As the powers of theſe increaſe, the genius and diſpoſition unfold themſelves; it then becomes neceſſary to check, in the bud, every propenſity to folly or to vice; to root out every mean, ſelfiſh, and ungenerous ſenti⯑ment; to warm and animate the heart in the purſuit of virtue and honour. The experience of ages has hitherto diſcovered no ſurer method of giving right im⯑preſſions to young minds, than by frequently exhibiting to them thoſe bright examples which hiſtory affords, and, by that means, inſpiring them with thoſe ſenti⯑ments of public and private virtue which breathe in the writings of the ſages of antiquity.

In this view, I have conſidered the acquiſition of the dead languages as a moſt important branch in the edu⯑cation of a gentleman. The ſlowneſs with which he acquires them, prevents his memory from being loaded with facts faſter than his growing reaſon can compare and diſtinguiſh; he becomes acquainted by degrees with the virtuous characters of ancient times; he admires their juſtice, temperance, fortitude, and public ſpirit, and burns with a deſire to imitate them. The im⯑preſſions theſe have made, and the reſtraints to which he has been accuſtomed, ſerve as a check to the many tumultuous paſſions which the ideas of religion alone would, at that age, be unable to controul. Every vic⯑tory he obtains over himſelf ſerves as a new guard to virtue. When he errs, he becomes ſenſible of his weak⯑neſs, which, at the ſame time that it teaches him mode⯑ration, and forgiveneſs to others, ſhows the neceſſity of keeping a ſtricter watch over his own actions. Du⯑ring theſe combats, his reaſoning faculties expand, his judgment ſtrengthens, and, while he becomes acquaint⯑ed with the corruptions of the world, he fixes himſelf in the practice of virtue.

[86]A man thus educated, enters upon the theatre of the world with many and great advantages. Accuſtomed to reflection, acquainted with human nature, the ſtrength of virtue, and depravity of vice, he can trace actions to their ſource, and be enabled, in the affairs of life, to avail himſelf of the wiſdom and experience of paſt ages.

Very different is the modern plan of education fol⯑lowed by many, eſpecially with the children of perſons of ſuperior rank. They are introduced into the world almoſt from their very infancy. Inſtead of having their minds ſtored with the bright examples of antiquity, or thoſe of modern times, the firſt knowledge they acquire is of the vices with which they are ſurrounded; and they learn what mankind are, without ever knowing what they ought to be. Poſſeſſed of no ſentiment of virtue, of no ſocial affection, they indulge, to the ut⯑moſt of their ability, the gratification of every ſelfiſh appetite, without any other reſtraint than what ſelf-in⯑tereſt dictates. In men thus educated, youth is not the ſeaſon of virtue; they have contracted the cold in⯑difference and all the vices of age, long before they ar⯑rive at manhood. Finding no entertainment in their own breaſts, as void of friends as incapable of friend⯑ſhip, they ſink reflection in a life of diſſipation.

As many of the bad effects of the preſent ſyſtem of education may be attributed to a premature introduc⯑tion into the world, I ſhall conclude by reminding thoſe parents and guardians who are ſo anxious to bring their children and pupils early into public life, that one of the fineſt gentlemen, the brighteſt geniuſes, the moſt uſeful and beſt informed citizens of which antiquity has left us an example, did not think himſelf qualified to appear in public till the age of twenty-ſix, and even continued his ſtudies, for ſome years after, under the eminent teachers of Greece and Rome.

ALBERT BANE.

IN treating of the moral duties which apply to differ⯑ent relations of life, men of humanity and feeling have not omitted thoſe which are due from maſters to ſervants. Nothing, indeed, can be more natural than the attachment and regard to which the faithful ſer⯑vices of our domeſtics are entitled; the connection grows up, like all the other family-charities, in early life, and is only extinguiſhed by thoſe corruptions which blunt the others, by pride, by folly, by diſſipa⯑tion, or by vice.

I hold indeed as the ſure ſign of a mind not poiſed as it ought to be, if it be inſenſible to the pleaſures of home, to the little joys and endearments of a family, to the affections of relations, to the fidelity of domeſtics. Next to being well with his own conſcience, the friend⯑ſhip and attachment of a man's family and dependents ſeems to me one of the moſt comfortable circumſtances in his lot.

It appears to me very pernicious miſtake, which I have ſometimes ſeen parents guilty of in the education of their children, to encourage and incite in them a haughty and deſpotic behaviour to their ſervants; to teach them an early conceit of the difference of their conditions; to accuſtom them to conſider the ſervices of their attendants as perfectly compenſated by the wages they receive, and as unworthy of any return of kindneſs, attention, or complacency.

I was laſt autumn at my friend Colonel Cauſtic's in Scotland, and ſaw there, on a viſit to Miſs Cauſtic, a young gentleman and his ſiſter, children of a neighbour of the Colonel's, with whoſe appearance and manner I was particularly pleaſed.—"The hiſtory of their pa⯑rents," ſaid my friend, "is ſomewhat ſingular, and I [88]love to tell it, as I do every thing that is to the honour of our nature. Man is ſo poor a thing taken in the groſs, that when I meet with an inſtance of nobleneſs in detail, I am glad to reſt upon it long, and to recall it often.

"The father of thoſe young folks, whoſe looks you were ſtruck with, was a gentleman of conſiderable do⯑mains and extenſive influence on the northern frontier of our country. In his youth he lived, as it was then more the faſhion than it is now, at the ſeat of his an⯑ceſtors, ſurrounded with Gothic grandeur, and com⯑paſſed with feudal followers and dependents, all of whom could trace their connection, at a period more or leſs remote▪ with the family of their chief. Every domeſtic in his houſe bore the family name, and looked on himſelf as in a certain degree partaking its dignity, and ſharing its fortune. Of theſe, one was in a parti⯑cular manner the favourite of his maſter. Albert Bane had been his companion from his infancy. Of an age ſo much more advanced as to enable him to be a ſort of tutor to his youthful Lord, Albert had early taught him the rural exerciſes and rural amuſements, in which he was eminently ſkilful; he had attended him in the courſe of his education at home, of his travels abroad, and was ſtill the conſtant companion of his excurſions, and the aſſociate of his ſports.

"On one of theſe occaſions, a favourite dog of Al⯑bert's, which he had trained himſelf, and of whoſe qualities he was proud, happened to mar the ſport which his maſter expected, who, irritated at the diſap⯑pointment, and having his gun ready cocked in his hand, ſired at the animal, which however, in the vio⯑lence of his reſentment, he miſſed. Albert, to whom the dog (Oſcar) was as a child, remonſtrated againſt the raſhneſs of the deed, in a manner rather too warm for his maſter, ruffled as he was with the accident, and conſcious of being in the wrong, to bear. In his paſ⯑ſion he ſtruck his faithful attendant; who ſuffered the indignity in ſilence, and retiring, rather in grief than [89]in anger, left his native country that very night; and when he reached the neareſt town, enliſted with a re⯑cruiting party of a regiment then on foreign ſervice. It was in the beginning of the war with France which broke out in 1744, rendered remarkable for the rebel⯑lion which the policy of the French court excited, in which ſome of the firſt families in the Highlands were unfortunately engaged. Among thoſe who joined the ſtandard of Charles, was the maſter of Albert.

After the battle of Culloden, ſo fatal to that party, this gentleman, along with others who had eſcaped the ſlaughter of the field, ſheltered himſelf from the rage of the unſparing ſoldiery, among the diſtant receſſes of their country. To him his native mountains offered an aſylum; and thither he naturally ſled for protec⯑tion. Acquainted, in the purſuits of the chace, with every ſecret path and unworn track, he lived for a con⯑ſiderable time, like the deer of his foreſt, cloſe hid all day, and only venturing down at the fall of evening, to obtain from ſome of his cottagers, whoſe fidelity he could truſt, a ſcanty and precarious ſupport. I have often heard him, for he is one of my oldeſt acquain⯑tances, deſcribe the ſcene of his hiding-place, at a later period, when he could recollect it in its ſublimity, without its horror."—"At times," ſaid he, "when I ventured to the edge of the wood, among ſome of thoſe inacceſſible craggs which you remember a few miles from my houſe, I have heard, in the pauſes of the breeze which rolled ſolemnly through the pines beneath me, the diſtant voices of the ſoldiers, ſhouting in anſwer to one another, amidſt their inhuman ſearch. I have heard their ſhots re-echoed from cliff to cliff, and ſeen re⯑flected from the deep ſtill lake, the gleam of thoſe fires which conſumed the cottages of my people. Some⯑times ſhame and indignation had nearly overcome my fear, and I have prepared to ruſh down the ſteep, un⯑armed as I was, and to die at once by the ſwords of my enemies; but the inſtinctive love of life prevailed, [90]and ſtarting as the roe bounded by me, I have again ſhrunk back to the ſhelter I had left."

Albert's prayer was heard. His maſter, by the ex⯑erciſe of talents which, though he had always poſſeſſed, adverſity only taught him to uſe, acquired abroad a ſtation of equal honour and emolument; and when the proſcriptions of party had ceaſed, returned home to his own country, where he found Albert advanced to the rank of a Lieutenant in the army, to which his valour and merit had raiſed him, married to a lady by whom he had acquired ſome little fortune, and was the father of an only daughter, for whom nature had done much, and to whoſe native endowments it was the chief ſtudy and delight of her parents to add every thing that art could beſtow. The gratitude of the chief was only equalled by the happineſs of his follower, whoſe honeſt [92]pride was not long after gratified, by his daughter's be⯑coming the wife of that maſter whom his generous fidelity had ſaved. That maſter, by the clemency of more indulgent and liberal times, was again reſtored to the domain of his anceſtors, and had the ſatisfaction of ſeeing the grandſon of Albert enjoy the hereditary birthright of his race.

On the KNOWLEDGE of the WORLD.

NOTHING has ſo much expoſed men of learning to contempt and ridicule, as their ignorance of things which are known to all but themſelves. Thoſe who have been taught to conſider the inſtitutions of the ſchools, as giving the laſt perfection to human a⯑bilities, are ſurpriſed to ſee men wrinkled with ſtudy, yet wanting to be inſtructed in the minute circumſtan⯑ces of propriety, or the neceſſary forms of daily tranſac⯑tion; and quickly ſhake ſhake off their reverence for modes of education, which they find to produce no ability above the reſt of mankind.

Books, ſays Bacon, can never teach the uſe of books. The ſtudent muſt learn by commerce with mankind to reduce his ſpeculations to practice, and accommodate his knowledge to the purpoſes of life.

It is too common for thoſe who have been bred to ſcholaſtic profeſſions, and paſſed much of their time in academies where nothing but learning confers honours, to diſregard every other qualification, and to imagine that they ſhall find mankind ready to pay homage to their knowledge, and to crowd about them for inſtruc⯑tion. They therefore ſtep out from their cells into the open world, with all the confidence of authority and dignity of importance; they look round about them at once with ignorance and ſcorn on a race of [93]beings to whom they are equally unknown and equally contemptible, but whoſe manners they muſt imitate, and with whoſe opinions they muſt comply, if they de⯑ſire to paſs their time happily among them.

To leſſen that diſdain with which ſcholars are incli⯑ned to look on the common buſineſs of the world, and the unwillingneſs with which they condeſcend to learn what is not to be found in any ſyſtem of philoſophy, it may be neceſſary to conſider, that though admiration is excited by abſtruſe reſearches and remote diſcoveries, yet pleaſure is not given, nor affection conciliated, but by ſofter accompliſhments, and qualities more eaſily communicable to thoſe about us. He that can only converſe upon queſtions, about which only a ſmall part of mankind has knowledge ſufficient to make them curious, muſt loſe his days in unſocial ſilence, and live in the crowd of life without a companion. He that can only be uſeful on great occaſions, may die without exerting his abilities, and ſtand a helpleſs ſpectator of a thouſand vexations which fret away happineſs, and which nothing is required to remove but a little dex⯑terity of conduct and readineſs of expedient.

No degree of knowledge attainable by man is able to ſet him above the want of hourly aſſiſtance, or to ex⯑tinguiſh the deſire of fond endearments, and tender of⯑ficiouſneſs; and therefore, no one ſhould think it un⯑neceſſary to learn thoſe arts by which friendſhip may be gained. Kindneſs is preſerved by a conſtant recipro⯑cation of benefits or interchange of pleaſures: But ſuch benefits only can be beſtowed, as others are capable of receiving, and ſuch pleaſures only imparted, as others are qualified to enjoy.

By this deſcent from the pinnacles of art no honour will be loſt; for the condeſcenſions of learning are al⯑ways overpaid by gratitude. An elevated genius em⯑ployed in little things, appears, to uſe the ſimile of Lon⯑ginus, like the ſun in his evening declination: He re⯑mits his ſplendour, but retains his magnitude; and pleaſes more, though he dazzles leſs.

NANCY COLLINS.

AS I walked one evening through St Andrew's Square, I obſerved a girl, meanly dreſſed, coming along the pavement at a ſlow pace. When I paſſed her, ſhe turned a little towards me, and made a ſort of halt; but ſaid nothing. I went on a few ſt [...] before I turned my eye to obſerve her. She had, by this time, reſumed her former pace. I remarked a certain ele⯑gance in her form, which the poorneſs of her garb could not altogether overcome: Her perſon was thin and genteel, and there was ſomething not ungraceful in the ſtoop of her head, and the ſeeming feebleneſs with which ſhe walked. I could not reſiſt the deſire, which her appearance gave me, of knowing ſomewhat of her ſituation and circumſtances: I therefore walked back, and repaſſed her with ſuch a look as might induce her to ſpeak what ſhe ſeemed deſirous to ſay at firſt. This had the effect I wiſhed—"Pity a poor orphan!" ſaid ſhe, in a voice tremulous and weak. I ſtopped, and put my hand in my pocket: I had now a better op⯑portunity of obſerving her. Her face was thin and pale; part of it was ſhaded by her hair, of a light brown colour, which was parted, in a diſordered man⯑ner, at her forehead, and hung looſe upon her ſhoul⯑ders; round them was caſt a piece of tattered cloak, which with one hand ſhe held acroſs her boſom, while the other was half outſtretched to receive the bounty I intended for her. Her large blue eyes were caſt on the ground: She was drawing back her hand as I put a trifle into it; on receiving which ſhe turned them up to me, muttered ſomething which I could not hear, and then, letting go her cloak, and preſſing her hands together, burſt into tears.

It was not the action of an ordinary beggar, and my [95]curioſity was ſtrongly excited by it. I deſired her to fol⯑low me to the houſe of a friend hard by, whoſe benefi⯑cence I have often had occaſion to know. When ſhe arrived there, ſhe was ſo fatigued and worn out, that it was not till after ſome means uſed to reſtore her, that ſhe was able to give us an account of her misfortunes.

Her name, ſhe told us, was Collins; the place of her birth one of the northern counties of England. Her father, who had died ſeveral years ago, left her remaining parent with the charge of her, then a child, and one brother, a lad of ſeventeen. By his induſtry, however, joined to that of her mother, they were tolera⯑bly ſupported, their father having died poſſeſſed of a ſmall farm, with the right of paſturage on an adjoining common, from which they obtained a decent livelihood: that, laſt ſummer, her brother having become acquaint⯑ed with a recruiting ſerjeant, who was quartered in a neighbouring village, was by him enticed to enliſt as a ſoldier, and ſoon after marched off, along with ſome other recruits, to join his regiment: That this, ſhe be⯑lieved, broke her mother's heart, for ſhe had never af⯑terwards had a day's health, and, at length, had died about three weeks ago: That, immediately after her death, the ſteward employed by the 'ſquire of whom their farm was held, took poſſeſſion of ever thing for the arrears of their rent: That, as ſhe had heard her brother's regiment was in Scotland when he enliſted, ſhe had wandered thither in queſt of him, as ſhe had no other relation in the world to own her! But ſhe found on arriving there, that the regiment had been embarked ſeveral months before, and was gone a great way off, ſhe could not tell whither.

"This news," ſaid ſhe, ‘laid hold of my heart; and I have had ſomething wrong here,’ putting her hand to her boſom, ‘ever ſince. I got a bed and ſome victuals in the houſe of a woman here in town, to whom I told my ſtory, and who ſeemed to pity me. I had then a little bundle of things, which I had been allowed to take with me after my mother's [96]death; but the night before laſt, ſomebody ſtole it from me while I ſlept; and the woman ſaid ſhe would keep me no longer, and turned me out into the ſtreet, where I have ſince remained, and am almoſt dying of want.’

She was now in better hands; but our aſſiſtance had come too late. A frame, naturally delicate, had yield⯑ed to the fatigues of her journey and the hardſhips of her ſituation. She delined by ſlow but uninterrupted degrees, and yeſterday breathed her laſt. A ſhort while before ſhe expired, ſhe aſked to ſee me; and taking from her boſom a little ſilver locket, which ſhe told me had been her mother's, and which all her diſtreſſes could not make her part with, begged I would keep it for her dear brother, and give it him, if ever he ſhould return home, as a token of her remembrance.

I felt this poor girl's fate ſtrongly; but I tell not her ſtory merely to indulge my feelings; I would make the reflections it may excite in my readers, uſeful to others who may ſuffer from ſimilar cauſes. There are many, I fear, from whom their country has called brothers, ſons, or fathers, to bleed in her ſervice, forlorn, like poor Nancy Collins, with ‘no relation in the world to own them.’ Their ſufferings are often unknown, when they are ſuch as moſt demand compaſſion. The mind that cannot obtrude its diſtreſſes on the ear of pity, is formed to feel their poignancy the deepeſt.

In our idea of military operations, we are too apt to forget the misfortunes of the people. In defeat, we think of the fall, and in victory, of the glory of com⯑manders; we ſeldom allow ourſelves to conſider how many, in a lower rank, both events make wretched! How many, amidſt the acclamations of national triumph, are left to the helpleſs miſery of the widow and the orphan, and, while victory celebrates her feſtival, feel, in their diſtant hovels, the extremities of want and wretchedneſs!

The STORY of LE FEVRE.

IT was ſome time in the ſummer of that year in which Dendermond was taken by the allies,—which was about ſeven years before my father came into the coun⯑try,—and about as many, after the time, that my uncle Toby and Trim had privately decamped from my father's houſe in town, in order to lay ſome of the fineſt ſieges to ſome of the fineſt fortified cities in Europe—when my uncle Toby was one evening getting his ſupper, with Trim ſitting behind him at a ſmall ſideboard;—The landlord of a little inn in the village came into the parlour with an empty phial in his hand to beg a glaſs or two of ſack: 'Tis for a poor gentle⯑man,—I think, of the army, ſaid the landlord, who was taken ill at my houſe four days ago, and has never held up his head ſince, or had a deſire to taſte any thing, till juſt now, that he has a fancy for a glaſs of ſack and a thin toaſt,—I think, ſays he, taking his hand from his forehead, it would comfort me.—

—If I could neither beg, borrow, nor buy ſuch a thing,—added the landlord,—I would almoſt ſteal it for the poor gentleman, he is ſo ill.—I hope in God he will ſtill mend, continued he—we are all of us concerned for him.

Thou art a good-natured ſoul, I will anſwer for thee, cried my uncle Toby; and thou ſhalt drink the poor gentleman's health in a glaſs of ſack thyſelf,—and take a couple of bottles with my ſervice, and tell him he is heartily welcome to them, and to a dozen more if they will do him good.

Though I am perſuaded, ſaid my uncle Toby, as the landlord ſhut the door, he is a very compaſſionate fellow—Trim,—yet I cannot help entertaining a high opinion of his gueſt too; there muſt be ſomething more than [98]common in him, that in ſo ſhort a time ſhould win ſo much upon the affections of his hoſt;—And of his whole family, added the corporal, for they are all con⯑cerned for him.—Step after him, ſaid my uncle Toby,—do Trim,—and aſk if he knows his name.

—I have quite forgot it, truly, ſaid the landlord, coming back into the parlour, with the corporal,—but I can aſk his ſon again:—Has he a ſon with him then? ſaid my uncle Toby.—A boy, replied the landlord, of about eleven or twelve years of age;—but the poor creature has taſted almoſt as little as his father; he does nothing but mourn and lament for him night and day:—He has not ſtirred from the bed-ſide theſe two days.

My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, and thruſt his plate from before him, as the landlord gave him the account; and Trim, without being ordered, took away without ſaying one word, and in a few minutes after brought him his pipe and tobacco.

—Stay in the room a little, ſaid my uncle Toby.—Trim! ſaid my uncle Toby, after he had light⯑ed his pipe and ſmoaked about a dozen whiffs.—Trim came in front of his maſter and made his bow;—my uncle Toby ſmoaked on, and ſaid no more.—Corporal! ſaid my uncle Toby—the corpo⯑ral made his bow.—My uncle Toby proceeded no farther, but finiſhed his pipe.

Trim! ſaid my uncle Toby, I have a project in my head, as it is a bad night, of wrapping myſelf up warm in my requelaure, and paying a viſit to this poor gen⯑tleman.—Your honour's roquelaure, replied the corporal, has not once been had on, ſince the [...]ght before your honour receive your wound, when we mounted guard in the trenches before the gate of St Nicholas;—and beſides it is ſo cold and rainy a night, that what with the roquelaure, and what with the weather, 'twill be enough to give your honour your death, and bring on your honour's torment in your groin. I fear ſo, replied my uncle Toby: But I am [99]not at reſt in my mind, Trim, ſince the account the landlord has given me.—I wiſh I had not known ſo much of this affair,—added my uncle Toby,—or that I had known more of it:—How ſhall we manage it? Leave it, an't pleaſe your honour, to me, quoth the corporal;—I'll take my hat and ſtick, and go to the houſe and reconnoitre, and act accordingly; and I will bring your honour a full account in an hour.—Thou ſhalt go, Trim, ſaid my uncle Toby, and here's a ſhilling for thee to drink with his ſervant.—I ſhall get it all out of him, ſaid the corporal, ſhutting the door.

My uncle Toby filled his ſecond pipe; and had it not been, that he now and then wandered from the point, with conſidering whether it was not full as well to have the curtain of the tennail a ſtraight line, as a crooked one,—he might be ſaid to have thought of nothing elſe but poor Le Fevre and his boy the whole time he ſmoaked it.

It was not till my uncle Toby had knocked the aſhes out of his third pipe, that corporal Trim returned from the inn, and gave him the following account.

I deſpaired at firſt, ſaid the corporal, of being able to bring back your honour any kind of intelligence con⯑cerning the poor ſick lieutenant—Is he in the army then? ſaid my uncle Toby—He is: ſaid the corporal—And in what regiment? ſaid my uncle Toby—I'll tell your honour, replied the corporal, every thing ſtraight forwards as I learnt it.—Then, Trim, I'll [...]l another pipe, ſaid my uncle Toby, and not in⯑terrupt thee till thou haſt done; ſo ſit down at thy eaſe, Trim, in the window ſeat, and begin thy ſtory again. The corporal made his old bow, which generally ſpoke, as plain as a bow could ſpeak it,—Your honour is good:—And having done that, he ſat down, as he was ordered,—and begun the ſtory to my uncle Toby over again in pretty near the ſame words.

I deſpaired at firſt, ſaid the corporal, of being able to bring back any intelligence to your honour about [100]the lieutenant and his ſon; for when I aſked where his ſervant was, from whom I made myſelf ſure of knowing every thing which was proper to be aſked,—That's a right diſtinction, Trim, ſaid my uncle Toby—I was anſwered, an' pleaſe your honour, that he had no ſervant with him;—that he had come to the inn with hired horſes, which, upon finding him⯑ſelf unable to proceed, (to join, I ſuppoſe, the regi⯑ment) he had diſmiſſed the morning after he came.—If I get better, my dear, ſaid he, as he gave his purſe to his ſon to pay the man,—we can hire horſes from hence.—But alas! the poor gentleman will never get from hence, ſaid the landlady to me,—for I heard the death-watch all night long;—and when he dies, the youth, his ſon, will certainly die with him; for he is broken-hearted already.

I was hearing this account, continued the corporal, when the youth came into the kitchen, to order the thin toaſt the landlord ſpoke of;—but I will do it for my father myſelf, ſaid the youth.—Pray let me ſave you the trouble, young gentleman, ſaid I, taking up a fork for the purpoſe, and offering him my chair to ſit down upon by the fire, whilſt I did it.—I believe, Sir, ſaid he, very modeſtly, I can pleaſe him beſt my⯑ſelf.—I am ſure, ſaid I, his honour will not like the toaſt the worſe for being toaſted by an old ſoldier.—The youth took hold of my hand, and inſtantly burſt into tears.—Poor youth! ſaid my uncle Toby,—he has been bred up from an infant in the army, and the name of a ſoldier, Trim, ſounded in his ears like the name of a friend;—I wiſh I had him here.

—I never, in the longeſt march, ſaid the corporal, had ſo great a mind to my dinner, as I had to cry with him for company:—What could be the matter with me, an' pleaſe your honour? Nothing in the world, Trim, ſaid my uncle Toby, blowing his noſe,—but that thou art a good-natured fellow.

When I gave him the toaſt, continued the corporal, I thought it was proper to tell him I was captain [101]Shandy's ſervant, and that your honour (though a ſtranger) was extremely concerned for his father;—And that if there was any thing in your houſe or cellar—(and thou might'ſt have added my purſe too, ſaid my uncle Toby)—he was heartily welcome to it:—He made a very low bow, (which was meant to your honour) but no anſwer—for his heart was full—ſo he went up ſtairs with the toaſt.—I warrant you, my dear, ſaid I, as I opened the kitchen-door, your father will be well again.—Mr Yorick's curate was ſmoaking a pipe by the kitchen fire,—but ſaid not a word, good or bad, to comfort the youth.—I thought it was wrong, added the corporal—I think ſo too, ſaid my uncle Toby.

When the lieutenant had taken his glaſs of ſack and toaſt, he felt himſelf a little revived, and ſent down into the kitchen, to let me know, that in about ten minutes he ſhould be glad if I would ſtep up ſtairs.—I believe, ſaid the landlord, he is going to ſay his prayers,—for there was a book laid upon the chair by his bed ſide, and as I ſhut the door, I ſaw his ſon take up a cuſhion.—

I thought, ſaid the curate, that you gentlemen of the army, Mr Trim, never ſaid your prayers at all.—I heard the poor gentleman ſay his prayers laſt night, ſaid the landlady, very devoutly, and with my own ears, or I could not have believed it.—Are you ſure of it? replied the curate.—A ſoldier, an' pleaſe your reverence, ſaid I, prays as often (of his own accord) as a parſon;—and when he is fighting for his king, and for his own life, and for honour too, he has the moſt reaſon to pray to God of any one in the whole world.—'Twas well ſaid of thee, Trim, ſaid my uncle Toby.—But when a ſoldier, ſaid I, an' pleaſe your reverence, has been ſtanding for twelve hours together in the trenches, up to his knees in cold water,—or engaged, ſaid I, for months to⯑gether in long and dangerous marches;—harraſſed perhaps in his rear to-day;—harraſſing others to-mor⯑row; [102]—detached here: countermanded there;—reſting this night out upon [...]—beat up in his ſhirt the next;—benumbed in his join [...];—perhaps without ſtraw in his tent to kneel on;—muſt [...]y his prayers how and when he can—I believe, ſaid I,—for I was piqu'd, quoth the corporal, for the reputation of the army,—I believe, an't pleaſe your reverence, ſaid I, that when a ſoldier gets time to pray,—he prays as heartily as a parſon—though not with all his fuſs and hypocriſy.—Thou ſhould'ſt not have ſaid that, Trim, ſaid my uncle Toby,—for God only knows who is a hypocrite, and who is not:—At the great and general review of us all, corporal, at the day of judg⯑ment, (and not till then)—it will he ſeen who has done their duties in this world,—and who has not; and we ſhall be advanced, Trim, accordingly.—I hope we ſhall, ſaid Trim—It is in the Scripture, ſaid my uncle Toby; and I will ſhew it thee to-morrow:—In the mean time we may depend upon it, Trim, for our comfort, ſaid my uncle Toby, that God Almighty is ſo good and juſt a governor of the world, that if we have but done our duties in it,—it will never be en⯑quired into, whether we have done them in a red coat or a black one:—I hope not, ſaid the corporal—But go on, Trim, ſaid my uncle Toby, with thy ſtory.

When I went up, continued the corporal, into the lieutenant's room, which I did not do till the expiration of the ten minutes—he was lying in his bed with his head raiſ [...]d upon his hand, with his elbow upon the pillow, and a clean white cambrie handkerchief beſide it:—The youth was juſt ſtooping down to take up the cuſhi [...], upon which I ſuppoſed he had been kneel⯑ing—the book was laid upon the bed,— and as he r [...]ſe, in t [...]ing up the cuſhion with one hand, he reach⯑ed out his other to take it away at the ſame time.—Let it remain there, my dear, ſaid the lieutenant.

He did not offer to ſpeak to me, till I had walked up cloſe to hi [...] bed-ſide:—If you are captain Shandy's [...]r⯑ [...]nt ſaid he▪ you muſt preſent my thanks to your maſter, [103]with my little boy's thanks along with them, for his courteſy to me;—if he was of Leven's—ſaid the lieu⯑tenant—I told him your honour was—Then, ſaid he, I ſerved three campaigns with him in Flanders, and remember him—but 'tis moſt likely, as I had not the honour of any acquaintance with him, that he knows nothing of me.—You will tell him, however, that the perſon his good-nature has laid under obliga⯑tions to him, is one Le Fevre, a lieutenant in Angus's—but he knows me not,—ſaid he, a ſecond time, muſing;—Poſſibly he may my ſtory—added he—pray tell the captain, I was the enſign at Breda, whoſe wife was moſt unfortunately killed with a muſket ſhot, as ſhe lay in my arms in my tent.—I remember the ſtory, an't pleaſe your honour, ſaid I, very well.—Do you ſo? ſaid he, wiping his eyes with his handkerchief,—then well may I.—In ſaying this, he drew a little ring out of his boſom, which ſeemed tied with a black rib⯑band about his neck, and kiſſed it twice—Here, Billy, ſaid he,—the boy flew acroſs the room to the bed-ſide,—and falling down upon his knee, took the ring in his hand and kiſſed it too,—then kiſſed his father, and ſat down upon the bed and wept.

I wiſh, ſaid my uncle Toby, with a deep ſigh,—I wiſh, Trim, I was aſleep.

Your honour, replied the corporal, is too much con⯑cerned; — ſhall I pour your honour out a glaſs of ſack to your pipe?—Do, Trim, ſaid my uncle Toby.

I remember, ſaid my uncle Toby, ſighing again, the ſtory of the enſign and his wife, with a circumſtance his modeſty omitted;—and particularly well that he, as well as ſhe, upon ſome account or other, (I forget what) was univerſally pitied by the whole regiment;—but finiſh the ſtory thou art upon:—'Tis finiſh'd already, ſaid the corporal,—for I could ſtay no longer—ſo wiſhed his honour a good night; young Le Fevre roſe from off the bed, and ſaw me to the bottom of the ſtairs; and as we went down together, told me they had come from Ireland, and were on their route to [104]join their regiment in Flanders—But alas! ſaid the corporal,—the lieutenant's laſt day's march is over.—Then what is to become of his poor boy, cried my uncle Toby.

It was to my uncle Toby's eternal honour,—though I tell it only for the ſake of thoſe, who, when cooped in betwixt a natural and a poſitive law, know not for their ſouls, which way in the world to turn themſelves,—that notwithſtanding my uncle Toby was warm⯑ly engaged at that time in carrying on the ſiege of Dendermond, parallel with the allies, who preſſed theirs on ſo vigourouſly, that they ſcarce allowed him time to get his dinner—that nevertheleſs he gave up Dendermond, though he had already made a lodg⯑ment upon the counterſcarp, and bent his whole thoughts towards the private diſtreſſes at the inn; and except that he ordered the garden-gate to be bolted up, by which he might be ſaid to have turned the ſiege of Dendermond into a blockade,—he left Dendermond to itſelf,—to be relieved or not by the French king, as the French king thought good; and only conſidered how he himſelf ſhould relieve the poor lieutenant and his ſon.

—That kind Being, who is a friend to the friend⯑leſs, ſhall recompenſe thee for this.

Thou haſt left this matter ſhort, ſaid my uncle Toby to the corporal, as he was putting him to bed,—and I will tell thee in what, Trim.—In the firſt place, when thou madeſt an offer of my ſervices to Le Fevre,—as ſickneſs and travelling are both expenſive, and thou knoweſt he was but a poor lieutenant, with a ſon to ſubſiſt as well as himſelf, out of his pay,—that thou diſt not make on offer to him of my purſe; be⯑cauſe, had he ſtood in need, thou knoweſt, Trim, he had been as welcome to it as myſelf.—Your honour knows, ſaid the corporal, I had no orders;—True, quoth my uncle Toby,—thou didſt very right, Trim, as a ſoldier, but certainly very wrong as a man.

[105]In the ſecond place, for which, indeed, thou haſt the ſame excuſe, continued my uncle Toby,—when thou offeredſt him whatever was in my houſe,—thou ſhouldſt have offered him my houſe too:—A ſick brother officer ſhould have the beſt quarters, Trim; and if we had him with us,—we could tend and look to him:—Thou art an excellent nurſe, thyſelf, Trim,—and what with thy care of him, and the old woman's, and his boy's, and mine together, we might recruit him again at once, and ſet him upon his legs.—

—In a fortnight or three weeks, added my uncle Toby, ſmiling—he might march.—He will never march, an' pleaſe your honour, in this world, ſaid the corporal:—He will march, ſaid my uncle Toby, riſing up from the ſide of the bed with one ſhoe off:—An' pleaſe your honour, ſaid the corporal, he will never march but to his grave:—He ſhall march, cried my uncle Toby, marching the foot which had a ſhoe on, though without advancing an inch,—he ſhall march to his regiment.—He cannot ſtand it, ſaid the corporal.—He ſhall be ſupport⯑ed, ſaid my uncle Toby.—He'll drop at laſt, ſaid the corporal; and what will become of his boy?—He ſhall not drop, ſaid my uncle Toby, firmly.—A-well-o'day,—do what we can for him, ſaid Trim, maintaining his point,—the poor ſoul will die:—He ſhall not die, by G—,cried my uncle Toby.

—The Accuſing Spirit, which flew up to heaven's chancery with the oath, bluſh'd as he gave it in—and the Recording Angel, as he wrote it down, dropp'd a tear upon the word, and blotted in out for ever.

—My uncle Toby went to his bureau,—put his purſe into his breeches pocket, and having ordered the corporal to go early in the morning for a phyſician,—he went to bed and fell aſleep.

The ſun looked bright the morning after, to every eye in the village but Le Fevre's and his afflicted ſon's; the hand of death preſſed heavy upon his eye-lids,—and hardly could the wheel at the ciſtern turn round [106]is circle,—when my uncle Toby, who had roſe up an hour before his wonted time, entered the lieutenant's room, and, without preface or apology, ſat himſelf down upon the chair by the bed-ſide, and independently of all modes and cuſtoms, opened the curtain in the man⯑ner an old friend and brother officer would have done it, and aſked him how he did,—how he had reſted in the night,—what was his complaint,—where was his pain,—and what he could do to help him?—and with⯑out giving him time to anſwer any one of his enquiries, went on, and told him of the little plan which he had been concerting with the corporal the night before for him.—

—You ſhall go home directly, Le Fevre, ſaid my my uncle Toby, to my houſe,—and we'll ſend for a doctor to ſee what's the matter,—and we'll have an apothecary,—and the corporal ſhall be your nurſe;—and I'll be your ſervant, Le Fevre.

There was a frankneſs in my uncle Toby,—not the effect of familiarity,—but the cauſe of it,—which let you at once into his ſoul, and ſhewed you the goodneſs of his nature; to this, there was ſomething in his looks and voice, and manner, ſuperadded, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and take ſhelter under him; ſo that before my uncle Toby had half finiſhed the kind offers he was making to the father, had the ſon inſenſibly preſſed up cloſe to his knees, and had taken hold of the breaſt of his coat, and was pulling it towards him.—The blood and ſpirits of Le Fevre, which were waxing cold and ſlow within him, and were retreating to their laſt citadel, the heart—rallied back, the film forſook his eyes for a moment,—he looked up wiſhfully in my uncle Toby's face,—then caſt a look upon his boy,—and that liga⯑ment, fine as it was, was never broken.—

Nature inſtantly ebb'd again,—the film return'd to its place—the pulſe flutter'd—ſtopp'd—went on—throbb'd—ſtopp'd again—mov'd—ſtopp'd—ſhall I go on?—No.

The MOUNTAIN of CALAMITY.

ABOUT a month ago, in returning from a fox⯑chace on Nimrod, a rolling ſtone threw him down, and falling with my right leg under him, ſo bruiſed my knee, that I have never ſince been able to ſet my foot to the ground; when the accident firſt happened I was dejected beyond meaſure, not ſo much from the actual pain I ſuffered, as from the horrors of being confined many weeks during the beſt ſeaſon for hunting. I am now almoſt free from pain, but the limb is ſo weak, that I am ſtill confined, and have had, for the laſt fortnight paſt, full leiſure to reflect on my various ſenſations during my impriſonment.

You can hardly conceive, Sir, the prodigious revo⯑lution which has taken place in my mind. Many things now delight which formerly afforded no ſatisfaction, and I look with indifference on purſuits, which before appeared to me the moſt engaging.

I have lately had recourſe to reading, which had previouſly afforded me little amuſement, and was con⯑ſequently little purſued. Yeſterday evening, after read⯑ing the Spectator, where he compares ‘the evils of this life to rocks and precipices, which appear rugged and barren at a diſtance, but at our nearer approach, we find little fruitful ſpots and refreſhing ſprings, mixed with the harſhneſs and deformities of nature.’

With my mind engaged in this contemplation, I went to reſt, when the following dream produced ſuch vivid imagery to my fancy, that I almoſt doubt whether I was aſleep, or only muſing and commenting on the metaphor. I conceived myſelf tranſported to a delight⯑ful country, beautifully variegated with gentle hills and vales, with woods and plains and cultivated fields, which were for ever changing as I paſſed on; for Time, who [108]was my conductor, never would give me leave to ſtop a minute in a place, except when ſleep made me inſen⯑ſible of his progreſſive motion: For then he would gently carry me in his arms to ſome ſpot which com⯑manded nearly the ſame proſpect with that where wearineſs had overtaken me; but I would not have you fancy my conductor was an old man with a ſcythe and an hour glaſs, as he is generally repreſented; no, he was continually changing ſhapes; when I firſt met him he was a healthy playful boy; he taught me many a puerile game, and cheered my firſt ſteps with paſtimes and delights; we danced rather than walked the begin⯑ning of our journey, for all was ſport and feſtive inno⯑cence; at length he led me by the hand through Aca⯑demic Groves, where every ſtep we took enlarged my proſpects, and increaſed my ſatisfaction in his company. I had only one cauſe of diſcontent, and that was, as I before hinted, that he never would permit me to ſtop a minute in a place, or go back to view the ſcenes which had given me the greateſt pleaſure; indeed he would ſometimes give reaſon for his non-compliance, by telling me, ‘that the delight of every ſcene conſiſted chiefly in its novelty;’ and he would ſometimes ſhew me the picture of the places I had viſited, reflect⯑ed in the Mirror of Experience, which confirmed the truth of what he ſaid. On my departure from the A⯑cademic Grove, I was ſtruck with the appearance of a vaſt extenſive plain, a fort of heath or common, inter⯑ſected by many roads, but which all ſeemed to tend towards an object I had never before beheld; it was a diſtant mountain, whoſe bleak and barren aſpect at once convinced me that it was the Mountain of Cala⯑mity; I ſhrunk from the ſight, and would have gladly turned back into the Grove, or at leaſt wiſhed to ſtop, and reſolve which of the roads it were moſt adviſeable to take; but my conductor hurried me on, bidding me not direct my eyes to painful objects at a diſtance, but look about me; I did ſo, and was again delighted with the proſpect near at hand; the ground was enamelled [109]with a thouſand flowers, that ſhed their ſweets as we paſſed by; I ſaw before me at a little diſtance the moſt delightful objects, through which the ſeveral roads ſeemed to take their reſpective courſes; one led thro' a city, whoſe palaces glittered with riches, the effect of trade; another led to a ſplendid Fane, dedicated to Naval and Military Honours; another to a Sacred Grove, where Holy Contemplation ſeemed to enſure peace and happineſs; and others ſtill thro' various in⯑tereſting ſcenes; each was ſurrounded with enchant⯑ing proſpects, but each was more or leſs expoſed to a view of the diſtant Mountain; and I obſerved, that in proportion as the inhabitants of theſe ſeveral places ſtruggled to aſcend to the higheſt ſpots of their ſitua⯑tion, they had a more diſtinct view of the Mountain which all wiſhed to ſhun: Struck with this reflection, I choſe a road different from any I have mentioned, and paſſed through villages and pleaſant farms, where un⯑expected ſcenery on every ſide delighted me; I could often view detached parts of all the other roads, and ſometimes travelled a few miles in each; but though my proſpects on each ſide were ever varying, and always pleaſant, yet I could not avoid a ſight of the fearful Mountain, and this as I approached it nearer, ſeemed to rob the ſurrounding landſcapes of their charms, and by degrees, I found my ſpirits ſinking, and became diſguſted with my journey. Sometimes my conductor would bid me take courage, and enjoy with him the nearer proſpects, or look back on the country we had paſſed; there I ſaw ſome hills which I had climbed with eaſe, and ſome which I had avoided with⯑out knowing how: I was often pleaſed to ſee torrents which I had paſſed without danger, and ſometimes vexed to perceive objects that I had miſſed, and to which now there was no going back; by thus looking round occaſionally, I inſenſibly preſſed forward till I was ſo near the Mountain, that it ſeemed impoſſible to remove it from my eyes; but how was I overwhelm⯑ed with deſpair at the horrors of my way, when on a [110]ſudden, a few ſteps farther preſented the full proſpect of the River of Death, which ſwept away thouſands in their paſſage to the Mountain; nay, I ſaw ſome volun⯑tarily plunge into the waves, rather than look forward; but my conductor recommended me to Fortitude, who leading me through the bye-path of Difficulty, I began to aſcend the Mountain; and now I perceived it leſs barren than I dreaded; the roads were rugged indeed, but the view from thence of the country I had paſſed, was often not unpleaſing; the river at the foot of the hill had loſt its terrors, though from the plains of Hap⯑pineſs it was a dreadful object; I could trace its courſe, and ſaw, with aſtoniſhment, that it wandered through the whole extent of the journey I had taken, and that many who purſued the ſeveral tracks, were often deſtroyed by the rapid torrent, in the moſt unexpected part of their progreſs to that Mountain, which they ſaw but never reached. As I was earneſtly ſurveying the many places where I had myſelf eſcaped, I ſtruck my bruiſ⯑ed knee againſt a projecting rock, and awoke with the pain.

The ARTS of DECEIVING CONSCIENCE.

IT is eaſy for every man, whatever be his character with others, to find reaſons for eſteeming himſelf; and therefore cenſure, contempt, or conviction of crimes, ſeldom deprive him of his own favour. Thoſe indeed, who can ſee only external facts, may look upon him with abhorrence; but when he calls himſelf to his own tribunal, he finds every fault, if not abſolutely ef⯑faces, yet ſo much palliated, by the goodneſs of his in⯑tention, and the cog [...]ncy of the motive, that very little guilt or turpitude remains; and when he takes a ſur⯑vey of the whole complication of his character, he diſ⯑covers [111]covers ſo many latent excellencies, ſo many virtues that want but an opportunity to exert themſelves in act, and ſo many kind wiſhes for univerſal happineſs, that he looks on himſelf as ſuffering unjuſtly under the in⯑famy of ſingle failings, while the general temper of his mind is unknown or unregarded.

It is natural to mean well, when only abſtracted ideas of virtue are propoſed to the mind, and no particular paſſion turns us aſide from rectitude; and ſo willing is every man to flatter himſelf, that the difference between approving laws and obeying them, is frequently for⯑gotten; he that acknowledges the obligations of mo⯑rality, and pleaſes his vanity with enforcing them to others, concludes himſelf zealous in the cauſe of virtue, though he has no longer any regard to her precepts, than they conform to his own deſires; and counts him⯑ſelf among her warmeſt lovers, becauſe he praiſes her beauty, though every rival ſteals away his heart.

There are, however, great numbers who have little recourſe to the refinements of ſpeculation, but who yet live at peace with themſelves, by means which require leſs underſtanding, or leſs attention. When their hearts are burthened with the conſciouſneſs of a crime, inſtead of ſeeking for ſome remedy within themſelves, they look round upon the reſt of mankind, to find others tainted with the ſame guilt: They pleaſe them⯑ſelves with obſerving, that they have numbers on their ſide; and that though they are hunted out from the ſo⯑ciety of good men, they are not likely to be condemned to ſolitude.

No man yet was ever wicked without ſecret diſcon⯑tent; and according to the different degrees of remain⯑ing virtue, or unextinguiſhed reaſon, he either endea⯑vours to reform himſelf, or corrupt others; either to regain the ſtation which he has quitted, or prevail on others to imitate his defection; for as guilt is propaga⯑ted, the power of reproach is diminiſhed; and among numbers equally deteſtable, every individual may be ſheltered from ſhame, though not from conſcience.

[112]The man who is branded with cowardice, may, with ſome appearance of propriety, turn all his force of ar⯑gument againſt a ſtupid contempt of life, and raſh pre⯑cipitation into unneceſſary danger. Every receſſion from temerity is an approach towards cowardice; and though it be confeſſed that bravery, like other virtues, ſtands between faults on either hand, yet the place of the middle point may always be diſputed; he may therefore often impoſe upon careleſs underſtandings, by turning the attention wholly from himſelf, and keeping it fixed invariably on the oppoſite fault; and by ſhewing how many evils are avoided by his behaviour, he may conceal for a time thoſe which are incurred.

It is generally not ſo much the deſire of men, ſunk into depravity, to deceive the world, as themſelves; for when no particular circumſtances make them depend⯑ent on others, infamy diſturbs them little, but as it re⯑vives their remorſe, and is echoed to them from their own hearts. The ſentence moſt dreaded is that of reaſon and conſcience, which they would engage on their ſide at any price but the labours of duty, and the ſorrows of repentance. For this purpoſe every ſeduce⯑ment and fallacy is ſought, the hopes ſtill reſt upon ſome new experiment till life is at an end; and the laſt hour ſteals on unperceived, while the faculties are en⯑gaged in reſiſting reaſon, and repreſſing the ſenſe of the Divine diſapprobation.

SELF DELUSION.

IF it be reaſonable to eſtimate the difficulty of any enterpriſe by frequent miſcarriages, it may juſtly be concluded that it is not eaſy for a man to know himſelf; for whereſoever we turn our view, we ſhall find almoſt all with whom we converſe ſo nearly as to judge of their ſentiments, indulging more favourable conceptions of their own virtue than they have been able to impreſs upon others, and congratulating them⯑ſelves upon degrees of excellence, which their fondeſt admirers cannot allow them to have attained.

Thoſe repreſentations of imaginary virtue are gen⯑erally conſidered as arts of hypocriſy, and [...] laid for confidence and praiſe. But I believe the ſuſpicion often unjuſt; thoſe who thus propagate their own re⯑putation, only extend the fraud by which they have been themſelves deceived; for this failing is incident to n [...]bers, who ſeem to live without deſigns, competi⯑tions, or purſuits; it appears on occaſions which pro⯑miſe no acceſſion of honour or of profit, and to perſons from whom very little is to be hoped or ſcared. It is, indeed, not eaſy to tell how far we may be blinded by the love of ourſelves, when we reflect how much a ſecondary paſſion can cloud our judgment, and how few faults a man, in the firſt raptures of love, can diſ⯑cover in the perſon or conduct of his miſtreſs.

One ſophiſm by which men perſuade themſelves that they have thoſe virtues which they really want, is formed by the ſubſtitution of ſingle acts for habits. A miſer who once relieved a friend from the danger of a priſon, ſuffers his imagination to dwell for ever upon his own heroic generoſity; he yields his heart up to in⯑dignation at thoſe who are blind to merit, or inſenſible to miſery, and who can pleaſe themſelves with the en⯑joyment [114]of that wealth, which they never permit others to partake. From any cenſures of the world, or re⯑proaches of his conſcience, he has an appeal to action and to knowledge; and though his whole life is a courſe of rapacity and avarice, he concludes himſelf to be tender and liberal, becauſe he has once performed an act of liberality and tenderneſs.

As a glaſs which magnifies objects by the approach of one end to the eye, leſſens them by the application of the other, ſo vices are extenuated by the inverſion of that fallacy, by which virtues are augmented. Thoſe faults which we cannot conceal from our own notice, are conſidered, however frequent, not as habitual cor⯑ruptions, or ſettled practices, but as caſual failures, and ſingle lapſes. A man who has, from year to year, ſet his country to ſale, either for the gratification of his ambition or reſentment, confeſſes that the heat of party now and then betrays the ſevereſt virtue to meaſures that cannot be ſeriouſly defended. He that ſpends his days and nights in riot and debauchery, owns that his paſſions oftentimes overpower his reſolution. But each comforts himſelf that his faults are not with⯑out precedent, for the beſt and the wiſeſt men have given way to the violence of ſudden temptations.

There are men who always confound the praiſe of goodneſs with the practice, and who believe themſelves mild and moderate, charitable and faithful, becauſe they have exerted their eloquence in commendation of mild⯑neſs, fidelity, and other virtues. This is an error al⯑moſt univerſal among thoſe that converſe much with dependents, with ſuch whoſe fear or intereſt diſpoſes them to a ſeeming reverence for any declamation, however enthuſiaſtic, and ſubmiſſion to any boaſt, how⯑ever arrogant. Having none to recall their attention to their lives, they rate themſelves by the goodneſs of their opinions, and forget how much more eaſily men may ſhew their virtue in their talk than in their ac⯑tions.

The tribe is likewiſe very numerous of thoſe who [115]regulate their lives, not by the ſtandard of religion, but the meaſure of other men's virtue; who lull their own remorſe with the remembrance of crimes more atro⯑cious than their own, and ſeem to believe that they are not bad while another can be found worſe.

For eſcaping theſe and a thouſand other deceits, many expedients have been propoſed. Some have recom⯑mended the frequent conſultation of a wiſe friend, ad⯑mitted to intimacy, and encouraged to ſincerity. But this appears a remedy by no means adapted to general uſe: for in order to ſecure the virtue of one, it pre⯑ſuppoſes more virtue in two than will generally be found. In the firſt, ſuch a deſire of rectitude and a⯑mendment, as may incline him to hear his own accu⯑ſation from the mouth of him whom he eſteems, and by whom, therefore, he will always hope that his faults are not diſcovered; and in the ſecond, ſuch zeal and honeſty, as will make him content, for his friend's ad⯑vantage, to loſe his kindneſs.

It ſeems that enemies have been always found by experience the moſt faithful monitors; for adverſity has ever been conſidered as the ſtate in which a man moſt eaſily becomes acquainted with himſelf, and this effect it muſt produce by withdrawing flatterers, whoſe buſineſs it is to hide our weakneſſes from us, or by giving a looſe to malice, and licenſe to reproach; or at leaſt by cutting off thoſe pleaſures which called us away from meditation on our own conduct, and repreſſing that pride which to eaſily perſuades us, that we merit whatever we enjoy.

Part of theſe benefits it is in every man's power to procure to himſelf, by aſſigning proper portions of his life to the examination of the reſt, and by putting him⯑ſelf frequently in ſuch a ſituation, by retirement and abſtraction, as may weaken the influence of external objects. By this practice he may obtain the ſolitude of adverſity without its melancholy, its inſtructions with⯑out its cenſures, and its ſenſibility without its pertur⯑bations.

[116]There are few conditions which do not entangle us with ſublunary hopes and fears, from which it is ne⯑ceſſary to be at intervals diſencumbered, that we may place ourſelves in His preſence who views effects in their cauſes, and actions in their motives; that we may, as Chillingworth expreſſes it, conſider things as if there were no other beings in the world but God and our⯑ſelves; or, to uſe language yet more awful, may com⯑mune with our own hearts, and be ſtill.

On EXTRAVAGANCE.

THERE is ſcarcely among the evils of human life, any ſo generally dreaded as poverty. Every other ſpecies of miſery, thoſe, who are not much accuſtomed to diſturb the preſent moment with reflection, can eaſily forget, becauſe it is not always forced upon their re⯑gard; but it is impoſſible to paſs a day or an hour in the confluxes of men, without ſeeing how much indi⯑gence is expoſed to contumely, neglect, and inſult: And in its loweſt ſtate, to hunger and nakedneſs; to injuries againſt which every paſſion is in arms, and to wants which nature cannot ſuſtain.

Againſt other evils the heart is often hardened by true or by falſe notions of dignity and reputation: Thus we ſee dangers of every kind faced with willing⯑neſs, becauſe bravery, in a good or bad cauſe, is never without its encomiaſts and admirers. But in the proſ⯑pect of poverty, there is nothing but gloom and melan⯑choly; the mind and body ſuffer together; its miſeries bring no alleviations; it is a ſtate in which every virtue is obſcured, and in which no conduct can avoid re⯑proach; a ſtate in which cheerfulneſs is inſenſibility, and dejection ſullenneſs; of which the hardſhips are without honour, and the labours without reward.

[117]Of theſe calamities there ſeems not to be wanting a general conviction; we hear on every ſide the noiſe of trade, and ſee the ſtreets thronged with numberleſs multitudes, whoſe faces are clouded with anxiety, and whoſe ſteps are hurried by precipitation, from no other motive than the hope of gain; and the whole world is put in motion by the deſire of that wealth, which is chief⯑ly to be valued as it ſecures us from poverty; for it is more uſeful for defence than acquiſition, and is not ſo much able to procure good as to exclude evil.

Yet there are always ſome whoſe paſſions or follies lead them to a conduct oppoſite to the general maxims and practice of mankind; ſome who ſeem to ruſh upon poverty, with the ſame eagerneſs with which others a⯑void it; who ſee their revenues hourly leſſened, and the eſtates which they inherit from their anceſtors mouldering away, without reſolution to change their courſe of life; who perſevere againſt all remonſtrances, and go forward with full career, though they ſee before them the precipice of deſtruction.

It is the ſate of almoſt every paſſion, when it has paſſed the bounds which nature preſcribes, to counter⯑act its own purpoſe. Too much rage hinders the war⯑rior from circumſpection, too much eagerneſs of profit hurts the credit of the trader, too much ardour takes away from the lover that eaſineſs of addreſs with which ladies are delighted. Thus extravagance, though dic⯑tated by vanity, and incited by voluptuouſneſs, ſeldom procures ultimately either applauſe or pleaſure.

If praiſe be juſtly eſtimated by the character of thoſe from whom it is received, little ſatisfaction will be given to the ſpendthrift by the encomiums which he purchaſes. For who are they that animate him in his purſuits, but young men, thoughtleſs and abandoned like himſelf, unacquainted with all on which the wiſ⯑dom of nations has impreſſed the ſtamp of excellence, and devoid alike of knowledge and of virtue? By whom is his profuſion praiſed, but by wretches who conſider him as ſubſervient to their purpoſes; Sirens [118]that entice him to ſhipwreck, and Cyclops that are gaping to devour him?

Every man, whoſe knowledge or whoſe virtue can give value to his opinion, looks with ſcorn or pity, neither of which can afford much gratification to pride, on him whom the panders of luxury have drawn into the circle of their influence, and whom he ſees parcelled out among the different miniſters of folly, and about to be torn to pieces by taylors and jockies, vintners and attornies, who at once rob and ridicule him, and who are ſecretly triumphing over his weakneſs, when they preſent new incitements to his appetite, and heighten his deſires by counterfeited applauſe.

Such is the praiſe that is purchaſed by prodigality. Even when it is yet no diſcovered to be falſe, it is the praiſe only of thoſe whom it is reproachful to pleaſe, and whoſe ſincerity is corrupted by their intereſt; men who live by the riots which they encourage, and who know that whenever their pupil grows wiſe, they ſhall loſe their power. Yet with ſuch flatteries, if they could laſt, might the cravings of vanity, which is ſel⯑dom very delicate, be ſatisfied; but the time is always haſtening forward when this triumph, poor as it is, ſhall vaniſh, and when thoſe who now ſurround them with obſequiouſneſs and compliments, fawn among his equipage, and animate his riots, ſhall turn upon him with inſolence, and reproach him with the vices pro⯑moted by themſelves.

And as little pretenſions has the man, who ſquanders his eſtate by vain or vicous expences, to greater de⯑grees of pleaſure than are obtained by others. To make any happineſs ſincere, it is neceſſary that we be⯑lieve it to be laſting; ſince, whatever we ſuppoſe our⯑ſelves in danger of loſing, muſt be enjoyed with ſolici⯑tude and uneaſineſs, and the more value we ſet upon it, the more muſt the preſent poſſeſſion be embittered. How can he then be envied for his felicity, who knows that its continuance cannot be expected, and who is conſcious that a very ſhort time will give him up to the [119]gripe of poverty, which will be harder to be borne, as he has given way to more exceſſes, wantoned in greater abundance, and indulged his appetites with more pro⯑fuſeneſs?

It appears evident that frugality is neceſſary even to complete the pleaſure of expence; for it may be gene⯑rally remarked of thoſe who ſquander what they know their fortune not ſufficient to allow, that in their moſt jovial expence, there always breaks out ſome proof of diſcontent and impatience; they either ſcatter with a kind of wild deſperation, and affected laviſhneſs, as cri⯑minals brave the gallows when they cannot eſcape it, or pay their money with a peeviſh anxiety, and endea⯑vour at once to ſpend idly, and to ſave meanly: Having neither firmneſs to deny their paſſions, nor courage to gratify them, they murmur at their own enjoyments, and poiſon the bowl of pleaſure by reflection on the coſt.

Among theſe men there is often the vociferation of merriment, but very ſeldom the tranquillity of cheer⯑fulneſs; they inflame their imaginations to a kind of momentary jollity, by the help of wine and riot, and conſider it as the firſt buſineſs of the night to ſtupify recollection, and lay that reaſon aſleep which diſturbs their gaiety, and calls upon them to retreat from ruin.

But this poor broken ſatisfaction is of ſhort continu⯑ance, and muſt be expiated by a long ſeries of miſery and regret. In a ſhort time the creditor grows impa⯑tient, the laſt acre is ſold, the paſſions and appetites ſtill continue their tyranny, with inceſſant calls for their uſual gratifications, and the remainder of life paſſes away in vain repentance, or impotent deſire.

On HOPE.

THERE is no temper ſo generally indulged as hope; other paſſions operate by ſtarts, on parti⯑cular occaſions, or in certain parts of life; but hope begins with the firſt power of comparing our actual with our poſſible ſtate, and attends us through every ſtage and period, always urging us forward to new ac⯑quiſitions, and holding out ſome diſtant bleſſing to our view, promiſing us either relief from pain, or increaſe of happineſs.

Hope is neceſſary in every condition. The miſeries of poverty, of ſickneſs, of captivity, would, without this comfort, be inſupportable; nor does it appear that the happieſt lot of terreſtrial exiſtence can ſet us above the want of this general bleſſing; or that life, when the gifts of nature and of fortune are accumulated upon it, would not ſtill be wretched, were it not elevated and delighted by the expectation of ſome new poſſeſſion, of ſome enjoyment yet behind, by which the wiſh ſhall be at laſt ſatisfied, and the heart filled up to its utmoſt extent.

Hope is, indeed, very fallacious, and promiſes what it ſeldom gives; but its promiſes are more valuable than the gifts of fortune, and it ſeldom fruſtrates us without aſſuring us of recompenſing the delay by a greater bounty.

I was muſing on this ſtrange inclination which every man feels to deceive himſelf, and conſidering the ad⯑vantages and dangers proceeding from this gay proſ⯑pect of futurity, when, falling aſleep, on a ſudden I [121]found myſelf placed in a garden, of which my ſight could deſcry no limits. Every ſcene about me was gay and gladſome, light with ſunſhine, and fragrant with perfumes; the ground was painted with all the variety of ſpring, and all the choir of nature was ſinging in the groves.

At length I ſaw an innumerable multitude of every age and ſex, who ſeemed all to partake of ſome general felicity; for every cheek was fluſhed with confidence, and every eye ſparkled with eagerneſs: yet each ap⯑peared to have ſome particular and ſecret pleaſure, and very few were willing to communicate their intentions, or extend their concern beyond themſelves.

On enquiring, I was informed that I was then in the garden of HOPE, the daughter of DESIRE, and that all thoſe whom I ſaw thus tumultuouſly buſtling round me, were inticed by the promiſes of HOPE, and haſting to ſeize the gifts which ſhe held in her hand.

I turned my ſight upward, and ſaw a goddeſs in the bloom of youth, ſitting on a throne; around her lay all the gifts of fortune, and all the bleſſings of life were ſpread abroad to view; ſhe had a perpetual gaiety of aſpect, and every one imagined that her ſmile, which was impartial and general, was directed to himſelf, and triumphed in his own ſuperiority to others, who had conceived the ſame confidence from the ſame miſtake.

I then mounted an eminence, from which I had a more extenſive view of the whole place, and could with leſs perplexity conſider the different conduct of the crowds that filled it. From this ſtation I obſerved, that the entrance into the garden of HOPE was by two gates, one of which was kept by REASON, and the other by FANCY. REASON was ſurly and ſcrupulous, and ſeldom turned the key without many interroga⯑tories, and long heſitation; but FANCY was a kind and gentle portreſs, ſhe held her gate wide open, and welcomed all equally to the diſtrict under her ſuperin⯑tendency; ſo that the paſſage was crowded by all thoſe [122]who either feared the examination of REASON, or had been rejected by her.

From the gate of REASON there was a way to the throne of HOPE, by a craggy, ſlippery, and winding path, called the Streight of Difficulty, which thoſe who entered with the permiſſion of the guard endeavoured to climb. But though they ſurveyed the way cheerfully before they began to riſe, and marked out the ſeveral ſtages of their progreſs, they commonly found unex⯑pected obſtacles, and were obliged frequently to ſtop on the ſudden, where they imagined the way plain and even. A tho [...]ſand intricacies embarraſſed them, a thouſand ſlips threw them back, and a thouſand pitfals impeded their advance. So formidable were the dan⯑gers, and ſo frequent the miſcarriages, that many re⯑turned from the firſt attempt, and many fainted in the midſt of the way, and only a very ſmall number were led up to the ſummit of HOPE, by the hand of FOR⯑TITUDE. Of theſe few the greater part, when they had obtained the gift which HOPE had promiſed them, regretted the labour which it coſt, and felt in their ſuc⯑ceſs the regret of diſappointment; the reſt retired with their prize, and were led by WISDOM to the bowers of CONTENT.

Turning then towards the gate of FANCY, I could find no way to the ſeat of HOPE; but though ſhe ſat full in view, and held out her gifts with an air of in⯑vitation, which filled every heart with rapture, the mountain was, on that ſide, inacceſſibly ſteep, but ſo channelled and ſhaded, that none perceived the im⯑poſſibility of aſcending it, but each imagined himſelf to have diſcovered a way to which the reſt were ſtran⯑gers. Many expedients were indeed tried by this in⯑duſtrious tribe, of whom ſome were making themſelves wings, which others were contriving to actuate by the perpetual motion. But with all their labour, and all their artifices, they never roſe above the ground, or quickly fell back, nor ever approached the throne of HOPE, but continued ſtill to gaze at a diſtance, and [123]laughed at the ſlow progreſs of thoſe whom they ſaw toiling in the Streight of Difficulty.

Part of the favourites of FANCY, when they had entered the garden, without making, like the reſt, an at⯑tempt to climb the mountain, turned immediately to the vale of IDLENESS, a calm and undiſturbed retire⯑ment, from whence they could always have HOPE in proſpect, and to which they pleaſed themſelves with believing that ſhe intended ſpeedily to deſcend. Theſe were indeed ſcorned by all the reſt; but they ſeemed very little affected by contempt, advice, or reproof, by were reſolved to expect at eaſe the favour of the goddeſs.

Among this gay race I was wandering, and found them ready to anſwer all my queſtions, and willing to communicate their mirth: but turning round I ſaw two dreadful monſters entering the vale, one of whom I knew to be AGE, and the other WANT. Sport and revelling were now at an end, and an univerſal ſhriek of affright and diſtreſs burſt out and awaked me.

On the IMPORTANCE of a GOOD CHARACTER, con⯑ſidered only with RESPECT to INTEREST.

AS the minds of men are infinitely various, and as they are therefore influenced in the choice of a conduct by different inducements, the moraliſt muſt omit no motive, however ſubordinate in its nature, while it appears likely to lead ſome among mankind to a laudable, or even a blameleſs behaviour. A regard to eaſe, to intereſt, and to ſucceſs, in the uſual purſuits of wealth and ambition, may induce many to purſue an honeſt and honourable conduct, who would not have been influenced by purer motives; but who, after they have once perceived the intrinſic excellence and beauty [124]of ſuch a conduct, will probably perſevere in it for its own ſake, and upon higher conſiderations.

To thoſe who are to make their own way either to wealth or honours, a good character is uſually no leſs neceſſary than addreſs and abilities. Though human nature is degenerate, and corrupts itſelf ſtill more by its own inventions; yet it uſually retains to the laſt an eſteem for excellence. But even if we are arrived at ſuch an extreme degree of depravity as to have loſt our native reverence for virtue; yet a regard to our own intereſt and ſafety, which we ſeldom loſe, will lead us to apply for aid, in all important tranſactions, to men whoſe integrity if unimpeached. When we chuſe an aſſiſtant, a partner, a ſervant, our firſt enquiry is con⯑cerning his character. When we have occaſion for a counſellor or attorney, a phyſician or apothecary, what⯑ever we may be ourſelves, we always chuſe to truſt our property and perſons to men of the beſt character. When we ſix on the tradeſmen who are to ſupply us with neceſſaries, we are not determined by the ſign of the lamb, or the wolf, or the fox; nor by a ſhop fitted up in the moſt elegant taſte, but by the faireſt reputa⯑tion. Look into a daily newſpaper, and you will ſee, from the higheſt to the loweſt rank, how important the characters of the employed appear to the employers. After the advertiſement has enumerated the qualities required in the perſon wanted, there conſtantly follows, that none need apply who cannot bring an undeniable character. Offer yourſelf as a candidate for a ſeat in parliament, be promoted to honour and emolument, or in any reſpect attract the attention of mankind upon yourſelf, and, if you are vulnerable in your character, you will be deeply wounded. This is a general teſti⯑mony in favour of honeſty, which no writings and no practices can poſſibly refute.

Young men, therefore, whoſe characters are yet un⯑fixed, and who, conſequently, may render them juſt ſuch as they wiſh, ought to pay great attention to the firſt ſteps which they take on their entrance into life. They are [125]uſually careleſs and inattentive to this object. They purſue their own plans with ardour, and neglect the opinions which others entertain of them. By ſome thoughtleſs action or expreſſion, they ſuffer a mark to be impreſſed upon them, which ſcarcely any ſubſequent merit can entirely eraſe. Every man will find ſome perſons, who, though they are not profeſſed enemies, yet view him with an envious or jealous eye; and who will gladly revive any tale to which truth has given the ſlighteſt foundation.

Indeed, all men are ſo much inclined to flatter their own pride by detracting from the reputation of others, that even if we are able to maintain an immaculate conduct, it would ſtill be difficult to preſerve an imma⯑culate character. But yet it is wiſdom not to furniſh this detracting ſpirit with real ſubjects for the exerciſe of its activity. While calumny is ſupported only by ima⯑gination, or by malice, we may ſometimes remove, by contradicting it; but wherever folly or vice have ſup⯑plied facts, we can ſeldom do more than aggravate the evil, by giving it an apparent attention. The malignity of ſome among the various diſpoſitions of which man⯑kind are compoſed, is often highly gratified at the view of injured ſenſibility.

In this turbulent and confuſed ſcene, where our words and actions are often miſunderſtood and oftener miſrepreſented, it is indeed difficult even for innocence and integrity to avoid reproach, abuſe, contempt, and hatred. Theſe not only hurt our intereſt and impede our advancement in life, but ſorely afflict the feelings of a tender and delicate mind. It is then the part of wiſdom firſt to do every thing in our power to preſerve an irreproachable character, and then to let our happi⯑neſs depend chiefly on the approbation of our own con⯑ſciences, and on the advancement of our intereſt in a world where liars ſhall not be believed, and where ſlan⯑derers ſhall receive countenance from none but him who, in Greek, is called, by way of eminence, Diabo⯑lus, or the Calumniator.

An ADDRESS to a YOUNG SCHOLAR, ſuppoſed to be in the COURSE of a LIBERAL EDUCATION at SCHOOL.

YOUR parents have watched over your helpleſs in⯑fancy, and conducted you, with many a pang, to an age at which your mind is capable of manly improve⯑ment. Their ſolicitude ſtill continues, and no trouble nor expence is ſpared in giving you all the inſtructions and accompliſhments which may enable you to act your part in life, as a man of poliſhed ſenſe and confirmed virtue. You have, then, already contracted a great debt of gratitude to them. You can pay it by no other method but by uſing the advantages which their good⯑neſs has afforded you.

If your endeavours are deficient, it is in vain that you have tutors, books, and all the external apparatus of literary purſuits. You muſt love learning, if you in⯑tend to poſſeſs it. In order to love it, you muſt feel its delights; in order to feel its delights, you muſt apply to it, however irkſome at firſt, cloſely, conſtantly, and for a conſiderable time. If you have reſolution enough to do this; you cannot but love learning; for the mind always loves that to which it has been long, ſteadily, and voluntarily attached. Habits are formed, which render what was at firſt diſagreeable, not only pleaſant, but neceſſary.

Pleaſant, indeed, are all the paths which lead to polite and elegant literature. Yours, then, is ſurely a lot particularly happy. Your education is of ſuch a ſort, that its principal ſcope is to prepare you to receive a re⯑fined pleaſure during your life. Elegance, or delicacy of taſte, is one of the firſt objects of a claſſical diſcipline; and it is this fine quality which opens a new world to the ſcholar's view. Elegance of taſte has a connection with many virtues, and all of them virtues of the moſt [127]amiable kind. It tends to render you at once good and agreeable. You muſt therefore be an enemy to your own enjoyments, if you enter on the diſcipline which leads to the attainment of a claſſical and liberal education with reluctance. Value duly the opportuni⯑ties you enjoy, and which are denied to thouſands of your fellow-creatures.

Without exemplary diligence, you will make but a contemptible proficiency. You may indeed paſs through the forms of ſchools and univerſities, but you will bring nothing away from them of real value The proper ſort and degree of diligence you cannot poſſeſs, but by the efforts of your own reſolution. Your inſtructor may, in⯑deed, confine you within the walls of a ſchool, a certain number of hours; he may place books before you, and compel you to fix your eyes upon them; but no autho⯑rity can chain down your mind. Your thoughts will eſcape from every external reſtraint, and, amidſt the moſt ſerious lectures, may be ranging in the wild pur⯑ſuit of trifles or vice. Rules, reſtraints, commands, and puniſhments may, indeed, aſſiſt in ſtrengthening your reſolution; but, without your own voluntary choice, your diligence will not often conduce to your pleaſure or advantage. Though this truth is obvious, yet it ſeems to be a ſecret to thoſe parents who expect to find their ſon's improvement increaſe in proportion to the number of tutors and external aſſiſtances, which their opulence has enabled them to provide. Theſe aſſiſtances, indeed, are ſometimes afforded, chiefly that the young heir to a title or eſtate may indulge himſelf in idleneſs and nominal pleaſures. The leſſon is conſtrued to him, and the exerciſe written for him by the private tutor, while the hapleſs youth is engaged in ſome ruinous pleaſure, which at the ſame time prevents him from learning any thing deſirable, and leads to the formation of deſtructive habits, which can ſeldom be removed.

But the principal obſtacle to improvement at your ſchool, eſpecially if you are too plentifully ſupplied with money, is a perverſe ambition of being diſtinguiſhed as [128]a boy of ſpirit in miſchievous pranks, in neglecting the taſks and leſſons, and for every vice and irregularity which the puerile age can admit. You will have ſenſe enough, I hope, to diſcover, beneath the maſk of gaiety and good-nature, that malignant ſpirit of detraction, which endeavours to render the boy who applies to books, and to all the duties and proper buſineſs of the ſchool, ridiculous. You will ſee, by the light of your reaſon, that the ridicule is miſapplied. You will diſcover, that the boys who have recourſe to ridicule, are, for the moſt part, ſtupid, unfeeling, ignorant, and vicious. Their noiſy folly, their bold confidence, their contempt of learning, and their defiance of authority, are, for the moſt part, the genuine effects of hardened inſenſibility. Let not their inſults and ill-treatment diſpirit you. If you yield to them with a tame and abject ſubmiſſion, they will not fail to triumph over you with additional inſolence. Diſplay a fortitude in your purſuits, equal in degree to the obſtinacy in which they perſiſt in theirs. Your fortitude will ſoon over⯑come theirs; which is ſeldom any thing more than the audacity of a bully. Indeed you cannot go through a ſchool with eaſe to yourſelf, and with ſucceſs, without a conſiderable ſhare of courage. I do not mean that ſort of courage which leads to battles and contentions, but which enables you to have a will of your own, and to purſue what is right, amidſt all the perſecutions of ſurrounding enviers, dunces, and detractors. Ridicule is the weapon made uſe of a ſchools, as well as in the world, when the fortreſſes of virtue are to be aſſailed. You will effectually repel the attack by a dauntleſs ſpirit and unyielding perſeverance. Though numbers are againſt you, yet, with truth and rectitude on your ſide, you may be IPSE AGMEN, though alone, yet equal to an army.

By laying in a ſtore of uſeful knowledge, adorning your mind with elegant literature, improving and eſta⯑bliſhing your conduct by virtuous principles, you cannot fail of being a comfort to thoſe friends who have ſup⯑ported [129]you, of being happy within yourſelf, and of being well received by mankind. Honour and ſucceſs in life will probably attend you. Under all circum⯑ſtances you will have an internal ſource of conſolation, an entertainment, of which no ſublunary viciſſitude can deprive you. Time ſhews how much wiſer is your choice than that of your idle companions, who would gladly have drawn you into their aſſociation, or rather into their conſpiracy, as it has been called, againſt good manners, and againſt all that is honourable and uſeful. While you appear in ſociety as a reſpectable and valuable member of it, they have ſacrificed, at the ſhrine of vanity, pride, extravagance, and falſe pleaſure, their health and their ſenſe, their fortunes and their characters.

The WANT of PIETY ariſes from the WANT of SENSIBILITY.

IT appears to me, that the mind of man, when it is free from natural defects and acquired corruption, feels no leſs a tendency to the indulgence of devo⯑tion, than to virtuous love, or to any other of the more refined and elevated affections. But debauchery and exceſs contribute greatly to deſtroy all the ſuſceptible delicacy with which nature uſually furniſhes the heart; and, in the general extinction of our better qualities, it is no wonder that ſo pure a ſentiment as that of piety, ſhould be one of the firſt to expire.

It is certain that the underſtanding may be improved in a knowledge of the world, and in the arts of ſucceed⯑ing in it, while the heart, or whatever conſtitutes the ſeat of the moral and ſentimental feelings, is gradually receding from its proper and original perfection. In⯑deed, experience ſeems to evince, that it is hardly poſſi⯑ble [130]to arrive at the character of a complete man of the world, without loſing many of the moſt valuable ſenti⯑ments of uncorrupted nature. A complete man of the world is an artificial being; he has diſcarded many of the native and laudable tendencies of his mind, and a⯑dopted a new ſyſtem of objects and propenſities of his own creation. Theſe are commonly groſs, coarſe, ſor⯑did, ſelfiſh, and ſenſual. All, or either of theſe attri⯑butes, tend directly to blunt the ſenſe of every thing liberal, enlarged, diſintereſted; of every thing which participates more of an intellectual than of a ſenſual nature. When the heart is tied down to the earth by luſt and avarice, it is not extraordinary that the eye ſhould be ſeldom lifted up to heaven. To the man who ſpends his Sunday (becauſe he thinks the day fit for lit⯑tle elſe) in the counting-houſe, in travelling, in the ta⯑vern, or in the brothel, thoſe who go to church appear as fools, and the buſineſs they go upon as nonſenſe. He is callous to the feelings of devotion; but he is tremblingly alive to all that gratifies his ſenſes or pro⯑motes his intereſt.

It has been remarked of thoſe writers who have at⯑tacked chriſtianity, and repreſented all religions merely as diverſified modes of ſuperſtition, that they were in⯑deed, for the moſt part, men of a metaphyſical and a diſputatious turn of mind, but uſually little diſtinguiſhed for benignity and generoſity. There was, amidſt all their pretenſions to logical ſagacity, a cloudineſs of ideas, and a coldneſs of heart, which rendered them very unfit judges on a queſtion in which the heart is chiefly intereſted; in which the language of nature is more expreſſive and convincing, than all the dreary ſub⯑tleties of the diſmal metaphyſicians. Even the reaſoning faculty, on which we ſo greatly value ourſelves, may be perverted by exceſſive refinement; and there is an ab⯑ſtruſe, but vain and fooliſh philoſophy, which philoſo⯑phizes us out of the nobleſt parts of our noble nature. One of thoſe parts of us is our inſtinctive ſenſe of re⯑ligion, of which not one of thoſe brutes which the phi⯑loſophers [131]moſt admire, and to whoſe rank they wiſh to reduce us, is found in the ſlighteſt degree to participate.

Such philoſophers may be called, in a double ſenſe, the enemies of mankind. They not only endeavour to entice man from his duty, but to rob him of a moſt exalted and natural pleaſure. Such, ſurely, is the pleaſure of devotion. For when the ſoul riſes above this little orb, and pours its adoration at the throne of celeſtial Majeſty, the holy fervour which it fells is itſelf a rapturous delight. Neither is this a declamatory re⯑preſentation, but a truth felt and acknowledged by all the ſons of men; except thoſe who have been defective in ſenſibility, or who hoped to gratify the pride or the malignity of their hearts, by ſingular and pernicious ſpeculation.

It is however certain, that a devotional taſte and habit are very deſirable in themſelves, excluſive of their effects in meliorating the morals and diſpoſition, and promoting preſent and future felicity. They add dignity, pleaſure, and ſecurity to any age: but to old age they are the moſt becoming grace, the moſt ſubſtantial ſupport, and the ſweeteſt comfort. In order to preſerve them, it will be neceſſary to preſerve our ſenſibility; and no⯑thing will contribute ſo much to this purpoſe as a life of temperance, innocence, and ſimplicity.

On the GUILT of INCURRING DEBTS, without either a PROSPECT or an INTENTION of PAYMENT.

AMONG the various devices which young men have invented to involve themſelves in difficulties and in ruin, none is more frequent than that of in⯑curring debt without any real neceſſity. No ſooner his guardian and ſuperintendants, than he becomes, in [132]his own idea, a man, and not only ſo, but a man of conſequence, whom it behoves to dreſs, and make a figure. To accompliſh the purpoſe of making a figure, ſome expenſive vices are to be affected or practiſed. But as the ſtipends of young men juſt entering into life are uſually inconſiderable, it is neceſſary to borrow on the moſt diſadvantageous terms, or to purchaſe the various requiſites of a pleaſurable life on credit. The debt ſoon accumulates from ſmall beginnings to a great ſum. The young adventurer continues, while his credit is good, in the ſame wild career; but adieu to real pleaſure, to improvement, to honeſt induſtry, and to a quiet mind. His peace is wounded. A perpetual load ſeems to weigh him down; and though his feelings may, by length of time and habit, become too callous to be affected by the miſery of his ſituation, yet he is loſt to all ſincere enjoyment; and if he fall not a victim to deſpair, ſurvives only to gain a precarious ex⯑iſtence at the gaming-table, to deceive the unwary, and to elude the reſearches of perſecuting creditors. Even if he be enabled, by the death of his parents or rich relations, to pay the debts which his youthful folly has contracted; yet has he ſuffered long and much, and loſt the beginning of life, the ſeaſon of rational delight and ſolid improvement, in diſtreſs and fears; in fabri⯑cating excuſes and pretences, and in flying from the eager purſuit of duns and bailiffſ.

But this folly, however pregnant with miſery, is en⯑titled to pity, and may, in ſome degree, admit of thoſe uſual palliations, youthful ardour, and want of experi⯑ence. Thouſands, and tens of thouſands, have ruined their fortunes and their happineſs by haſtily running into debt before they knew the value of money, or the con⯑ſequences of their embarraſſment. We pity their miſ⯑fortune, but in the firſt part of their progreſs we do not uſually accuſe them of diſhoneſty.

But the habit of incurring debt, though in the earlier periods of life it may originate in thoughtleſſneſs, com⯑monly leads to a crime moſt atrocious in itſelf, and [133]injurious to ſociety. He who prayed againſt poverty, leſs he ſhould be poor and ſteal, underſtood human na⯑ture. Difficulties and diſtreſſes have a natural tendency to leſſen the reſtraints of conſcience. The fortreſs of honour, when ſtormed by that ſort of poverty which is occaſioned by profligacy, and not defended with ſound principles (ſuch as men of the world do not often poſ⯑ſeſs) has for the moſt part yielded at diſcretion. He then who began with incurring debt merely becauſe he was ſtrongly ſtimulated by paſſion or fancy, and was not able to pay for their gratification, proceeds, when the habit is confirmed, and the firſt ſcruples diſmiſſed, to contract debt wherever unſuſpecting confidence will afford him an opportunity.

Many of the perſons who live on the ſubſtance of others, by borrowing, purchaſing, or employing, with⯑out intending, and without being able to pay, make a ſplendid figure, and paſs for gentlemen and men of ho⯑nour. But however they may felicitate themſelves on their ſucceſs, and in the gratification of their pride and vanity, I ſhall not heſitate to pronounce them more cri⯑minal and deteſtable than highwaymen and houſebreak⯑ers, becauſe, to the crime of actual theft, they add a moſt ungenerous breach of confidence.

The STORY of MARIA—from STERNE.

—THEY were the ſweeteſt notes I ever heard; and I inſtantly let down the fore-glaſs 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 line betwixt us) is ſitting upon a bank playing her veſpers upon her pipe, with her little goat beſide her.

[134]The young fellow uttered this with an accent and a look ſo perfectly in tune to a feeling heart, that I in⯑ſtantly made a vow, I would give him a four-and-twenty ſous piece, when I got to Moulins—

—And who is poor Maria? ſaid I.

The love and pity of 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, but the pipe to her mouth, and began the air a⯑gain—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 con⯑ſolation—ſhe was 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 decypher⯑ing ſomething in his face above his condition, and ſhould have ſifted our his hiſtory, had not poor Maria's taken ſo full poſſeſſion 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 into a ſilk 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-ache, 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, that the virgin at laſt will reſtore [135]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 ſpoke 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 ſo wiſtfully for ſome time at me, and then at her goat—and then at me—and then at the goat a⯑gain, and ſo on, alternately—

—Well, Maria, ſaid I ſoftly—What reſemblance do you find?

I do intreat 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 fallen and unſeaſonable pleaſantry in the vene⯑rable preſence of miſery, to be entitled to all the wit that ever Rabelais ſcattered—and yet I own my heart ſmote me, and that I ſo ſmarted at the very idea of it, that I ſwore I would ſet up for wiſdom, and utter grave ſentences the reſt of may days—and never—never at⯑tempt again to commit mirth with man, woman, or child, the longeſt day I had to live.

As for writing nonſenſe to them—I believe, there was a reſerve—but that I leave to the world.

Adieu, Maria! adieu, poor hapleſs damſel!—ſome time, but not now, I may heart thy ſorrows from thy own lips—but I was deceived: for that moment ſhe took her pipe, and told me ſuch a tale of woe with it, that I roſe up, and with broken and irregular ſteps, walked ſoftly to my chaiſe.

In may next journey I was prompted to go half a league out of my road to the village where her parents dwelt to enquire after her.

—The old mother came ſo the door, her looks told me the ſtory before the opened her mouth—She had [136]loſt her huſband: he had died, ſhe ſaid, of anguiſh, for the loſs of Maria's ſenſes about a month before—She had feared a firſt, ſhe added, that it would have plun⯑dered her poor girl of what little underſtanding was left—but, on the contrary, it had brought her more to herſelf—ſtill ſhe could not reſt—her poor daughter, ſhe ſaid, crying, was wandering ſome where about the road—

—Why does my pulſe beat languid as I write this? and what made La Fleur, whoſe heart ſeemed only to be tuned to joy, to paſs the back of his hand twice a⯑croſs his eyes, as the woman ſtood and told it? I beckoned to the poſtillion to turn back into the road.

When we had got within half a league of Moulins, at a little opening in the road leading to a thicket, I diſcovered 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 bid the poſtillion go on with the chaiſe to Moulins—and La Fleur to beſpeak my ſupper—and that I would walk after him.

She was dreſſed in white, and much as my friend de⯑ſcribed her, except that her hair hung looſe, which be⯑fore was twiſted within a ſilk net.—She had, ſuper⯑added likewiſe to her jacket, a pale green ribband, which fell acroſs her ſhoulder to her waiſt; at the end of which hung her pipe.—Her goat had been as faith⯑leſs as her lover; and ſhe had got a little dog in lieu of him, which ſhe had kept tied by a ſtring to her gir⯑dle; as I looked at her dog, ſhe drew him towards her with the ſtring—"Thou ſhalt not leave me, Sylvio," faid ſhe. I looked in Maria's eyes, and ſaw ſhe was thinking more of her father than of her lover or 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 hers—and then in [137]mine—and then I wiped hers again—and as I did it, I felt ſuch indeſcribable emotion 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 tall thin perſon of a man who had fat down betwixt her and her goat about two years be⯑fore? She ſaid, ſhe was unſettled much at that time, but remembered it upon two accounts—that ill as ſhe was, ſhe ſaw the perſon pitied her; and next, and her goat had ſtolen his handkerchief, and ſhe had beat him for the thieft—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 promiſed 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 return⯑ed back—that ſhe found her way alone acroſs the A⯑penines—had travelled over all Lombardy without mo⯑ney—and through the flinty roads of Savoy without ſhoes—how ſhe had borne it, and how ſhe had got ſup⯑ported, ſhe could not tell—but God tempers the wind, ſaid Maria, to the ſhorn lamb.

Shorn, indeed! and to the quick, ſaid I; and was thou in my own land, where I have a cottage, I would take thee to it and ſhelter thee: thou ſhould'ſt 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 ſhouldeſt play the evening ſong upon thy pipe, nor would the incenſe of my ſacrifice be worſe [138]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 where will you dry it, Maria? ſaid I—I will dry it in my boſom, ſaid ſhe—it will do me good.

And is your heart ſtill ſo warm, Maria? ſaid I.

I touched upon the ſtring on which hung all her ſor⯑rows—ſhe looked with wiſtful diſorder for ſome time in my face; and then without ſaying any thing, took her pipe, and played her ſervice to the Virgin.—The ſtring I had touched ceaſed to vibrate—in a moment or two Maria turned to herſelf—let her pipe fall—and roſe up.

And where are you going, Maria? ſaid I.—She ſaid, to Moulins—Let us go, ſaid I, together.—Ma⯑ria put her arm within mine, and lengthening the ſtring to let the dog follow—in that order we entered Mou⯑lins.

Though I hate ſalutations and greetings in the mar⯑ket place, yet when we got into the middle of this, I ſtopped to take my laſt look and laſt farewell of Maria.

Maria, though not tall, was nevertheleſs of the firſt order of fine forms—affliction had touched her looks with ſomething that was ſcarce earthly—ſtill ſhe was feminine—and ſo much was there about her of all that the heart wiſhes, or the eye looks for in wo⯑man, 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 jour⯑nieth on his way, now pours into thy wounds—that Being who has twice bruiſed thee, can only bind them up for ever.

The VISION of THEODORE, the HERMIT of TENERIFFE, found in his CELL.

SON of perſeverance, whoever thou art, whoſe curi⯑oſity has led thee hither, read and be wiſe. He that now calls upon thee is Theodore, the hermit of Te⯑neriffe, who, in the fifty-ſeventh year of his retreat, left this inſtruction to mankind, leſt his ſolitary hours ſhould be ſpent in vain.

I was once what thou art now, a groveller on the earth, and a gazer at the ſky; I trafficked and heaped wealth together, I loved and was favoured, I wore the robe of honour and heard the muſic of adulation; I was ambitious, and roſe to greatneſs; I was unhappy, and retired. I ſought for ſome time what I at length found here, a place where all real wants might be eaſily ſup⯑plied, and where I might not be under the neceſſity of purchaſing the aſſiſtance of men by the toleration of their follies. Here I ſaw fruits and herbs and water, and here determined to wait the hand of death, which I hope, when at laſt it comes, will fall lightly on me.

Forty-eight years had I now paſſed in forgetfulneſs of all mortal cares, and without any inclination to wan⯑der farther than the neceſſity of procuring ſuſtenance required; but as I ſtood one day beholding the rock that overhangs my cell, I found in myſelf a deſire to climb it; and when I was on its top, was in the ſame man⯑ner determined to ſcale the next, till by degrees I con⯑ceived a wiſh to view the ſummit of the mountain, at the foot of which I had ſo long reſided. This motion of my thoughts I endeavoured to ſuppreſs, not be⯑cauſe it appeared criminal, but becauſe it was new; and all change not evidently for the better alarms a mind taught by experience to diſtruſt itſelf. I was often afraid that my heart was deceiving me, that my impatience of confinement roſe from ſome earthly [140]paſſion, and that my ardour to ſurvey the works of na⯑ture was only a hidden longing to mingle once again in the ſcenes of life. I therefore endeavoured to ſet⯑tle my thoughts into their former ſtate, but found their diſtraction every day greater. I was always reproach⯑ing myſelf with the want of happineſs within my reach, and at laſt began to queſtion whether it was not lazi⯑neſs rather than caution that reſtrained me from climb⯑ing to the ſummit of Teneriffe.

I roſe therefore before the day, and began my jour⯑ney up the ſteep of the mountain; but I had not ad⯑vanced far, old as I was and burthened with proviſions, when the day began to ſhine upon me; the declivities grew more precipitous, and the ſand ſliding beneath my feet; at laſt, fainting with labour, I arrived at a ſmall plain almoſt incloſed by rocks, and open only to the eaſt. I ſat down to reſt a while, in full perſuaſion that when I had recovered my ſtrength I ſhould proceed on my deſign; but when once I had taſted eaſe, I found many reaſons againſt diſturbing it. The branches ſpread a ſhade over my head, and the gales of ſpring wafted odours to my boſom.

As I ſat thus, forming alternately excuſes for de⯑lay, and reſolutions to go forward, an irreſiſtible heavi⯑neſs ſuddenly ſurpriſed me; I laid my head upon the bank, and reſigned myſelf to ſleep: when methought I heard the ſound as of the flight of eagles, and a being of more than human dignity ſtood before me. While I was deliberating how to addreſs him, he took me by the hand with an air of kindneſs, and aſked me ſolemn⯑ly, but without ſeverity. ‘Theodore, whither art thou going?’ I am climbing, anſwered I, to the top of the mountain, to enjoy a more extenſive proſpect of the works of nature. ‘Attend firſt, ſaid he, to the proſpect which this place affords, and what thou doſt not underſtand I will explain. I am one of the be⯑nevolent beings who watch over the children of the duſt, to preſerve them from thoſe evils which will not ultimately terminate in good, and which they do [141]not, by their own faults, bring upon themſelves. Look round therefore without fear; obſerve, con⯑template, and be inſtructed.’

Encouraged by this aſſurance, I looked and beheld a mountain higher than Teneriffe, to the ſummit of which the human eye could never reach; when I had tired myſelf with gazing upon its height, I turned my eyes towards its foot, which I could eaſily diſcover, but was amazed to find it without foundation, and placed incon⯑ceivably in emptineſs and darkneſs. Thus I ſtood ter⯑rified and confuſed; above were tracks inſcrutable, and below was total vacuity. But my protector, with a voice of admonition, cried out, Theodore, be not affrighted, but raiſe thy eyes again; the Mountain of Exiſtence is before thee, ſurvey it and be wiſe.

I then looked with more deliberate attention, and obſerved the bottom of the mountain to be of gentle riſe, and overſpread with flowers; the middle to be more ſteep, embarraſſed with crags, and interrupted by precipices, over which hung branches loaded with fruits, and among which were ſcattered palaces and bowers. The tracts which my eye could reach neareſt the top were generally barren; but there were among the clefts of the rocks a few hardy evergreens, which, though they did not give much pleaſure to the ſight or ſmell, yet ſeemed to cheer the labour and facilitate the ſteps of thoſe who were clambering among them.

Then, beginning to examine more minutely the dif⯑ferent parts, I obſerved at a great diſtance a multitude of both ſexes iſſuing into view from the bottom of the mountain. Their firſt actions I could not accurately diſcern; but, as they every moment approached nearer, I found that they amuſed themſelves with gathering flowers under the ſuperintendence of a modeſt virgin in a white robe, who ſeemed not over ſolicitous to con⯑fine them to any ſettled pace or certain track; for ſhe knew that the whole ground was ſmooth and ſolid, and that they could not be eaſily hurt or bewildered. When, as it often happened, they plucked a thiſtle for a flower, [142]INNOCENCE, ſo was ſhe called, would ſmile at the miſtake. Happy, ſaid I, are they who [...]re under ſo gentle a government, and yet are ſafe. But I had not opportunity to dwell long on the conſideration of their felicity; for I found that INNOCENCE continued her attendance but a little way, and ſeemed to conſider only the flowery bottom of the mountain as her proper province. Thoſe whom ſhe abandoned ſcarcely knew that they were left, before they perceived themſelves in the hands of EDUCATION, a nymph more ſevere in her aſpect and imperious in her commands, who con⯑fined them to certain paths, in their opinion too nar⯑row and too rough. Theſe they were continually ſo⯑licited to leave, by APPETITE, whom EDUCATION could never fright away, though ſhe ſometimes awed her to ſuch timidity, that the effects of her preſence were ſcarcely perceptible. Some went back to the firſt part of the mountain, and ſeemed deſirous of continuing buſied in plucking flowers, but were no longer guarded by INNOCENCE; and ſuch as EDUCATION could not force back, proceeded up the mountain by ſome miry road, in which they were ſeldom ſeen, and ſcarcely ever regarded.

As EDUCATION led her troop up the mountain, no⯑thing was more obſervable than that ſhe was frequently giving them cautions to beware of HABITS; and was calling out to one or another at every ſtep, that a HA⯑BIT was enſnaring them; that they would be under the dominion of HABIT before they perceived their danger; and that thoſe whom HABIT ſhould once ſub⯑due, had little hope of regaining their liberty.

Of this caution, ſo frequently repeated, I was very ſolicitous to know the reaſon, when my protector di⯑rected my regard to a troop of pygmies, which ap⯑peared to walk ſilently before that were climbing the mountain, and each to ſmooth the way before her follower. I found that I had miſſed the notice of them before, both becauſe they were ſo minute as not eaſily to be diſcerned, and becauſe they grew every moment [143]nearer in their colour to the objects with which they were ſurrounded. As the followers of EDUCATION did not appear ſenſible of the preſence of theſe danger⯑ous aſſociates, or, ridiculing their diminutive ſize, did not think it poſſible that human beings ſhould ever be brought into ſubjection by ſuch feeble enemies, they generally heard her precepts of vigilance with wonder: and, when they thought her eye withdrawn, treated them with contempt. Nor could I myſelf think her cautions ſo neceſſary as her frequent inculcations ſeem⯑ed to ſuppoſe, till I obſerved that each of theſe petty beings held ſecretly a chain in her hand, with which ſhe prepared to bind thoſe whom ſhe found within her power. Yet theſe HABITS under the eye of EDUCA⯑TION went quietly forward, and ſeemed very little to increaſe in bulk or ſtrength; for though they were al⯑ways willing to join with APPETITE, yet when EDU⯑CATION kept them apart from her, they would very punctually obey command, and make the narrow very in which they were confined eaſier and ſmoother.

It was obſervable, that their ſtature was never at a ſtand, but continually growing or decreaſing, yet not always in the ſame proportions: nor could I forbear to expreſs my admiration, when I ſaw in how much leſs time they generally gained than loſt bulk. Though they grew ſlowly in the road of EDUCATION, it might however be perceived that they grew; but if they once deviated at the call of APPETITE, their ſtature ſoon became gigantic; and their ſtrength was ſuch, that EDUCATION pointed out to her tribe many that were led in chains by them, whom ſhe could never more reſ⯑cue from their ſlavery. She pointed them out, but with little effect; for all her pupils appeared confident of their own ſuperiority to the ſtrongeſt HABIT, and ſome ſeemed in ſecret to regret that they were hindered from following the triumph of APPETITE.

It was the peculiar artifice of HABIT not to ſuffer her power to be felt at firſt. Thoſe whom ſhe led, ſhe had the addreſs of appearing only to attend, but was [144]continually doubling her chains upon her companions; which were ſo ſlender in themſelves, and ſo ſilently faſtened, that while the attention was engaged by o⯑ther objects, they were not eaſily perceived. Each link grew tighter as it had been longer worn; and when by continual additions they became ſo heavy as to be felt, they were very frequently to ſtrong to be broken.

When EDUCATION had proceeded in this manner to the part of the mountain where the declivity began to be craggy, ſhe reſigned her charge to two powers of ſupe⯑rior aſpect. The meaner of them appeared capable of preſiding in ſenates, or governing nations, and yet watched the ſteps of the other with the moſt anxious attention, and was viſibly confounded and perplexed if ever ſhe ſuffered her regard to be drawn away. The other ſeemed to approve her ſubmiſſion as pleaſing, but with ſuch a condeſcenſion as plainly ſhewed that ſhe claimed it as due: and indeed ſo great was her dignity and ſweetneſs, that he who would not reverence, muſt not behold her.

"Theodone," ſaid my protector, ‘be fearleſs, and be wiſe; approach theſe powers, whoſe dominion ex⯑tends to all the remaining part of the Mountain of Exiſtence.’ I trembled, and ventured to addreſs the inferior nymph, whoſe eyes, though piercing and aw⯑ful, I was not able to ſuſtain. "Bright power," ſaid I, ‘by whatever name it is lawful to addreſs thee, tell me, thou who preſideſt here, on what condition thy protection will be granted?’ "It will be granted," ſaid ſhe; ‘only to obedience. I am REASON, of all ſubordinate beings the nobleſt and the greateſt; who, if thou my receive my laws, will regard thee like the reſt of my votaries, by conducting thee to RELIGION.’ Charmed by her voice and aſpect, I profeſſed my readineſs to follow her. She then pre⯑ſented me to her miſtreſs, who looked upon me with tenderneſs. I bowed before her, and ſhe ſmiled.

When EDUCATION delivered up thoſe for whoſe happineſs ſhe had been ſo long ſolicitous, ſhe ſeemed to expect that they ſhould expreſs ſome gratitude for her [145]care, or ſome regret at the loſs of that protection which ſhe had hitherto afforded them. But it was eaſy to diſcover, by the alacrity which broke out at her de⯑parture, that her preſence had been long diſpleaſing, and that ſhe had been teaching thoſe who felt in them⯑ſelves no want of inſtruction. They all agreed in re⯑joicing that they ſhould no longer be ſubject to her ca⯑prices, or diſturbed by her documents, but ſhould be now under the direction of REASON, to whom they made no doubt of being able to recommend themſelves by a ſteady adherence to all her precepts. REASON counſelled them, at their firſt entrance upon her pro⯑vince, to inliſt themſelves among the votaries of RELI⯑GION; and informed them, that if they truſted to her alone, they would find the ſame fate with her other admirers, whom ſhe had not been able to ſecure againſt APPETITE and PASSION, and who, having been ſeized by HABIT in the regions of DESIRE, had been dragged away to the caverns of DESPAIR. Her ad⯑monition was vain; the greater number declared againſt any other direction, and doubted not but by her ſu⯑perintendency they ſhould climb with ſafety up the Mountain of Exiſtence. "My power," ſaid REASON, ‘is to adviſe, not to compel; I have already told you the danger of your choice. The path ſeems now plain and even, but there are aſperities and pitfalls, over which RELIGION only can conduct you. Look upwards, and you will perceive a miſt before you ſet⯑tled upon the higheſt viſible part of the mountain; a miſt by which my proſpect is terminated, and which is pierced only by the eyes of RELIGION. Beyond it are the temples of HAPPINESS, in which thoſe who climb the precipice by her direction, after the toil of pilgrimage, repoſe for ever. I know not the way, and therefore can only conduct you to a better guide. PRIDE has ſometimes reproached me with the nar⯑rowneſs of my view, but, when ſhe endeavoured to extend it, could only ſhew me, below the miſt, the bowers of CONTENT; even they vaniſhed as I fixed [146]my eyes upon them; and thoſe whom ſhe perſuaded to travel towards them were enchained by HABIT, and ingulfed by DESPAIR, a cruel tyrant, whoſe ca⯑verns are beyond the darkneſs on the right ſide and on the left, from whoſe priſons none can eſcape, and whom I cannot teach you to avoid.’

Such was the declaration of REASON to thoſe who demanded her protection. Some that recollected the dictates of EDUCATION, finding them now ſeconded by another authority, ſubmitted with reluctance to the ſtrict decree, and engaged themſelves among the followers of RELIGION, who were diſtinguiſhed by the uniformity of their march, without appearing to re⯑gard the proſpects which at every ſtep courted their attention.

The VISION of THEODORE continued.

ALL thoſe who determined to follow either REA⯑SON or RELIGION, were continually importuned to forſake the road, ſometimes by the PASSIONS, and ſometimes by the APPETITES, of whom both had rea⯑ſon to boaſt the ſucceſs of their artifices; for ſo many were drawn into by-paths, that any way was more popu⯑lous than the right. The attacks of the APPETITES were more impetuous, thoſe of the PASSIONS longer con⯑tinued. The APPETITES turned their followers direct⯑ly from the true way, but the PASSIONS marched at firſt in a path nearly in the ſame direction with that of REASON and RELIGION; but deviated by ſlow de⯑grees, till at laſt they entirely changed their courſe.—APPETITE drew aſide the dull, and PASSION the ſprightly. Of the APPETITES, LUST was the ſtrongeſt; and of the PASSIONS, VANITY. The moſt powerful [147]aſſault was to be feared, when a PASSION and an AP⯑PETITE joined their enticements; and the path of REASON was beſt followed, when a paſſion called to one ſide, and an appetite to the other.

Theſe ſeducers had the greateſt ſucceſs upon the fol⯑lowers of REASON, over whom they ſcarcely ever failed to prevail, except when they counteracted one another. They had not the ſame triumphs over the votaries of RELIGION; for though they were often led aſide for a time, RELIGION commonly recalled them by her e⯑miſſary CONSCIENCE, before HABIT had time to en⯑chain them. But they that profeſſed to obey REASON, if once they forſook her, ſeldom returned; for ſhe had no meſſenger to ſummon them but PRIDE, who generally betrayed her confidence, and employed all her ſkill to ſupport PASSION; and if ever ſhe did her duty, was found unable to prevail, if HABIT had interpoſed.

I ſoon found that the great danger to the followers of RELIGION was only from HABIT; every other power was eaſily reſiſted, nor did they find any difficulty when any inadvertently quitted her, to find her again by the direction of CONSCIENCE, unleſs they had given time to HABIT to draw her chain behind them, and bar up the way by which they had wandered. Of ſome of thoſe, the condition was juſtly to be pitied, who turned at every call of CONSCIENCE, and tried, but without effect, to burſt the chains of HABIT: They ſaw RELIGION walking forward at a diſtance, ſaw her with reverence, and longed to join her; but were, whenever they approached her, with-held by HABIT, and languiſhed in ſordid bondage, which they could not eſcape, though they ſcorned and hated it.

It was evident that the HABITS were ſo far from growing weaker by theſe repeated conteſts, that if they were not totally overcome, every ſtruggle enlarged their bulk and increaſed their ſtrength; and a HABIT, op⯑poſed and victorious, was more than twice as ſtrong as before the conteſt. The manner in which thoſe who were weary of their tyranny endeavoured to eſcape from [148]them, appeared by the event to be generally wrong; they tried to looſe their chains one by one, and to re⯑treat by the ſame degrees as they advanced; but before the deliverance was completed, HABIT always threw new chains upon her fugitive: nor did any eſcape her but thoſe who, by an effort ſudden and violent, burſt their ſhackles at once, and left her at a diſtance; and even of theſe, many, ruſhing too precipitately forward, and hindered by their terrors from ſtopping where they were ſafe, were fatigued with their own vehemence, and reſigned themſelves again to that power from whom an eſcape muſt be ſo dearly bought, and whoſe tyranny was little felt, except when it was reſiſted.

Some however there always were, who, when they found HABIT prevailing over them, called upon REA⯑SON or RELIGION for aſſiſtance; each of them will⯑ingly came to the ſuccour of her ſuppliant; but neither with the ſame ſtrength, nor the ſome ſucceſs. HABIT, inſolent with her power, would often preſume to par⯑ley with REASON, and offer to looſe ſome of her chains if the reſt might remain. To this REASON, who was never certain of victory, frequently conſented, but al⯑ways found her conceſſion deſtructive, and ſaw the caprice led away by HABIT to his former ſlavery.—RELIGION never ſubmitted to treaty, but held out her hand with certainty of conqueſt; and, if the captive to whom ſhe gave it did not quit his hold, always led him in triumph, and placed him in the direct path to the temple of Happineſs, where REASON never failed to congratulate his deliverance, and encourage his adhe⯑rence to that power to whoſe timely ſuccour he was indebted for it.

When the traveller was again placed in the road of Happineſs, I ſaw HABIT again gliding before him, but reduced to the ſtate of a dwarf, without ſtrength and without activity; but when the PASSIONS or APPE⯑TITES, which had before ſeduced him, made their ap⯑proach, HABIT would on a ſudden ſtart into ſize, and with unexpected violence puſh him towards them.— [149]The wretch, thus impelled on one ſide, and allured on the other, too frequently quitted the road of Happineſs, to which, after his ſecond deviation from it, he rarely returned. But, by a timely call on RELIGION, the force of HABIT was eluded, her attackes grew fainter, and at laſt her correſpondence with the enemy was en⯑tirely deſtroyed. She then began to employ thoſe reſt⯑leſs; faculties in compliance with the power which ſhe could not overcome; and as ſhe grew again in ſtature and in ſtrength, cleared away the aſperities of the road of Happineſs.

From this road I could not eaſily withdraw my atten⯑tion, becauſe all who travelled it appeared chearful and ſatisfied; and the farther they proceeded, the greater appeared their alacrity, and the ſtronger their convic⯑tion of the wiſdom of their guide. Some, who had never deviated but by ſhort excurſions, had HABIT in the middle of their paſſage vigorouſly ſupporting them, and driving off the APPETITES and PASSIONS which attempted to interrupt their progreſs. Others, who had entered this road late, or had long forſaken it, were toiling on without her help at leaſt, and commonly a⯑gainſt her endeavours. But I obſerved, when they ap⯑proached to the barren top, that few were able to pro⯑ceed without ſome ſupport from HABIT; and that they, whoſe HABITS were ſtrong, advanced towards the miſts with little emotion, and entered them at laſt with calmneſs and confidence; after which, they were ſeen only by the eye of RELIGION; and though REA⯑SON looked after them with the moſt earneſt curioſity, ſhe could only obtain a faint glimpſe, when her miſtreſs, to enlarge her proſpect, raiſed her from the ground.—REASON, however, diſcerned that they were ſafe, but RELIGION ſaw that they were happy.

"Now, Theodore," ſaid my protector, ‘withdraw thy view from the regions of obſcurity, and ſee the fate of thoſe who, when they were diſmiſſed by E⯑DUCATION, would admit no direction but that of REASON. Survey their wanderings, and be wiſe.’

[150]I looked then upon the road of REASON, which was indeed, ſo far as it reached, the ſame with that of RE⯑LIGION, nor had REASON diſcovered it but by her in⯑ſtruction. Yet when ſhe had once been taught it, ſhe clearly ſaw it was right; and PRIDE had ſometimes in⯑cited her to declare that ſhe diſcovered it herſelf, and perſuaded her to offer herſelf as a guide to RELIGION; whom, after many vain experiments, ſhe found it her higheſt privilege to follow. REASON was however at laſt well inſtructed in part of the way, and appeared to teach it with ſome ſucceſs, when her precepts were not miſrepreſented by PASSION, or her influence overborne by APPETITE. But neither of theſe enemies was ſhe able to reſiſt. When PASSION ſeized upon her votaries, ſhe ſeldom attempted oppoſition: ſhe ſeemed indeed to contend with more vigour againſt APPETITE, but was generally overwearied in the conteſt; and if either of her opponents had confederated with HABIT, her authority was wholly at an end. When HABIT en⯑deavoured to captivate the votaries of RELIGION, ſhe grew by ſlow degrees, and gave time to eſcape; but in ſeizing the unhappy followers of REASON, ſhe proceed⯑ed as one that had nothing to fear, and enlarged her ſize, and doubled her chains without intermiſſion, and without reſerve.

Of thoſe who forſook the directions of REASON, ſome were led aſide by the whiſpers of AMBITION, who was perpetually pointing to ſtately palaces, ſituated on eminences on either ſide, recounting the delights of affluence, and boaſting the ſecurity of power. They were eaſily perſuaded to follow her, and HABIT quickly threw her chains upon them; they were ſoon convinc⯑ed of the folly of their choice, but few of them at⯑tempted to return. AMBITION led them forward from precipice to precipice, where many fell and were ſeen no more. Thoſe that eſcaped were, after a long ſeries of hazards, generally delivered over to TYRANNY, where they continued to heap up gold till their patrons [151]or their heirs puſhed them headlong at laſt in the ca⯑verns of DESPAIR.

Others were inticed by INTEMPERANCE to ramble in ſearch of thoſe fruits that hung over the rock, and filled the air with their fragrance. I obſerved, that the HABITS which hovered about theſe ſoon grew to an enormous ſize, nor were there any who leſs attempted to return to REASON, or ſooner ſunk into the gulphs that lay before them. When theſe firſt quitted the road, REASON looked after them with a frown of con⯑tempt, but had little expectations of being able to re⯑claim them; for the bowl of intoxication was of ſuch qualities as to make them loſe all regard but for the preſent moment; neither HOPE nor FEAR could enter their retreats; and HABIT had ſo abſolute a power, that even CONSCIENCE, if RELIGION had employed her in their favour, would not have been able to force an entrance.

There were others whoſe crime it was rather to neg⯑lect REASON than to obey her; and who retreated from the heat and tumult of the way, not to the bow⯑ers of INTEMPERANCE, but to the maze of INDO⯑LENCE. They had this peculiarity in their condition, that they were always in ſight of the road of REASON, always wiſhing for her preſence, and always reſolving to return to-morrow. In theſe was moſt eminently conſpicuous the ſubtlety of HABIT, who hung imper⯑ceptible ſhackles upon them, and was every moment leading them farther from the road, which they always imagined that they had the power of reaching. They wandered on from one double of the labyrinth to another with the chains of HABIT hanging ſecretly upon them, till, as they advanced, the flowers grew paler, and the ſcents fainter; they proceeded in their dreary march without pleaſure in their progreſs, yet without power to return; and had this aggravation above all others, that they were criminal but not de⯑lighted. They drunkard for a time laughed over his wine; the ambitious man triumphed in the miſcar⯑riage [152]of his rival; but the captives of INDOLENCE had neither ſuperiority nor merriment. DISCON⯑TENT lowered in their looks, and SADNESS hovered round their ſhades; yet they crawled on, reluctant and gloomy, till they arrived at the depth of the receſs, va⯑ried only with poppies and nightſhade, where the do⯑minion of INDOLENCE terminates, and the hopeleſs wanderer is delivered up to MELANCHOLY: the chains of HABIT are riveted for ever; and MELANCHOLY, having tortured her priſoner for a time, conſigns him at laſt to the cruelty of DESPAIR.

While I was muſing on this miſerable ſcene, my pro⯑tector called out to me, "Remember, Theodore, and be "wiſe, and let not HABIT prevail againſt thee" I ſtarted, and beheld myſelf ſurrounded by the rocks of Teneriffe; the birds of light were ſinging in the trees, and the glances of the morning darted upon me.

SIR BERTRAND. A Fragment.

—SIR Bertrand turned his ſteed towards the woulds, hoping to croſs theſe dreary moors before the curfew. But ere he had proceeded half his journey, he was bewildered by the different tracks; and not being able, as far as the eye could reach, to eſpy any object but the brown heath ſur⯑rounding him, he was at length quite uncertain which way he ſhould direct his courſe. Night overtook him in this ſituation. It was one of thoſe nights when the moon gives a faint glimmering of light through the thick black clouds of a lowering ſky. Now and then ſhe ſuddenly emerged in full ſplendour from her veil, and then inſtantly retired behind it; having juſt ſerved to give the forlorn Sir Bertrand a wide extended proſ⯑pect over the deſolate waſte. Hope and native cou⯑rage [153]awhile urged him to puſh forwards, but at length the increaſing darkneſs and fatigue of body and mind overcame him; he dreaded moving from the ground he ſtood on, for fear of unknown pits and bogs; and alighting from his horſe in deſpair, he threw himſelf on the ground. He had not long continued in that poſture, when the ſullen toll of a diſtant bell ſtruck his ears—he ſtarted up, and turning towards the ſound, diſcerned a dim twinkling light. Inſtantly he ſeized his horſe's bridle, and with cautious ſteps advan⯑ced towards it. After a painful march, he was ſtop⯑ped by a moated ditch, ſurrounding the place from whence the light proceeded; and by a momentary glimpſe of the moon-light he had a full view of a large antique manſion, with turrets at the corners, and an ample porch in the centre. The injuries of time were ſtrongly marked on every thing about it. The roof in various places was fallen in, the battlements were half demoliſhed, and the windows broken and diſmantled. A draw-bridge, with a ruinous gate-way at each end, led to the court before the building.—He entered, and inſtantly the light, which proceeded from a window in one of the turrets, glided along and vaniſhed; at the ſame moment the moon ſunk beneath a black cloud, and the night was darker than ever. All was ſilent—Sir Bertrand faſtened his ſteed under a ſhed, and ap⯑proaching the houſe, traverſed its whole front with light and ſlow footſteps—All was ſtill as death—He looked in at the lower windows, but could not diſtin⯑guiſh a ſingle object through the impenetrable gloom. After a ſhort parley with himſelf, he entered the porch, and ſeizing a maſſy iron knocker at the gate, lifted it up, and heſitating, at length ſtruck a loud ſtroke—the noiſe reſounded through the whole manſion with hollow echoes. All was ſtill again—he repeated the ſtrokes more boldly and louder—another interval of ſilence enſued—A third time he knocked, and a third time all was ſtill. He then ſell back to ſome diſtance, that he might diſcern whether any light could be ſeen [154]in the whole front—It again appeared in the ſame place, and quickly glided away, as before—at the ſame inſtant a deep ſullen toll ſounded from the turret. Sir Bertrand's heart made a fearful ſtop—he was a while motionleſs; then terror impelled him to make ſome haſty ſteps towards his ſteed—but ſhame ſtopt his flight; and urged by honour, and a reſtleſs deſire of fi⯑niſhing the adventure, he returned to the porch; and working up his ſoul to a full ſteadineſs of reſolution, he drew forth his ſword with one hand, and with the other lifted up the latch of the gate. The heavy door, creaking upon its hinges, reluctantly yielded to his hand—he applied his ſhoulder to it, and forced it open—he quitted it, and ſtept forward—the door inſtantly ſhut with a thundering clap. Sir Bertrand's blood was chilled—he turned back to find the door, and it was long ere his trembling hands could ſeize it—but his utmoſt ſtrength could not open it again. After ſe⯑veral ineffectual attempts, he looked behind him, and beheld, acroſs a hall, upon a large ſtair-caſe, a pale-bluiſh flame, which caſt a diſmal gleam of light around. He again ſummoned forth his courage, and advanced towards it—it retired. He came to the foot of the ſtairs, and after a moment's deliberation aſcended. He went ſlowly up, the flame retiring before him, till he came to a wide gallery—The flame proceeded along it, and he followed in ſilent horror, treading lightly, for the echoes of his footſteps ſtartled him. It led him to the foot of another ſtair-caſe, and then vaniſhed—At the ſame inſtant another toll ſounded from the turret—Sir Bertrand felt it ſtrike upon his heart. He was now in total darkneſs, and, with his arms extended, began to aſcend the ſecond ſtair-caſe. A dead cold hand met his left hand, and firmly graſped it, drawing him forcibly forwards—he endeavoured to diſengage himſelf, but could not—he made a furious blow with his ſword, and inſtantly a loud ſhriek pierced his ears, and the dead hand was left powerleſs with his—He dropt it, and ruſhed forwards with a deſperate valour. [155]The ſtairs were narrow and winding, and interrupted by frequent breaches, and looſe fragments of ſtone. The ſtair-caſe grew narrower and narrower, and at length terminated in a low iron grate. Sir Bertrand puſhed it open—it led to an intricate winding paſſage, juſt large enough to admit a perſon upon his hands and knees. A ſaint glimmering of light ſerved to ſhew the nature of the place—Sir Bertrand entered—A deep hollow groan reſounded from a diſtance through the vault—He went forwards, and proceeding beyond the firſt turning, he diſcerned the ſame blue flame which had before conducted him—He followed it. The vault, at length, ſuddenly opened into a lofty gallery, in the midſt of which a figure appeared, compleatly armed, thruſting forwards the bloody ſtump of a arm, with a terrible frown and menacing geſture, and bran⯑diſhing a ſword in his hand. Sir Bertrand undaunted⯑ly ſprung forwards; and aiming a fierce blow at the figure, it inſtantly vaniſhed, letting fall a maſſy iron key. The flame now reſted upon a pair of ample fold⯑ing doors at the end of the gallery. Sir Bertrand went up to it, and applied the key to a brazen lock—with difficulty he turned the bolt—inſtantly the doors flew open, and diſcovered a large apartment, at the end of which was a coffin reſted upon a bier, with a taper burning on each ſide of it. Along the room, on both ſides, were gigantic ſtatues of black marble, attired in the Mooriſh habit, and holding enormous ſabres in their right hands. Each of them reared his arm, and advanced one leg forwards, as the knight entered; at the ſame moment the lid of the coffin flew open, and the bell tolled. The flame ſtill glided forwards, and Sir Bertrand reſolutely followed, till he arrived within ſix paces of the coffin. Suddenly a lady in a ſhroud and black veil roſe up in it, and ſtretched out her arms towards him—at the ſame time the ſtatues claſhed their ſabres and advanced. Sir Bertrand ſlew to the lady, and claſped her in his arms—ſhe threw up her veil, and kiſſed his lips; and inſtantly the whole building. [156]ſhook as with an earthquake, and fell aſunder with a horrible craſh. Sir Bertrand was thrown into a ſud⯑den trance, and on recovering found himſelf ſeated on a velvet ſofa, in the moſt magnificent room he had ever ſeen, lighted with innumerable tapers, in luſtres of pure cryſtal. A ſumptuous banquet was ſet in the middle. The doors opening to ſoft muſic, a lady of incomparable beauty, attired with amazing ſplendour, entered, ſurrounded by a troop of gay nymphs more fair than the Graces—She advanced to the knight, and falling on her knees, thanked him as her deliverer. The nymphs placed a garland of laurel upon his head, and the lady led him by the hand to the banquet, and ſat beſide him. The nymphs placed themſelves at the table, and a numerous train of ſervants entering, ſerved up the feaſt: delicious muſic playing all the time. Sir Bertrand could not ſpeak for aſtoniſhment—he could only return their honours by courteous looks and geſ⯑tures. After the banquet was finiſhed, all retired but the lady, who leading back the knight to the ſofa, ad⯑dreſſed him in theſe words:—

[This fragment was written by Dr Aikin, with a view of ſhewing how far the imagination may be worked upon by fictions, that we muſt know have in reality no foundation.]

Learning ſhould be ſometimes applied to cultivate our Morals.

ENVY, curioſity, and our ſenſe of the imperfection of our preſent ſtate, inclines us always to eſtimate the advantages which are in the poſſeſſion of others a⯑bove [157]their real value. Every one muſt have remarked what powers and prerogatives the vulgar imagine to be conferred by learning. A man of ſcience is expect⯑ed to excel the unlettered and unenlightened, even on occaſions where literature is of no uſe, and among weak minds loſes part of his reverence by diſcovering no ſuperiority in thoſe parts of life, in which all are unavoidably equal; as when a monarch makes a pro⯑greſs to the remoter provinces, the ruſtics are ſaid ſometimes to wonder that they find him of the ſame ſize with themſelves.

Theſe demands of prejudice and folly can never be ſatisfied, and therefore many of the imputations which learning ſuffers from diſappointed ignorance, are with⯑out reproach. Yet it cannot be denied, that there are ſome failures to which men of ſtudy are peculiarly ex⯑poſed. Every condition has its diſadvantages. The circle of knowledge is too wide for the moſt active and diligent intellect, and while ſcience is purſued with ardour, other accompliſhments of equal uſe are neceſſa⯑rily neglected; as a ſmall garriſon muſt leave one part of an extenſive fortreſs naked, when an alarm calls them to another.

The learned, however, might generally ſupport their dignity with more ſucceſs, if they ſuffered not them⯑ſelves to be miſ-led by ſuperfluous attainments of qua⯑lification which few can underſtand or value, and by which they may ſink into the grave without any con⯑ſpicuous opportunities of exerting. Raphael, in re⯑turn to Adam's enquiries into the courſes of the ſtars and the revolutions of heaven, counſels him to with⯑draw his mind from idle ſpeculations, and, inſtead of watching motions which he has no power to regulate, to employ his faculties upon nearer and more intereſt⯑ing objects, the ſurvey of his own life, the ſubjection of his paſſions, the knowledge of duties which muſt daily be performed, and the detection of dangers which muſt daily be incurred.

[158]This angelic counſel every man of letters ſhould al⯑ways have before him. He that devotes himſelf wholly to retired ſtudy, naturally ſinks from omiſſion to for⯑getfulneſs of ſocial duties, and from which he muſt be ſometimes awakened, and recalled to the general con⯑dition of mankind.

The STORY of MELISSA.

THE father of MELISSA was the younger ſon of a country gentleman who poſſeſſed an eſtate of a⯑bout five hundred a year; but as this was to be the in⯑heritance of the elder brother, and as there were three ſiſters to be provided for, he was at about ſixteen, taken from Eton ſchool, and apprenticed to a conſiderable merchant at Briſtol. The young gentleman, whoſe imagination had been fired by the exploits of heroes, the victories gained by magnanimous preſumption, and the wonders diſcovered by daring curioſity, was not diſpoſed to conſider the acquiſition of wealth as the limit of his ambition, or the repute of honeſt induſtry as the total of his fame. He regarded his ſituation as ſervile and ignominious, as the degradation of his ge⯑nius, and the precluſion of his hopes; and longing to go in ſearch of adventures, he neglected his buſineſs as unworthy of his attention, heard the remonſtrances of his maſter with a kind of ſullen diſdain, and after two years legal ſlavery, made his eſcape, and at the next town enliſted himſelf a ſoldier; not doubting but that, by his military merit and the fortune of war, he ſhould return a general officer, to the confuſion of thoſe who would have buried him in the obſcurity of a compting-houſe. He found means effectually to elude the en⯑quiries of his friends, as it was of the utmoſt import⯑ance [159]to prevent their officious endeavours to ruin his project and obſtruct his advancement.

He was ſent with other recruits to London, and ſoon after quartered with the reſt of his company in a part of the country, which was ſo remote from all with whom he had any connection, that he no longer dread⯑ed a diſcovery.

It happened that he went one day to the houſe of a neighbouring gentleman with his comrade, who was become acquainted with the chambermaid, and, by her intereſt, admitted into the kitchen. This gentleman, whoſe age was ſomething more than ſixty, had been about two years married to a ſecond wife, a young woman who had been well educated and lived in the polite world, but had no fortune. By his firſt wife, who had been dead about ten years, he had ſeveral children; the youngeſt was a daughter who had juſt entered her ſeventeenth year; ſhe was very tall for her age, had a fine complexion, good features, and was well ſhaped; but her father, whoſe affection for her was mere inſtinct, as much as that of a brute for its young, utterly neglected her education. It was im⯑poſſible for him, he ſaid, to live without her; and as he could not afford to have her attended by a governeſs and proper maſters in a place ſo remote from London, ſhe was ſuffered to continue illiterate and unpoliſhed; ſhe knew no entertainment higher than a game at romps with the ſervants; ſhe became their confident, and truſted them in return, nor did ſhe think herſelf happy any where but in the kitchen.

As the capricious fondneſs of her father had never conciliated her affection, ſhe perceived it abate upon his marriage without regret. She ſuffered no new re⯑ſtraint from her new mother, who obſerved with a ſe⯑cret ſatisfaction, that Miſs had been uſed to hide her⯑ſelf from viſitors, as neither knowing how to behave nor being ſit to be ſeen, and choſe rather to conceal her defects by excluding her from company, than to ſupply them by putting her to a boarding-ſchool.

[160]Miſs, who had been told by Betty that ſhe expected her ſweetheart, and that they were to be merry, ſtole down ſtairs, and, without any ſcruple, made one in a party at blindman's buff. The ſoldier of fortune was ſtruck with her perſon, and diſcovered, or thought he diſcovered, in the ſimplicity of nature, ſome graces which are poliſhed away by the labour of art. How⯑ever, nothing that had the appearance of an adventure could be indifferent to him; and his vanity was flat⯑tered by the hope of carrying off a young lady under the diſguiſe of a common ſoldier, without revealing his birth, or boaſting of his expectations.

In this attempt he became very aſſiduous, and ſuc⯑ceeded. The company being ordered to another place, Betty and her young miſtreſs departed early in the morning with their gallants; and there being a privi⯑leged chapel in the next town, they were married.

The old gentleman, as ſoon as he was informed that his daughter was miſſing, made ſo diligent and ſcrupu⯑lous an enquiry after her, that he learned with whom and which way ſhe was gone: he mounted his horſe, and purſued her, not without curſes and imprecations; diſcovering rather the tranſports of rage than the emo⯑tion of tenderneſs, and reſenting her offence rather as the rebellion of a ſlave than the diſobedience of a child. He did not, however, overtake them till the marriage had been conſummated; of which, when he was in⯑formed by the huſband, he turned from him with ex⯑preſſions of brutality and indignation, ſwearing never to forgive a fault which he had taken no care to prevent.

The young couple, notwithſtanding their union fre⯑quently doubled their diſtreſs, ſtill continued fond of each other. The ſpirit of enterprize and the hope of preſumption, were not yet quelled in the young ſoldier; and he received orders to attend King William, when he went to the ſiege of Namur, with exultation and tranſport, believing his elevation to independence and diſtinction as certain as if he had been going to take [161]poſſeſſion of a title and eſtate.—His wife, who had been ſome months pregnant, as ſhe had no means of ſubſiſt⯑ence in his abſence, procured a paſſage with him.—When ſhe came on ſhore and mingled with the crowd that followed the camp, wretches, who without com⯑punction, wade in human blood to ſtrip the dying and the dead, to whom horror is become familiar and com⯑paſſion impoſſible, ſhe was terrified: the diſcourſe of the women, rude and unpoliſhed as ſhe was, covered her with confuſion; and the brutal familiarity of the men filled her with indignation and diſguſt: her maid, Betty, who had alſo attended her huſband, was the only perſon with whom ſhe could converſe, and from whom ſhe could hope the aſſiſtance of which ſhe was ſo ſoon to ſtand in need.

In the mean time ſhe found it difficult to ſubſiſt; but accidentally hearing the name of an officer, whom ſhe remembered to have viſited her mother ſoon after her marriage, ſhe applied to him, told him her name, and requeſted that he would afford her his protection, and permit her to take care of his linen. With this requeſt the captain complied; her circumſtances be⯑came leſs diſtreſſed, and her mind more eaſy: but new calamity ſuddenly overtook her; ſhe ſaw her huſ⯑band march to an engagement in the morning, and ſaw him brought back deſperately wounded at night.—The next day he was removed in a waggon with many others who were in the ſame condition, to a place of greater ſafety, where proper care might be taken of their wounds. She intreated the captain to let her go in the waggon with him; but to this he could not conſent, becauſe the waggon would be filled with thoſe who neither were able to walk, nor could be left behind. He promiſed, however, that if ſhe would ſtay till the next day, he would endeavour to procure her a paſſage; bu [...] ſhe choſe rather to follow the waggon on foot, than to be abſent from her huſband. She could not, however, keep pace with it, and ſhe reached the hoſ⯑pital but juſt time enough to kneel down by him upon [162]ſome clean ſtraw, to ſee him ſink under the laſt agony, and hear the groan that is repeated no more. The fa⯑tigue of the journey and the perturbation of her mind, immediately threw her into labour, and ſhe lived but to be delivered to MELISSA, who was thus in the moſt helpleſs ſtate, left without father, mother, or friend, in a foreign country, in circumſtances which could afford no hope of reward to the tenderneſs that ſhould attempt the preſervation of her life, and among perſons who were become obdurate and inſenſible, by having been long uſed to ſee every ſpecies of diſtreſs.

In happened that, among thoſe whom accident or diſtreſs had brought together at the birth of MELISSA, there was a young woman, whoſe huſband had fallen in the late engagement, and who a few days before had loſt a little boy that ſhe ſuckled. This perſon, rather perhaps to relieve herſelf from an inconveniency, than in compaſſion to the orphan, put it to her breaſt: but whatever was her motive, ſhe believed that the affording ſuſtenance to the living, conferred a right to the appa⯑rel of the dead, of which ſhe therefore took poſſeſſion; but in ſearching her pocket ſhe found only a thimble, the remains of a pocket looking-glaſs, about the value of a penny in Dutch money, and the certificate of her marriage. The paper, which ſhe could not read, ſhe gave afterwards to the captain, who was touched with pity at the relation which an enquiry after his laundreſs produced. He commended the woman who had pre⯑ſerved the infant, and put her into the place of its mo⯑ther. This encouraged her to continue her care of it till the captain returned to England, with whom ſhe al⯑ſo returned and became his ſervant.

This gentleman, as ſoon as he had ſettled his imme⯑diate concerns, ſent MELISSA, under the care of her nurſe, to her grandfather; and incloſed the certificate of her mother's marriage in a letter containing an ac⯑count of her death, and the means by which the infant had been preſerved. He knew that thoſe who had been once dear to us, by whatever offence they may have [163]alienated our affection when living, are generally re⯑membered with tenderneſs when dead; and that after the grave has ſheltered them from our reſentment, and rendered reconciliation impoſſible, we often regret as ſevere that conduct which before we approved as juſt; he therefore, hoped, that the parental fondneſs which an old man had once felt for his daughter, would re⯑vive at the ſight of her offspring; that the memory of her fault would be loſt in the ſenſe of her misfortunes; and that he would endeavour to atone for that inexo⯑rable reſentment which produced them, by cheriſhing a life to which ſhe had, as it were, transferred her own. But in theſe expectations, however reaſonable, he was miſtaken. The old man, when he was inform⯑ed by the meſſenger, that the child ſhe held in her arms was his grand-daughter, whom ſhe was come to put under his protection, refuſed to examine the con⯑tents of the letter, and diſmiſſed her with menaces and inſult. The knowledge of every uncommon event ſoon becomes general in a country town. An uncle of MELISSA'S, who had been rejected by his father for having married his maid, heard this freſh inſtance of his brutality with grief and indignation; he ſent im⯑mediately for the child and the letter, and aſſured the ſervant that his niece ſhould want nothing which he could beſtow: to beſtow much, indeed, was not in his power, for his father having obſtinately perſiſted in his reſentment, his whole ſupport was a little farm which he rented of the 'ſquire: but as he was a good oecono⯑miſt, and had no children of his own, he lived decent⯑ly; nor did he throw away content, becauſe his father had denied him affluence.

MELISSA, who was compaſſionated for her mother's misfortunes, of which her uncle had been particularly informed by her maid Betty, who had returned a wi⯑dow to her friends in the country, was not leſs beloved for her own good qualities; ſhe was taught to read and write, and work at her needle, as ſoon as ſhe was able to learn; and ſhe was taken notice of by all the [164]gentry as the prettieſt girl in the place: but her aunt died when ſhe was about eleven years old, and before ſhe was thirteen ſhe loſt her uncle.

She was now again thrown back upon the world, ſtill helpleſs, though her wants were increaſed, and wretched in proportion as ſhe had known happineſs: ſhe looked back with anguiſh, and forward with diſ⯑traction; a fit of crying had juſt afforded her a mo⯑mentary relief, when the 'ſquire, who had been in⯑formed of the death of his tenant, ſent for her to his houſe. This gentleman had heard her ſtory from her uncle, and was unwilling that a life which had been preſerved alomſt by miracle, ſhould at laſt be abandon⯑ed to miſery; he therefore determined to receive her into his family, not as a ſervant but as a companion to his daughter, a young lady finely accompliſhed, and now about fifteen. The old gentleman was touched with her diſtreſs, and miſs received her with great ten⯑derneſs and complacency: ſhe wiped away her tears, and of the intolerable anguiſh of her mind, nothing re⯑mained but a tender remembrance of her uncle, whom ſhe loved and reverenced as a parent. She had now courage to examine the contents of a little box which he had put into her hand juſt before he expired; ſhe found in it only the certificate of her mother's marriage, encloſed in the captain's letter, and an account of the events that have been before related, which her uncle had put down as they came to his knowledge: the tra [...] of mournful ideas that now ruſhed upon her mi [...], ra [...]ed emotions which, if they could not be ſup⯑pre [...] by reaſon, were ſoon deſtroyed by their own violence.

The STORY of MELISSA continued.

IN this family, which in a few weeks after returned to London, MELISSA ſoon became a favourite: the good 'ſquire ſeemed to conſider her as his child, and miſs as her ſiſter; ſhe was taught dancing and muſic, introduced to the beſt company, elegantly dreſſed, and allowed ſuch ſums as were neceſſary for trivial expen⯑ces. Youth ſeldom ſuffers the dread of to-morrow to intrude upon the enjoyment of to-day, but rather re⯑gards preſent felicity as the pledge of future: MELIS⯑SA was probably as happy as if ſhe had been in the ac⯑tual poſſeſſion of a fortune, that, to the eaſe and ſplen⯑dor which ſhe enjoyed already, would have added ſta⯑bility and independence.

She was now in her eighteenth year, and the only ſon of her benefactor was juſt come from the univerſi⯑ty to ſpend the winter with his father in town. He was charmed with her perſon, behaviour, and diſcourſe; and what he could not but admire, he took every op⯑portunity to commend. She ſoon perceived that he ſhewed particular marks of reſpect to her, when he thought they would not be perceived by others; and that he endeavoured to recommend himſelf by an offi⯑cious aſſiduity, and a diligent attention to the moſt mi⯑nute circumſtances that might contribute to her plea⯑ſure. But this behaviour of the young gentleman, however it might gratify her vanity, could not fail to alarm her fear: ſhe foreſaw, that if what ſhe had re⯑marked in his conduct ſhould be perceived by his father or ſiſter, the peace of the family would be de⯑ſtroyed; and that ſhe muſt either be ſhipwrecked in the ſtorm, or thrown overboard to appeaſe it. She therefore affected not to perceive, that more than a general complaiſance was intended by her lover; and hoped that he would thus be diſcouraged from making an explicit declaration: but though he was mortified at her diſregard of that which he knew ſhe could not [166]but ſee, yet he determined to addreſs her in ſuch terms as ſhould not leave this provoking neutrality in her power: though he reverenced her virtue, yet he feared too much the anger of his father to think of making her his wife; and he was too deeply enamoured of her beauty, to relinquiſh his hopes of poſſeſſing her as a miſtreſs. An opportunity for the execution of his purpoſe was not long wanting: ſhe received his gene⯑ral profeſſions of love with levity and merriment; but when ſhe perceived that his view was to ſeduce her to proſtitution, ſhe burſt into tears, and fell back in an agony unable to ſpeak. He was immediately touched with grief and remorſe; his tenderneſs was alarmed at her diſtreſs, and his eſteem encreaſed by her virtue; he catched her in his arms, and as an atonement for the inſult ſhe had received, be offered her marriage: but as her chaſtity would not ſuffer her to become his miſtreſs, neither would her gratitude permit her to be⯑come his wife; and as ſoon as ſhe was ſufficiently re⯑collected, ſhe intreated him never more to urge her to violate the obligation ſhe was under either to herſelf or to her benefactor:—"Would not," ſaid ſhe, ‘the preſence of a wretch whom you had ſeduced from innocence and peace to remorſe and guilt, perpetu⯑ally upbraid you; and would you not always fear to be betrayed by a wife, whoſe fidelity no kindneſs could ſecure; who had broken all the bands that reſtrain the generous and the good; and who by an act of the moſt flagitious ingratitude, had at once reached the pinnacle of guilt, to which others aſcend by imperceptible gradations?’

Theſe objections, though they could neither be ob⯑viated nor evaded, had yet no tendency to ſubdue de⯑ſire: he loved with greater delicacy, but with more ar⯑dour; and as he could not always forbear expoſtula⯑tions, neither could ſhe always ſilence them in ſuch a manner as might moſt effectually prevent their being repeated. Such was one morning the ſituation of the two lovers: he had taken her hand into his, and was [167]ſpeaking with great eagerneſs; while ſhe regarded him with a kind of timorous complacency, and liſten⯑ed to him with an attention which her heart condemn⯑ed: his father, in this tender moment, in which their powers of perception were mutually engroſſed by each other, came near enough to hear that his heir had made propoſals of marriage, and retired without their knowledge.

As he did not dream that ſuch a propoſal could poſ⯑ſibly be rejected by a girl in MELISSA'S ſituation, ima⯑gining that every woman believed her virtue to be in⯑violate, if her perſon was not proſtituted, he took his meaſures accordingly. It was near the time in which his family had been uſed to remove into the country: he, therefore, gave orders, that every thing ſhould be immediately prepared for the journey, and that the coach ſhould be ready at ſix the next morning, a man and horſe being diſpatched in the mean time to give notice of their arrival. The young folks were a little ſurprized at this ſudden removal; but though the 'ſquire was a good natured man, yet, as he governed his family with high authority, and as they perceived ſomething had offended him, they did not enquire the reaſon, nor indeed did they ſuſpect it. MELISSA packed up her things as uſual: and in the morning the young gentleman and his ſiſter having by their fa⯑ther's orders got into the coach, he called MELISSA into the parlour; where in a few words, but with great acrimony, he reproached her with having formed a deſign to marry his ſon without his conſent, an act of ingratitude, which he ſaid, juſtified him in upbraid⯑ing her with the favours which he had already confer⯑red upon her, and in a reſolution he had taken, that a bank, bill of fifty pounds, which he then put into her hand, ſhould be the laſt: adding, that he expected ſhe ſhould within one week leave the houſe. To this heavy charge ſhe was not in a condition to reply; nor did he ſtay to ſee whether ſhe would attempt it, but [168]haſtily got into the coach, which immediately drove from the door.

Thus was MELISSA a third time, by a ſudden and unexpected deſertion, expoſed to penury and diſtreſs, with this aggravation, that eaſe and affluence were be⯑come habitual; and that though ſhe was not ſo help⯑leſs as at the death of her uncle, ſhe was expoſed to yet greater danger; for few that have been uſed to ſlumber upon down, and wake to feſtivity, and reſiſt the allurements of vice, who ſtill offers eaſe and plenty, when the alternative are a flock bed and a garret, ſhort meals, coarſe apparel, and perpetual labour.

MELISSA, as ſoon as ſhe had recovered from the ſtupor which had ſeized her upon ſo aſtoniſhing and dreadful a change of fortune, determined not to accept the bounty of a perſon who imagined her to be un⯑worthy of it; nor to attempt her juſtification, while it would render her veracity ſuſpected, and appear to pro⯑ceed only from the hope of being reſtored to a ſtate of ſplendid dependence, from which jealouſy or caprice might again at any time remove her, without cauſe and without notice: ſhe had not, indeed, any hope of being ever able to defend herſelf againſt her accuſer upon equal terms; nor did ſhe know how to ſubſiſt a ſingle day, when ſhe had returned his bill and quitted his houſe: yet ſuch was the dignity of her ſpirit, that ſhe immediately incloſed it in a blank cover, directed to him at his country ſeat, and calling up the maid who had been left to take care of the houſe, ſent her imme⯑diately with it to the poſt-office. The tears then burſt out, which the agitation of her mind before re⯑ſtrained; and when the ſervant returned, ſhe told her all that had happened, and aſked her advice what ſhe ſhould do. The girl, after the firſt emotions of won⯑der and pity had ſubſided, told her that ſhe had a ſiſter who lodged in a reputable houſe, and took in plain-work, to whom ſhe would be welcome, as ſhe could aſſiſt her in her buſineſs, of which ſhe had often more than ſhe could do; and with whom ſhe might conti⯑nue [169]till ſome more eligible ſituation could be obtained. MELISSA liſtened to this propoſal as to the voice of Heaven; her mind was ſuddenly relieved from the moſt tormenting perplexity, from the dread of wan⯑dering about without money or employment, expoſed to the menaces of a beadle, or the inſults of the rabble: ſhe was in haſte to ſecure her good fortune, and felt ſome degree of pain leſt ſhe ſhould loſe it by the ear⯑lier application of another; ſhe therefore went imme⯑diately with the maid to her ſiſter, with whom it was ſoon agreed that MELISSA ſhould work for her board and lodging; for ſhe would not conſent to accept as a gift, that which ſhe could by any means deſerve as a payment.

While MELISSA was a journeywoman to a perſon, who but a few weeks before would have regarded her with envy, and approached her with confuſion; it hap⯑pened that a ſuit of linen was brought from the mili⯑ner's wrapped up in a newſpaper: the linen was put into the work-baſket, and the paper being thrown care⯑leſsly about, MELISSA at laſt catched it up, and was about to read it; but perceiving that it had been pub⯑liſhed a fortnight, was juſt going to put it in the fire, when by an accidental glance, ſhe ſaw her father's name: this immediately engaged her attention, and with great pertu [...]bation of mind ſhe read an advertiſe⯑ment, in which her father, ſaid to have left his friends about eighteen years before, and to have entered either into the army or the navy, was directed to apply to a perſon in Staples-Inn, who could inform him of ſome⯑thing greatly to his advantage. To this perſon ME⯑LISSA applied with all the ardour of curioſity, and all the tumult of expectation: ſhe was informed that the elder brother of the perſon mentioned in the advertiſe⯑ment was lately dead, unmarried; that he was poſſeſ⯑ſed of fifteen hundred a-year, five hundred of which had deſcended to him from his father, and one thou⯑ſand had been left him by an uncle, which upon his death, there being no male heir, had been claimed by [170]his ſiſters; but that a miſtreſs who had lived with him many years, and who had been treated by the ſuppoſed heireſſes with too much ſeverity and contempt, had, in the bitterneſs of her reſentment, publiſhed the adver⯑tiſement, having heard in the family that there was a younger brother abroad.

The conflict of different paſſions that were at once excited with uncommon violence in the breaſt of ME⯑LISSA, deprived her for a time of the power of reflec⯑tion; and when ſhe became more calm, ſhe knew not by what method to attempt the recovery of her right: her mind was bewildered amidſt a thouſand poſſibili⯑ties, and diſtreſſed by the apprehenſion that all might prove ineffectual. After much thought and many projects, ſhe recollected that the captain, whoſe ſer⯑vant brought her to England, could probably afford her more aſſiſtance than any other perſon: as he had been often pointed out to her in public places by the 'ſquire, to whom her ſtory was well known, ſhe was acquainted with his perſon, and knew that within a ſew months he was alive: ſhe ſoon obtained directions to his houſe, and being readily admitted to a confer⯑ence, ſhe told him with as much preſence of mind as ſhe could, that ſhe was the perſon whom his compaſ⯑ſion had contributed to preſerve when an infant, in confirmation of which ſhe produced his letter, and the certificate which it incloſed; that by the death of her father's elder brother, whoſe family ſhe had never known, ſhe was become entitled to a very conſiderable eſtate; but that ſhe knew not what evidence would be neceſſary to ſupport her claim, how ſuch evidence was to be produced, nor with whom to intruſt the manage⯑ment of an affair in which wealth and influence would be employed againſt her. The old captain received her with that eaſy politeneſs which is almoſt peculiar to his profeſſion, and with a warmth of benevolence that is ſeldom found in any: he congratulated her upon ſo happy and unexpected an event; and without the parade of oſtentatious liberality, without extorting [171]an explicit confeſſion of her indigence, he gave her a letter to his lawyer, in whom he ſaid ſhe might with the utmoſt ſecurity confide, and with whom ſhe would have nothing more to do than to tell her ſtory:— ‘And do not,’ ſaid he, ‘doubt of ſucceſs, for I will be ready to teſtify what I know of the affair, whenever I ſhall be called upon; and the woman who was preſent at your birth, and brought you over, ſtill lives with me, and upon this occaſion may do you ſignal ſervice.’

MELISSA departed, melted with gratitude and elated with hope. The gentleman, to whom the captain's letter was a recommendation, proſecuted her claim with ſo much ſkill and aſſiduity, that within a few months ſhe was put into the poſſeſſion of her eſtate.—Her firſt care was to wait upon the captain, to whom ſhe now owed not only life but a fortune: he received her acknowledgements with a pleaſure, which only thoſe who merit it can enjoy; and inſiſted that ſhe ſhould draw upon him for ſuch ſums as ſhe ſhould want before her rents became due. She then took very handſome ready-furniſhed lodgings, and determin⯑ed immediately to juſtify her conduct to the 'ſquire, whoſe kindneſs ſhe ſtill remembered, and whoſe re⯑ſentment ſhe had forgiven. With this view ſhe ſet out in a chariot and ſix, attended by two ſervants in livery on horſeback, and proceeded to his country-ſeat, from whence the family was not returned: ſhe had lain at an inn within ſix miles of the place, and when the cha⯑riot drove up to the door, as it was early in the morn⯑ing, ſhe could perceive the ſervants run to and fro in a hurry, and the young lady and her brother gazing through the window to ſee if they knew the livery: ſhe remarked every circumſtance which denoted her own importance with exultation; and enjoyed the ſoli⯑citude which her preſence produced among thoſe, from whoſe ſociety ſhe had ſo lately been driven with diſdain and indignation.

[172]She now increaſed their wonder, by ſending in a ſervant to acquaint the old gentleman, that a lady de⯑ſired to ſpeak with him about urgent buſineſs, which would not however long detain him: he courteouſly invited the lady to honour him with her commands, haſted into his beſt parlour, adjuſted his wig, and put himſelf in the beſt order to receive her: ſhe alighted, and diſplayed a very rich undreſs, which correſponded with the elegance of her chariot, and the modiſh ap⯑pearance of her ſervants. She contrived to hide her face as ſhe went up the walk, that ſhe might not be known to ſoon; and was immediately introduced to her old friend, to whom ſhe ſoon diſcovered herſelf to his great aſtoniſhment, and before he had recovered his preſence of mind, ſhe addreſſed him to this effect,—‘You ſee, ſir, an orphan who is under the greateſt obligations to your bounty, but who has been equal⯑ly injured by your ſuſpicions. When I was a de⯑pendent upon your liberality, I would not aſſert my innocence, becauſe I could not bear to be ſuſpected of falſehood: but I aſſert it now I am the poſſeſſor of a paternal eſtate, becauſe I cannot bear to be ſuſpect⯑ed of ingratitude; that your ſon preſſed me to marry him, is true; but it is alſo true that I refuſed him, becauſe I would not diſappoint your hopes and im⯑poveriſh your poſterity.’ The old gentleman's con⯑fuſion was increaſed by the wonders that crowded upon him: he firſt made ſome attempts to apologize for his ſuſpicions with aukwardneſs and heſitation; then doubting the truth of appearance, he broke off abrupt⯑ly and remained ſilent; then reproaching himſelf, he began to congratulate her upon her good fortune, and again deſiſted before he had finiſhed the compliment. MELISSA perceived his perplexity and gueſſed the cauſe; ſhe was, therefore, about to account more par⯑ticularly for the ſudden change of her circumſtances, but Miſs, whoſe maid had brought her intelligence from the ſervants, that the lady's name who was with her papa was MELISSA, and that ſhe was lately come to [173]a great eſtate by the death of her uncle, could not longer reſtrain the impatience of her affection and joy: ſhe ruſhed into the room and fell upon her neck, with a tranſport that can only be felt by friendſhip, and ex⯑preſſed by tears. When this tender ſilence was paſt, the ſcruples of doubt were ſoon obviated; the recon⯑ciliation was reciprocal and ſincere; the father led out his gueſt, and preſented her to his ſon with an apology for his conduct to them both.

MELISSA had beſpoke a dinner and beds at the inn, but ſhe was not ſuffered to return. Within a few weeks ſhe became the daughter of her friend, who gave her hand to his ſon, with whom ſhe ſhared many years that happineſs which is the reward of virtue.—They had ſeveral children, but none ſurvived them; and MELISSA, upon the death of her huſband, which happened about ſeven years ago, retired wholly from town to her eſtate in the country, where ſhe lived be⯑loved, and died in peace.

PARENTAL AFFECTION.

THE white bear of Greenland and Spitzbergen is conſiderably larger than the brown bear of Eu⯑rope, or the black bear of North America. This ani⯑mal lives upon fiſh and ſeals, and is not only ſeen upon land in the countries bordering upon the North-Pole, but often on floats of ice, ſeveral leagues at ſea. The following relation is extracted from the "Journal of a Voyage, for making Diſcoveries towards the North-Pole."

Early in the morning, the man at the maſt-head gave notice that three bears were making their way very faſt over the ice, and that they were directing their courſe towards the ſhip. They had, without [174]queſtion, been invited by the ſcent of the blubber of a ſea-horſe, killed a few days before, which the men had ſet on fire, and which was burning on the ice at the time of their approach. They proved to be a ſhe-bear and her two cubs; but the cubs were nearly as large as the dam. They ran eagerly to the fire, and drew out from the flames part of the fleſh of the ſea-horſe, that remained unconſumed, and ate it voraciouſly—The crew from the ſhip threw great lumps of the fleſh of the ſea-horſe, which they had ſtill left, upon the ice, which the old bear fetched away ſingly, laid every lump before her cubs as ſhe brought it, and dividing it, gave each a ſhare, reſerving but a ſmall portion to herſelf. As ſhe was fetching away the laſt piece, they levelled their muſkets at the cubs, and ſhot them both dead; and in her retreat they wounded the dam, but not mortally.

It would have drawn tears of pity from any but un⯑feeling minds, to have marked the affectionate concern expreſſed by this poor beaſt, in the laſt moments of her expiring young. Though ſhe was ſorely wounded, and could but juſt crawl to the place where they lay, ſhe carried the lump of fleſh ſhe had taken away, as ſhe had done others before, tore it in pieces, and laid it down before them; and when ſhe ſaw that they re⯑fuſed to eat, ſhe laid her paws firſt upon one, and then upon the other, and endeavoured to raiſe them up: all this while it was pitiful to hear her moan. When ſhe found ſhe could not ſtir them, ſhe went off, and when ſhe had gotten at ſome diſtance, looked back and moaned; and that not availing her to entice them a⯑way, ſhe returned, and ſmelling round them, began to lick their wounds. She went off a ſecond time, as be⯑fore; and having crawled a few paces, looked again behind her, and for ſome time ſtood moaning. But ſtill her cubs not riſing to follow her, ſhe returned to them again, and with ſigns of inexpreſſible fondneſs, went round one, and round the other, pawing them, and moaning. Finding at laſt that they were cold and [175]lifeleſs, ſhe raiſed her head towards the ſhip, and growled a curſe upon the murderers; which they re⯑turned with a volley of muſket balls. She fell between her cubs, and died, licking their wounds.

Can you admire the maternal affection of the bear, and not feel in your heart the warmeſt emotions of gratitude, for the ſtronger and more permanent ten⯑derneſs, you have ſo long experienced from your pa⯑rents?

On the ADVANTAGES derivable from NATIONAL ADVERSITY.

IT is very certain, that national proſperity, as it is comprehended in the idea of numerous fleets and armies, of extenſive empire, large revenues, advanta⯑geous commerce, and a profuſion of money in ſpecie, is a kind of good by no means neceſſarily connected with moral good, or with the ſubſtantial happineſs of individuals. It makes a ſplendid figure in imagina⯑tion's eye; but to reaſon, it appears in a very queſtion⯑able ſhape, and experience is able to evince, that it has always diffuſed profligacy and miſery through the walks of private life; and, by introducing luxury, licentiouſ⯑neſs, indolence, and corruption, has at once deſtroyed all that can render human nature dignified and happy, and precipitated the decline and the downfal of em⯑pires, while triumphing in fancied glory.

It has been obſerved, that the bodies politic and na⯑tural bear to each other a remarkable analogy. A hu⯑man form pampered, bloated, and plethoric, will often have the appearance of ſtrength, as well as magnitude; though no ſtate of it can be leſs adapted to facilitate the animal movements, or in greater danger of a haſty diſſolution. The body politic alſo loſes in muſcular [176]force, as much as it acquires of unweildy ſize, till, by the gradual decreaſe of vigour, and augmentation of weight, it totters on its baſeleſs ſupports, and, at laſt, lies level with the duſt with Babylon and ancient Rome. Luxury, the inevitable conſequence of what is falſely called national proſperity, becomes the grave of em⯑pires, and of all that could adorn them, or render their long duration a rational object of deſire.

There is, undoubtedly, a certain degree of magni⯑tude at which when a ſtate is arrived, it muſt of neceſ⯑ſity undergo the alternative, of being purged of its pec⯑cant humours, or falling into a nerveleſs languor and conſequent decline. Perhaps our own country has al⯑ready arrived at that degree, and is now, under the ope⯑ration of Divine Providence, ſuffering the amputation of its morbid excreſcences for the ſalvation of its health and exiſtence. It may loſe ſome of its revenues; but it will ſave and meliorate its morals and its liberty.—Miniſters may be ſhaken from their ſeats, penſioners and placemen may be reduced to deſpair, funds may be annihilated, and eſtates brought down to their natural value; but freedom, but virtue, but induſtry, but the Britiſh conſtitution, but human nature, ſhall ſurvive the wreck, and emerge, like ſilver and gold when tried by the fire, with new value and additional luſtre. After a ſtate of political adverſity, ſomething may take place in the ſociety, ſimilar to the expected renovation of all things, after the general conflagration of the uni⯑verſe.

Diſtreſs and difficulty are known to operate in private life as the ſpurs of diligence. Powers, which would for ever have lain dormant in the halcyon days of eaſe and plenty, have been called forth by adverſity, and have advanced their poſſeſſor to the moſt enviable heights of virtue, happineſs, and glory. Man is natu⯑rally indolent, and when undiſturbed, will baſk and ſleep in the ſunſhine till the ſleep of death; but, when rouſ⯑ed by the blaſt and the thunder, he riſes, ſtrains every ſinew, and marches on to enterprize. Succeſs will al⯑moſt [177]moſt infallibly attend great exertions uniformly and re⯑ſolutely continued; ſo that what begun in miſery ends in triumph, as the ſun which roſe in a miſt deſcends with ſerenity, and paints the whole horizon with gold and purple.

Public induſtry may be excited in the ſame manner, and in the ſame degree, by public misfortunes. The nation is impoveriſhed, or, in other words, its ſuperflui⯑ties are retrenched. It is an event devoutly to be wiſh⯑ed. Luxury, with ten thouſand evils in her train, is obliged to withdraw, and the humble virtues, whom ſhe had driven by her inſolence into exile, cheerfully ad⯑vance from their concealment. Induſtry and frugality take the lead; but to what a degree of vigour muſt every muſcle of the body politic be braced, when every member is, in ſome meaſure, actuated by induſtry and frugality. No man ever yet exerted himſelf to the ut⯑moſt of his ſtrength; nor is it on record, that any ſtate was ever yet ſo exhauſted, but that while it enjoyed li⯑berty, it might draw new reſources from its own vitals. Though the tree is lopped, yet, ſo long as the root re⯑mains unhurt, it will throw out a greater luxuriancy of branches, produce fruit of better flavour, and derive freſh vigour from the axe. If one has accidentally diſturbed an ant-hill, or broken the fabric of the hive, though the little animals appeared before to have exert⯑ed their utmoſt efforts, yet it is amazing, with what additional diligence they apply themſelves to repair the depredation. Not a moment is allowed for deſponden⯑cy. The earth and the air glow with motion, and the misfortune ſeems immediately to add to their ſpirits, and, ultimately, both to their ſtore and ſecurity.

The beautiful deſcription which Virgil has given us of the buſy ſcene in which the Tyrians are engaged in building Carthage, repreſents, in a moſt lively manner, the alacrity with which human creatures are found to exert themſelves, when inſtigated by the ſtimulus of neceſſity. An emulation of labour ſeizes every boſom. No murmuring, no complainings in the ſtreet, but [178]every one feels himſelf happy, in proportion as he ren⯑ders himſelf uſeful. Men's abilities riſe with the oc⯑caſion; and political evil, like other evil, under the con⯑duct of a merciful Deity, has produced extenſive good, by calling forth ſome of the nobleſt exertions, and moſt perfect characters which have adorned the records of human nature.

There is one beneficial effect of national adverſity, of greater importance than any which I have enumerated. It ſubdues the haughty ſoul elevated with riches, and inebriated with exceſs, and turns the attention to the King of kings, the Lord of lords, the only Ruler of princes, who from his throne beholds all nations, and bids the ſceptre to depart from the wicked to the righteous. It teaches us to rely leſs upon our German auxiliaries, our muſquets, our mortars, our cannon, our copper-bottomed men of war, our generals, and our admirals, than on the Lord of Hoſts.

When he fights for us we ſhall conquer. Without him, we ſhall in vain put our truſt in a Burgoyne, a Keppel, or a Cornwallis; but ‘the ball empire ſhall continue to roll on weſtward as it has ever yet done, till it ſtops in America, a world unknown to the an⯑cients, and which may ſave the tears of ſome future Alexander.’

If Providence ſhall have decreed the downfal of Bri⯑tiſh ſupremacy, happy ſhould I be to have ſuggeſted one idea which may ſtimulate the exertions of my country⯑men, once more to raiſe the noble column on the baſis of liberty and virtue; or which may conſole them on its ruins; and teach them, while they ſit by the waters of bitterneſs, and hang their harps on the willow, to think of Him who can make rivers of comfort to flow in the dreary deſert.

Of IMPUDENCE and MODESTY.

I Have always been of opinion, that the complaints againſt Providence have been ill-grounded, and that the good or bad qualities of men are the cauſes of their good or bad fortune, more than what is generaly ima⯑gined. There are, no doubt, inſtances to the contrary, and pretty numerous ones too; but few in compariſon of the inſtances we have of a right diſtribution of proſ⯑perity and adverſity: nor indeed could it be otherwiſe from the common courſe of human affairs. To be endowed with a benevolent diſpoſition, and to love others, will almoſt infallibly procure love and eſteem; which is the chief circumſtance in life, and facilitates every enterprize and undertaking; beſides the ſatisfac⯑tion, which immediately reſults from it. The caſe is much the ſame with the other virtues. Proſperity is naturally, tho' not neceſſarily, attached to virtue and merit: and adverſity, in like manner, to vice and folly.

I muſt, however, confeſs, that this rule admits of an exception with regard to one moral quality; and that Modeſty has a natural tendency to conceal a man's ta⯑lents, as Impudence diſplays them to the utmoſt, and has been the only cauſe why many have riſen in the world, under all the diſadvantages of low birth and lit⯑tle merit. Such indolence and incapacity is there in the generality of mankind, that they are apt to receive a man for whatever he has a mind to put himſelf off for; and admit his over-bearing airs as proofs of that merit which he aſſumes to himſelf. A decent aſſu⯑rance ſeems to be the natural attendant of virtue; and few men can diſtinguiſh impudence from it: as, on the other hand, diffidence, being the natural reſult of vice and folly, has drawn diſgrace upon modeſty, which in outward appearance ſo nearly reſembles it.

I was lately lamenting to a fiend of mine, that po⯑pular applauſe ſhould be beſtowed with ſo little judg⯑ment, and that ſo many empty forward coxcombs [180]ſhould riſe up to a figure in the world: upon which he ſaid there was nothing ſurpriſing in the caſe. "Popu⯑lar fame," ſay he, "is nothing but breath or air, and air very naturally preſſes into a vacuum."

If any thing can give a modeſt man more aſſurance, it muſt be ſome advantages of fortune, which chance procures to him. Riches naturally gain a man a fa⯑vourable reception in the world, and give merit a dou⯑ble luſtre, when a perſon is endowed with it; and ſup⯑ply its place, in a great meaſure, when it is abſent.—'Tis wonderful to obſerve what airs of ſuperiority fools and knaves, with large poſſeſſions, give themſelves a⯑bove men of the greateſt merit in poverty. Nor do the men of merit make any ſtrong oppoſition to theſe uſurpations; or rather ſeem to favour them by the modeſty of their behaviour. Their good ſenſe and ex⯑perience make them diffident of their judgment, and cauſe them to examine every thing with the greateſt accuracy: as, on the other hand, the delicacy of their ſentiments makes them timorous leſt they commit faults, and loſe in the practice of the world, that integ⯑rity of virtue, of which they are ſo jealous. To make wiſdom agree with confidence, is as difficult as to re⯑concile vice to modeſty.

Theſe are the reflections that have occurred to me upon this ſubject of Impudence and Modeſty; and I hope the reader will not be diſpleaſed to ſee them wrought into the following allegory:

JUPITER, in the beginning, joined VIRTUE, WIS⯑DOM, and CONFIDENCE together; and VICE, FOL⯑LY, and DIFFIDENCE: and in that ſociety ſet them upon the earth. But though he thought he had match⯑ed them with great judgment, and ſaid, that Confi⯑dence was the natural companion of Virtue, and that Vice deſerved to be attended with Diffidence; they had not gone far before diſſenſion aroſe among them. Wiſdom, who was the guide of the one company, was always accuſtomed, before ſhe ventured upon any road, however beaten, to examine it carefully; to enquire [181]whither it led; what dangers, difficulties, and hindran⯑ces, might poſſibly or probably occur in it. In theſe deliberations ſhe uſually conſumed ſome time; which delay was very diſpleaſing to Confidence, who was al⯑ways inclined to hurry on, without much fore-thought or deliberation, in the firſt road he met. Wiſdom and Virtue were inſeparable: but Confidence one day, following his impetuous nature, advanced a conſidera⯑ble way before his guides and companions; and not feeling any want of their company, he never enquired after them, nor ever met with them more. In like manner, the other ſociety, tho' joined by Jupiter, diſ⯑agreed and ſeparated. As Folly ſaw very little way before her, ſhe had nothing to determine concerning the goodneſs of roads, nor could give the preference to one above another; and this want of reſolution was encreaſed by Diffidence, who, with her doubts and ſcruples, always retarded the journey. This was a great annoyance to Vice, who loved not to hear of difficulties and delays, and was never ſatisfied without his full career, in whatever his inclination led him to. Folly, he knew, tho' ſhe hearkened to Diffidence, would be eaſily managed when alone; and therefore, as a vicious horſe throws his rider, he openly beat away this controller of all his pleaſures, and proceeded in his journey with Folly, from whom he is inſepara⯑ble. Confidence and Diffidence being, after this manner, both thrown looſe from their reſpective com⯑panies, wandered for ſome time; till at laſt chance led them at the ſame time to one village. Confidence went directly up to the great houſe, which belonged to WEALTH, the lord of the village; and without ſtay⯑ing for a porter, intruded himſelf immediately into the innermoſt apartments, where he found Vice and Folly well received before him. He joined the train; recom⯑mended himſelf very quickly to his landlord; and entered into ſuch familiarity with Vice, that he was en⯑liſted in the ſame company along with Folly. They were frequent gueſts of Wealth, and from that mo⯑ment [182]inſeparable. Diffidence, in the mean time, not daring to approach the great houſe, accepted of an in⯑vitation from POVERTY, one of the tenants; and enter⯑ing the cottage, found Wiſdom and Virtue, who being repulſed by the landlord, had retired thither. Virtue took compaſſion of her, and Wiſdom found, from her temper, that ſhe would eaſily improve: ſo they admited her into their ſociety. Accordingly, by their means, ſhe altered in a little time ſomewhat of her manner, and becoming much more amiable and engaging, was now called by the name of MODESTY. As ill company has a greater effect than good, Confidence, tho' more refractory to counſel and example, degenerated ſo far by the ſociety of Vice and Folly, as to paſs by the name of IMPUDENCE. Mankind, who ſaw theſe ſocieties as Jupiter firſt joined them, and knowing nothing of theſe mutual deſertions, are led into ſtrange miſtakes by thoſe means; and wherever they ſee Impudence, make ac⯑count of Virtue and Wiſdom; and wherever they ob⯑ſerve Modeſty, call her attendants Vice and Folly:

On the FOLLY and WICKEDNESS of WAR.

THE calamities attendant on a ſtate of war ſeem to have prevented the mind of man from viewing it in the light of an abſurdity, and an object of ridicule as well as pity. But if we could ſuppoſe a ſuperior Being capable of beholding us, miſerable mortals, without compaſſion, there is, I think, very little doubt but they variety of military manoeuvres and formalities, the pride, pomp, and the circumſtance of war, and all the ingenious contrivances for the glorious purpoſes of mutual deſtruction, which ſeem to conſtitute the buſi⯑neſs of many whole kingdoms, would furniſh him with an entertainment like that which is r [...]eived by us from [183]the exhibition of a farce or puppet-ſhow. But, not⯑withſtanding the ridiculouſneſs of all theſe ſolemnities, we, alas! are doomed to feel that they are no farce, but the concomitant circumſtances of a moſt woeful tragedy.

The cauſes of war are for the moſt part ſuch as muſt diſgrace an animal pretending to rationality. Two poor mortals, elevated with the diſtinction of a golden bauble on their heads, called a crown, take offence at each other, without any reaſon, or with the very bad one of wiſhing for an opportunity of aggrandizing themſelves, by making reciprocal depredations. The creatures of the court, and the leading men of the na⯑tion, who are uſually under the influence of the court, reſolve (for it is their intereſt) to ſupport their royal maſter, and are never at a loſs to invent ſome coloura⯑ble pretence for engaging the nation in the horrors of war. Taxes of the moſt burthenſome kind are levied, ſoldiers are collected ſo as to leave a paucity of huſ⯑bandmen, reviews and encampments ſucceed, and at laſt fifteen or twenty thouſand men meet on a plain, and coolly ſhed each other's blood, without the ſmalleſt perſonal animoſity, or the ſhadow of a provocation.—The kings, in the mean time, and the grandees, who have employed theſe poor innocent victims to ſhoot bullets at each other's heads, remain quietly at home, and amuſe themſelves, in the intervals of balls, hunting ſchemes, and pleaſures of every ſpecies, with reading at the fireſide, over a cup of chocolate, the diſpatches from the army, and the news in the Extraordinary Gazette. Old Horace very truly obſerves, that what⯑ever mad frolics enter into the heads of kings, it is the common people, that is, the honeſt artiſan, and the in⯑duſtrious tribes in the middle ranks, unoffended and un⯑offending, who chiefly ſuffer in the evil conſequences. If the king of Pruſſia were not at the head of ſome of the beſt troops in the univerſe, he would be judged more worthy of being tried, caſt, and condemned at the Old Bailey, than any ſhedder of blood who ever [184]died by a halter. But he is a king; but he is a hero;—thoſe names faſcinate us, and we enrol the butcher of mankind among their benefactors.

When one conſiders the dreadful circumſtances that attend even victories, one cannot help being a little ſhocked at the exultation which they occaſion. I have often thought it a laughable ſcene, if there were not a little too much of the melancholy in it, when a circle of eager politicians have met to congratulate each other on what is called a piece of good news juſt arrived.—Every eye ſparkles with delight; every voice is raiſed in announcing the happy event. And what is the cauſe of all this joy? and for what are our windows illuminated, bonfires kindled, bells rung, and feaſts celebrated? We have had a ſucceſsful engagement. We have left a thouſand of the enemy dead on the field of battle, and only nine hundred of our countrymen. Charming news! it was a glorious battle! But before you give a looſe to your raptures, pauſe a while; and conſider, that to every one of theſe nineteen hundred, life was no leſs ſweet than it is to you; that to the far greater part of them there probably were wives, fathers, mothers, ſons, daughters, ſiſters, brothers, and friends, all of whom are at this moment bewailing the event which occaſions your fooliſh and brutal triumph.

The whole time of war ought to be a time of general mourning, a mourning in the heart, a mourning much more ſincere than on the death of one of thoſe princes whoſe curſed ambition is often the ſole cauſe of war. Indeed that a whole people ſhould tamely ſubmit to the evils of war, becauſe it is the will of a few vain, ſelfiſh, ignorant, though exalted, individuals, is a phenomenon almoſt unaccountable. But they are led away by falſe glory, by their paſſions, by their vices. They reflect not; and indeed, if they did reflect, and oppoſe, what would avail the oppoſition of unarmed myriads to the mandate of a government ſupported by a ſtanding army? Many of the European nations are entirely military; [185]war is their trade; and when they have no employment at home, or near it, they bluſh not to let themſelves out to ſhed any blood, in any cauſe of the beſt paymaſter. Ye beaſts of the foreſt, no longer allow that man is your ſuperior, while there is found on the face of the earth ſuch degeneracy!

Morality and religion forbid war in its motives, con⯑duct, and conſequences; but to many rulers and po⯑tentates, morality and religion appear as the inventions of politicians to facilitate ſubordination. The princi⯑pal objects of crowned heads, and their minions, are the extenſion of empire, the augmentation of a revenue, or the annihilation of their ſubjects' liberty. Their re⯑ſtraints in the purſuit of theſe objects are not thoſe of morality and religion; but ſolely reaſons of ſtate, and political caution. Plauſible words are uſed, but they are only uſed to hide the deformity of the real princi⯑ples. Wherever war is deemed deſirable in an inte⯑reſted view, a ſpecious pretext never yet remained un⯑found. Morality is as little conſidered in the begin⯑ning, as in the proſecution of war. The moſt ſolemn treaties and engagements are violated by the governing part of the nation, with no more ſcruple than oaths and bonds are broken by a cheat and a villain in the walks of private life. Does the difference of rank and ſitua⯑tion make any difference in the atrocity of crimes? If any, it renders a thouſand times more criminal than that of a thief, the villany of them, who, by violating every ſacred obligation between nation and nation, give riſe to miſeries and miſchiefs moſt dreadful in their nature; and to which no human power can ſay, Thus far ſhall ye proceed, and no farther. Are not the na⯑tural and moral evils of life ſufficient, but they muſt be rendered more acute, more numerous, and more embit⯑tered by artificial means? My heart bleeds over thoſe complicated ſcenes of woe, for which no epithet can be found ſufficiently deſcriptive. Language fails in labouring to expreſs the horrors of war amid private [186]families who are ſo unfortunate as to be ſituated on the ſeat of it.

War, however, it will be ſaid, has always been per⯑mitted by Providence. This is indeed true; but it has been only permitted as a ſcourge. Let a ſpirit and activity be exerted in regulating the morals of a nation, equal to that with which war, and all its apparatus, are attended to, and mankind will no longer be ſcourged, neither will it be neceſſary to evacuate an empire of its members, for none will be ſuperfluous. Let us, ac⯑cording to the advice of a pious divine of the preſent age, think leſs of our fleets and armies, and more of our faith and practice. While we are warriors, with all our pretenſions to civilization, we are ſavages.

On the IMPORTANCE of GOVERNING the TEMPER.

NOTWITHSTANDING the many complaints of the calamities of human life, it is certain, that more conſtant uneaſineſs ariſes from ill temper than from ill fortune. In vain has providence beſtowed every external bleſſing, if care has not been taken by ourſelves to ſmooth the aſperities of the temper. A bad temper embitters every ſweet, and converts a para⯑diſe into a place of torment.

The government of the temper then, on which the happineſs of the human race ſo greatly depends, can never be too frequently or too forcibly recommended. But as it was found by ſome of the ancients one of the moſt efficacious methods of deterring young perſons from any diſagreeable or vicious conduct, to point out a living character in which it appeared in all its de⯑formity, I ſhall exhibit a picture, in which I hope a bad temper will appear, as it really is, a moſt unamiable object.

[187]It is by no means uncommon to obſerve thoſe, who have been flattered for ſuperficial qualities at a very early age, and engaged in ſo conſtant a ſeries of diſſi⯑pating pleaſure, as to leave no time for the culture of the mind, becoming, in the middle and advanced peri⯑ods of life, melancholy inſtances of the miſerable ef⯑fects reſulting from an ungoverned temper. A certain lady, whom I ſhall diſtinguiſh by the name of Hiſpulla, was celebrated from her infancy for a fine complexion. She had, indeed, no very amiable expreſſion in her eyes, but the vermilion of her cheeks did not fail to attract admiration, and ſhe was convinced by her glaſs, and by the aſſeverations of the young men, that ſhe was another and a fairer Helen. She had every op⯑portunity of improving her mind; but as we naturally beſtow our firſt care on the quality which we moſt va⯑lue, ſhe could never give her attention either to books or to oral inſtruction, and at the age of fifteen or ſix⯑teen could ſcarcely write her name legibly, or read a ſentence without heſitation. Her perſonal charms were, however, powerful enough to captivate the heart of a thoughtleſs heir, very little older than herſelf.—Her vanity, rather than her love, was gratified by the alliance; and when ſhe found the aſſiduities of promiſ⯑cuous ſuitors at an end, ſhe found herſelf gradually ſinking in the dead calm of inſipidity. When love was no more, other paſſions ſprung up with all the luxuriancy of rank weeds, in a ſoil where no ſalutary herb had been planted in the vernal ſeaſon▪ Pride, that fruitful plant, which bears every kind of odious quality in abundance, took root in her heart, and flouriſhed like the nettle or the hemlock on the banks of the ſtag⯑nant pool.

Her huſband was the firſt to feel its baneful effects. Though the match was greatly to her advantage, ſhe perſuaded herſelf that ſhe might have done better; and that her good fortune was by no means adequate to the prize which her beauty and merit might have juſtly claimed. With this conviction, and without any habits [188]or abilities which might lead her to ſeek amuſement in books, ſhe found no diverſion ſo congenial to her heart, as the tormenting a good-natured, young, and agreea⯑ble huſband, who, by marrying, had excluded her from the probability of a title. As a ſmall compenſation for the injury received, ſhe aſſumed an abſolute dominion over him, his fortune, and his family. He durſt not differ in opinion from her; for on the ſlighteſt oppo⯑ſition, her eyes dart fire, her cheeks glow with indig⯑nation, and her tongue utters every bitter word which rage and malice can dictate. The comfort of every meal is poiſoned by a quarrel; and an angry vocifera⯑tion is re-echoed from the parlour to the kitchen, from the cellar to the garret, by night and by day, except in the awful and ominous pauſe of a ſullen ſi⯑lence.

The poor huſband, who, with every amiable diſpoſi⯑tion, poſſeſſed alſo the virtue of patience, bore the evil as long as human nature could bear it; but as years advanced, and her fury increaſed, he ſought a refuge at the tavern, and in the compoſing juice of the grape.—Exceſs and vexation ſoon laid him in the only ſecure aſylum from the ſtings and arrows of an outrageous temper, the ſilent tomb.

The children, after ſuffering every ſpecies of perſe⯑cution which an angry, though fooliſhly fond mother could inflict, no ſooner arrived at maturity, than they began to look for happineſs in an eſcape from home, where neither peace nor eaſe could find a place. The daughters married meanly, unworthily, and wretched⯑ly, contented to take refuge from the rage of a furious mother in the arms of footmen and hair-dreſſers; the ſons ran away, and became vagrant and wretched de⯑bauchees; till, in mere deſpair, one of them entered as a ſoldier in the Eaſt-India ſervice, and the other put an end to his own exiſtence.

The mother, after ſhedding a few natural tears, and wiping them ſoon, began to feel her pride and paſſion amply gratified in an abſolute dominion over an eſtate, [189]a manſion-houſe, and a tribe of ſervants, whoſe de⯑pendent ſituation made them bear her fury with little reſiſtance. But ſhe enjoyed her reign but a ſhort time; for as her mind was incapable of reſting on itſelf for ſupport, ſhe ſought relief from the bottle of cordial; and, heated one day with a large draught, and a violent paſſion with one of the maids, ſhe burſt a blood-veſſel, and expired in a ſcolding fit, her tongue ſtill quivering after her heart had ceaſed its pulſation.

I believe the originals of ſuch a picture as this, are much leſs common in the preſent age, than they were in the laſt century. Ladies were then ſecluded from the world till marriage, and as they were very ſuperfi⯑cially educated in every thing but potting and preſerv⯑ing, it is no wonder if they became termagants, ſhrews, or viragos. They had no right ideas of themſelves or the world around them, and yielded, without oppoſition, to thoſe violent emotions, which ariſe perhaps in every mind when it is totally uncultivated.

Culture of the underſtanding is, indeed, one of the beſt methods of ſubduing the heart to ſoftneſs, and re⯑deeming it from that ſavage ſtate in which it too often comes from the hands of nature. The more our reaſon is ſtrengthened, the better ſhe is enabled to keep her ſeat on the throne, and to govern thoſe paſſions which were appointed to be her ſubjects; but which too often rebel, and ſucceed in their unnatural revolt. But be⯑ſides the effect of mental culture, in calling forth and increaſing the powers of the reaſoning faculty, it ſeems to poſſeſs an influence in humanizing the feelings, and meliorating the native diſpoſition. Muſic, painting, and poetry, teach the mind to ſelect the agreeable parts of thoſe objects which ſurround us, and by habituating it to a pure and permanent delight, gradually ſuperin⯑duce an habitual good-homour. It is of infinite im⯑portance to happineſs, that the mind ſhould be ac⯑cuſtomed from infancy to turn from deformed and pain⯑ful ſcenes, and to contemplate whatever can be found of moral and natural beauty. The ſpirits, under this [190]benign management, contract a milkineſs, and learn to flow all cheerily in their ſmooth and yielding channels; while, on the contrary, if the young mind is teaſed, fretted, and neglected, the paſſages of the ſpirits be⯑come rugged, abrupt, exaſperated, and the whole ner⯑vous ſyſtem ſeems to acquire an exceſſive irritability. The ill treatment of children has not only made them wretched at the time, but wretched for life; tearing the fine contexture of their nerves, and roughening, by example, and by ſome ſecret and internal influence, the very conſtitution of their tempers.

So much of the happineſs of private life, and the virtues of mothers and daughters in particular, depends on the government of the temper, that the temper ought to be a principal object of regard in a well-con⯑ducted education. The ſuffering of children to tyran⯑niſe, without controul, over ſervants and inferiors, is, I am convinced, the ruin of many an amiable diſpoſition. The virtues of humanity, benevolence, humility, can⯑not be too early enforced; at the ſame time care ſhould be taken that an infant of two or three years old ſhould never be beaten or ſpoken to harſhly for any offence which it can poſſibly commit. In ſhort, let every method be uſed which reaſon, religion, prudence, and experience, can ſuggeſt, to accompliſh the purpoſe of ſweetening the temper, and baniſhing the furies from ſociety. May the endeavour be ſucceſsful; and may we only read, that there have indeed been ſuch animals as ſhrews and viragos, but that the breed is extinct in England, like the breed of wolves!

The DISTRESSES of a MODEST MAN.

MY father was a farmer of no great property, and with no other learning than what he had acquired at a charity-ſchool; but my mother being dead, and I an only child, he determined to give me that advantage, which he fancied would have made him happy, viz. a learned education.—I was ſent to a country grammar-ſchool, and from thence to the Uni⯑verſity, with a view of qualifying for holy orders. Here, having but ſmall allowance from my father, and being naturally of a timid and baſhful diſpoſition, I had no opportunity of rubbing off that native awkward⯑neſs, which is the fatal cauſe of all my unhappineſs, and which I now begin to fear can never be amended. You muſt know, that in my perſon I am tall and thin, with a fair complexion, and light flaxen hair; but of ſuch extreme ſuſceptibility of ſhame, that on the ſmal⯑leſt ſubject of confuſion, by blood all ruſhes into my cheeks, and I appear a full-blown roſe. The conſci⯑ouſneſs of this unhappy failing made me avoid ſociety, and I became enamoured of a college life; particularly when I reflected, that the uncouth manners of my father's family were little calculated to improve my outward conduct; I therefore had reſolved on living at the Univerſity and taking pupils, when two unex⯑pected events greatly altered the poſture of my affairs, viz. my father's death, and the arrival of an uncle from the Indies.

This uncle I had very rarely heard my father men⯑tion, and it was generally believed that he was long ſince dead, when he arrived in England only a week too late to cloſe his brother's eyes. I am aſhamed to confeſs, what I believe has been often experienced by thoſe whoſe education has been better than their pa⯑rents, that my poor father's ignorance and vulgar lan⯑guage had often made me bluſh to think I was his ſon; and at his death I was not inconſolable for the loſs of[192] that, which I was not unfrequently aſhamed to own. My uncle was but little affected, for he had been ſepa⯑rated from his brother more than thirty years, and in that time had acquired a fortune which, he uſed to brag, would make a Nabob happy; in ſhort, he had brought over with him the enormous ſum of thirty thouſand pounds, and upon this he built his hopes of never-ending happineſs. While he was planning ſchemes of greatneſs and delight, whether the change of climate might affect him, or what other cauſe I know not, but he was ſnatched from all his dreams of joy by a ſhort illneſs, of which he died, leaving me heir to all his property. And now, Sir, behold me at the age of twenty-five, well ſtocked with Latin, Greek, and Mathematics, poſſeſſed of an ample fortune, but ſo awkward and unverſed in every gentleman-like ac⯑compliſhment, that I am pointed at by all who ſee me, as the wealthy learned fool.

I have lately purchaſed an eſtate in the country, which abounds in (what is called) a faſhionable neigh⯑bourhood; and when you reflect on my parentage and uncouth manner, you will hardly think how much my company is courted by the ſurrounding families, (eſpe⯑cially by thoſe who have marriageable daughters): From theſe gentlemen I have received familiar calls, and the moſt preſſing invitations, and though I wiſhed to accept their offered friendſhip, I have repeatedly ex⯑cuſed myſelf under the pretence of not being quite ſettled; for the truth is, that when I have rode or walked, with full intention to return their ſeveral vi⯑ſits, my heart has failed me as I approached their gates, and I have frequently returned homeward, reſolving to try again to-morrow.

However, I at length determined to conquer my ti⯑midity, and, three days ago, accepted of an invitation to dine this day with one, whoſe open eaſy manner left me no room to doubt a cordial welcome. Sir THO⯑MAS FRIENDLY, who lives about two miles diſtant, is a baronet, with about two thouſand pounds a year [193]eſtate, joining to that I purchaſed; he has two ſons and five daughters, all grown up, and living with their mother and a maiden ſiſter of Sir THOMAS'S at Friend⯑ly-Hall, dependant on their father. Conſcious of my unpoliſhed gait, I have, for ſome time paſt, taken pri⯑vate leſſons of a Profeſſor, who teaches "grown gen⯑tlemen to dance;" and though I at firſt found wonder⯑ous difficulty in the art he taught, my knowledge of the mathematics was of prodigious uſe in teaching me the equilibrium of my body, and the due adjuſtment of the centre of gravity to the five poſitions. Having now acquired the art of walking without tottering, and learned to make a bow, I boldly ventured to obey the baronet's invitation to a family dinner; not doubt⯑ing but my new acquirements would enable me to ſee the ladies with tolerable intrepidity: but alas! how vain are all the hopes of theory when unſupported by habitual practice▪ As I approached the houſe, a dinner-bell alarmed my fears, leſt I had ſpoiled the dinner by want of punctuality; impreſſed with this idea, I bluſh⯑ed the deepeſt crimſon, as my name was repeatedly announced by the ſeveral livery ſervants, who uſhered me into the library, hardly knowing what or whom I ſaw; at my firſt entrance I ſummoned all my forti⯑tude, and made my new-learned bow to Lady FRIENDLY, but unfortunately, in bringing back my left foot to the third poſition, I trod upon the gouty toe of poor Sir THOMAS, who had followed cloſe at my heels to be the Nomenclator of the family. The confuſion this occaſioned in me is hardly to be conceiv⯑ed, ſince none but baſhful men can judge of my diſtreſs, and of that deſcription the number I believe is very ſmall. The Baronet's politeneſs by degrees diſſipated my concern; and I was aſtoniſhed to ſee how far good breeding could enable him to ſuppreſs his feelings, and to appear with perfect eaſe after ſo painful an ac⯑cident.

The cheerfulneſs of her Ladyſhip, and the familiar chat of the young ladies, inſenſibly led me to throw off [194]my reſerve and ſheepiſhneſs, till at length I ventured to join in converſation, and even to ſtart freſh ſubjects. The library being richly furniſhed with books in ele⯑gant bindings, I conceived Sir THOMAS to be a man of literature, and ventured to give my opinion concern⯑ing the ſeveral editions of the Greek claſſics, in which the Baronet's opinion exactly coincided with my own. To this ſubject I was led by obſerving an edition of Xenophon, in ſixteen volumes, which (as I had never before heard of ſuch a thing) greatly excited my curio⯑ſity, and I roſe up to examine what it could be: Sir THOMAS ſaw what I was about, and, (as I ſuppoſe) willing to ſave me the trouble, roſe to take down the book, which made me more eager to prevent him, and, haſtily laying my hand on the firſt volume, I pulled it forcibly; but lo! inſtead of books, a board, which by leather and gilding had been made to look like ſixteen volumes, came tumbling down, and unluckily pitched upon a Wedgewood ink-ſtand on the table under it.—In vain did Sir THOMAS aſſure me there was no harm; I ſaw the ink ſtreaming from an inlaid table on the Turkey carpet, and, ſcarce knowing what I did, at⯑tempted to ſtop its progreſs with my cambric handker⯑chief. In the height of this confuſion we were in⯑formed that dinner was ſerved up, and I with joy per⯑ceived, that the bell which at firſt had ſo alarmed my fears, was only the half-hour dinner-bell.

In walking through the hall and ſuite of apartments to the dining-room, I had time to collect my ſcattered ſenſes, and was deſired to take my ſeat betwixt Lady FRIENDLY and her eldeſt daughter at the table.—Since the fall of the wooden Xenophon my face had been continually burning like a fire-brand, and I was juſt beginning to recover myſelf, and to feel comforta⯑bly cool, when an unlooked-for accident rekindled all my heat and bluſhes. Having ſet my plate of ſoup too near the edge of the table, in bowing to Miſs DINAH, who politely complimented the pattern of my waiſt⯑coat, I tumbled the whole ſcalding contents into my [195]lap. In ſpite of an immediate ſupply of napkins to wipe the ſurface of my cloaths, my black ſilk breeches were not ſtout enough to ſave me from the painful ef⯑fects of this ſudden fomentation, and for ſome minutes my legs and thighs ſeemed ſtewing in a boiling caul⯑dron; but recollecting how Sir THOMAS had diſguiſed his torture when I trod upon his toe, I firmly bore my pain in ſilence, and ſat with my lower extremities par⯑boiled, amidſt the ſtifled giggling of the ladies and the ſervants.

I will not relate the ſeveral blunders which I made during the firſt courſe, or the diſtreſs occaſioned by my being deſired to carve a fowl, or help to various diſhes that ſtood near me, ſpilling a ſauce-boat, and knocking down a ſalt-ſeller; rather let me haſten to the ſecond courſe, "where freſh diſaſters overwhelmed me quite."

I had a piece of rich ſweet pudding on my fork, when Miſs LOUISA FRIENDLY begged to trouble me for a pigeon that ſtood near me; in my haſte, ſcarce knowing what I did, I whipped the pudding into my mouth, hot as a burning coal; it was impoſſible to conceal my agony, my eyes were ſtarting from their ſockets. At laſt, in ſpite of ſhame and reſolution, I was obliged to drop the cauſe of torment on my plate. Sir THOMAS and the Ladies all compaſſionated my misfortune, and each adviſed a different application; one recommended oil, another water, but all agreed that wine was beſt for drawing out the fire; and a glaſs of ſherry was brought me from the ſide-board, which I ſnatched up with eagerneſs: but oh! how ſhall I tell the ſequel? whether the butler by accident miſ⯑took, or purpoſely deſigned to drive me mad, he gave me the ſtrongeſt brandy, with which I filled my mouth, already flea'd and bliſtered; totally unuſed to every kind of ardent ſpirits, with my tongue, throat, and palate, as raw as beef, what could I do? I could not ſwallow, and clapping my hands upon my mouth, the curſed liquor ſquirted through my noſe and fingers [196]like a fountain over all the diſhes, and I was cruſhed by burſts of laughter from all quarters. In vain did Sir THOMAS reprimand the ſervants, and Lady FRIEND⯑LY chide her daughters; for the meaſure of my ſhame and their diverſion was not yet compleat. To relieve me from the intolerable ſtate of perſpiration which this accident had cauſed, without conſidering what I did, I wiped my face with that ill-fated handkerchief, which was ſtill wet from the conſequences of the fall of Xe⯑nophon, and covered all my features with ſtreaks of ink in every direction. The Baronet himſelf could not ſupport this ſhock, but joined his Lady in the general laugh; while I ſprung from the table in deſpair, ruſh⯑ed out of the houſe, and ran home in an agony of con⯑fuſion and diſgrace, which the moſt poignant ſenſe of guilt could not have excited.

Thus, without having deviated from the path of mo⯑ral rectitude, I am ſuffering torments like a "goblin damn'd." The lower half of me has been almoſt boil⯑ed, my tongue and mouth grilled, and I bear the mark of CAIN upon my forehead; yet theſe are but trifling conſiderations to the everlaſting ſhame which I muſt feel whenever this adventure ſhall be mentioned.

The HISTORY of JOSEPH abridged.

ISRAEL loved Joſeph more than all his children, becauſe he was the ſon of his old age; and he gave him a coat of many colours. But when his brethren ſaw their father's partiality to him, they hated him, and would not ſpeak peaceably unto him. And Jo⯑ſeph dreamed a dream, and he told it to his brethren. Behold, he ſaid, we were binding ſheaves in the field; and lo! my ſheaf aroſe and ſtood upright; and your ſheaves ſtood round about, and made obeiſance to my [197]ſheaf. And his brethren ſaid unto him, Shalt thou indeed have dominion over us? And they hated him the more for his dreams, and for his words.

It happened that his brethren went to feed their fa⯑ther's flock in Dothan. And Joſeph went after his brethren; but, when they ſaw him afar off, they con⯑ſpired againſt him to ſlay him; and they ſaid one to another, We will tell our father that ſome evil beaſt hath devoured him. But Reuben wiſhed to deliver him out of their hands; and he ſaid, Let us not kill him, but caſt him into this pit, that is in the wilderneſs: And they followed his counſel, and caſt him into a pit, which then contained no water. A company of Iſh⯑maelites from Gilead paſſed by, at this time, with their camels, bearing ſpicery, balm, and myrrh, which they were carrying into Egypt. And Judah ſaid unto his brethren, Let us ſell Joſeph to the Iſhmaelites, and let not our hands be upon him, for he is our brother and our fleſh: And Joſeph was ſold for twenty pieces of ſilver. And his brethren killed a kid, and dipt his coat in the blood thereof: And they brought it unto their father, and ſaid, This have we found. And Ja⯑cob knew it; and believing that Joſeph was devoured by an evil beaſt, he rent his cloaths, and put ſackcloth upon his loins, and refuſed all comfort, ſaying, I will go down into the grave to my ſon, mourning. Thus wept his father for him. But Joſeph was carried into Egypt, and ſold to Potiphar, the captain of Pharaoh's guard. And the Lord was with him, and proſpered him; and he found favour in the ſight of his maſter. But by the wickedneſs of Potiphar's wife, he was caſt into the priſon, where the king's priſoners were bound. Here alſo the Lord continued to ſhew him mercy, and gave him favour in the ſight of the keeper of the priſon. And all the priſoners were committed to his care; a⯑mongſt whom were two of Pharaoh's officers, the chief of the butlers, and the chief of the bakers. And Joſeph interpreted the dreams of the king's ſervants; and his interpretation being true, the chief butler re⯑commended [198]him to Pharaoh, who had dreamed a dream, which Joſeph thus ſhewed unto him. Behold there ſhall come ſeven years of great plenty, through⯑out all the land of Egypt: And there ſhall ariſe, after them, ſeven years of famine; and all the plenty ſhall be forgotten in the land of Egypt, and the famine ſhall conſume the land.

And the king ſaid unto Joſeph, Foraſmuch as God hath ſhewn thee all this, thou ſhalt be over mine houſe; and according to thy word ſhall all my people be ruled. And Joſeph gathered up all the food of the ſeven years, and laid up the food in ſtorehouſes. Then the ſeven years of dearth began to come, as Joſeph had foretold. But in all the land of Egypt there was bread; and people from all countries came unto Jo⯑ſeph to buy corn, becauſe the famine was ſore in all the lands. Now, amongſt thoſe that came, were the ten ſons of Jacob, from the land of Canaan. And Jo⯑ſeph ſaw his brethren, and he knew them, but made himſelf ſtrange unto them, and ſpoke roughly to them, ſaying, Ye are ſpies. And they ſaid, Thy ſervants are twelve brethren, the ſons of one man in the land of Ca⯑naan; and behold the youngeſt is this day with our fa⯑ther, and one is not.

But Joſeph ſaid unto them, Ye ſhall not go forth hence, except your youngeſt brother come hither.—Let one of your brethren be bound in priſon, and go ye to carry corn for the famine of your houſes, and bring your youngeſt brother unto me. And their conſciences reproached them; and they ſaid one to another, We are verily guilty concerning our brother, in that we ſaw the anguiſh of his ſoul, when he beſought us, and we would not hear; therefore is this diſtreſs come upon us. And they knew not that Joſeph underſtood them, for he ſpake unto them by an interpreter: And he turned himſelf about from them, and wept; and returned to them again, and communed with them; and took from them Simeon, and bound him before their eyes. And they returned unto Jacob their father, [199]in the land of Canaan, and told him all that had befal⯑len them. And Jacob, their father, ſaid unto them, Me have ye bereaved of my children: Joſeph is not, and Simeon is not, and ye will take Benjamin away alſo. But my ſon ſhall not go down with you; for his brother is dead, and he is left alone: If miſchief befal him in the way in which ye go, then ſhall ye bring down my grey hairs with ſorrow to the grave. But the famine continued ſore in the land; and when they had eaten up the corn, which they had brought out of Egypt, Jacob ſaid unto them, Go again, and buy us food: And if it muſt be ſo, now take alſo your brother Benjamin, and ariſe and go unto the man. And they brought preſents unto Joſeph, and bowed themſelves to him to the earth. And he aſked them of their welfare; and ſaid, Is your father well? Is he alive? And he lifted up his eyes, and ſaw Benjamin his brother; and his bowels did yearn towards his brother; and he ſought where to weep, and he entered his chamber and wept there: And he waſhed his face, and went out, and refrained himſelf. Then he com⯑manded the ſteward of his houſe, ſaying, Fill the men's ſacks with food, as much as they can carry; and put my cup, the ſilver cup, into the ſack of Benjamin, the youngeſt. And the ſteward did according to the word that Joſeph had ſpoken. As ſoon as the morn⯑ing was light, the men were ſent away, they and their aſſes. But Joſeph commanded his ſteward to follow them, and to ſearch their ſacks, and to bring them back. And when Judah and his brethren were return⯑ed into the city, Joſeph ſaid unto them, What deed is this that ye have done? The man, in whoſe hands the cup is found, ſhall be my ſervant; and as for you, get you in peace unto your father. But they ſaid, Our father will ſurely die, if he ſeeth that the lad is not with us; and we ſhall bring down the grey hairs of thy ſervant, our father, with ſorrow to the grave. Then Joſeph could not refrain himſelf before all them that ſtood by him; and he cried, Cauſe every man to [200]go out from me; and there ſtood no man with him, whilſt Joſeph made himſelf known unto his brethren. And he wept aloud, and ſaid unto his brethren, I am Joſeph; doth my father yet live? And his brethren could not anſwer him, for they were troubled at his preſence. And Joſeph ſaid unto his brethren, Come near to me, I pray you; and they came near: And he ſaid, I am Joſeph your brother, whom ye ſold into Egypt. Now, therefore, be not grieved, nor angry with yourſelves, that ye ſold me hither; for God did ſend me before you, to ſave your lives by a great de⯑liverance. Haſte you, and go up to my father; and ſay unto him, Thus ſaith thy ſon Joſeph, God hath made me lord over all Egypt; come down unto me, tarry not. And thou ſhalt dwell in the land of Go⯑ſhen; and thou ſhalt be near unto me, thou, and thy children, and thy children's children, and thy flocks, and thy herds, and all that thou haſt: And there will I nouriſh thee; for yet there are five years of famine; leſt thou, and thy houſhold, and all that thou haſt, come to poverty. And behold your eyes ſee, and the eyes of my brother Benjamin, that it is my mouth which ſpeaketh unto you. And you ſhall tell my fa⯑ther of all my glory in Egypt, and all that you have ſeen; and ye ſhall haſte, and bring down my father hither.

And he fell upon his brother Benjamin's neck, and wept; and Benjamin wept upon his neck. Moreover, he kiſſed all his brethren, and wept upon them; and after that, his brethren talked with him. And the ſame thereof was heard in Pharaoh's houſe; and it pleaſed Pharaoh well, and his ſervants. And Pharaoh ſaid unto Joſeph, Invite hither thy father and his houſhold; and I will give them the good of the land of Egypt; and they ſhall eat the fat of the land. And the ſpirit of Jacob was revived, when he heard theſe tidings; and he ſaid, My ſon is yet alive, I will go and ſee him before I die. And he took his journey with all that he had. And Joſeph made ready his chariot, [201]and went up to meet Iſrael, his father, to Goſhen; and, preſenting himſelf unto him, he fell on his neck, and wept on his neck for ſome time. And Joſeph placed his father, and his brethren; and gave them a poſſeſſion in the land of Egypt, in the beſt of the land, as Pharaoh had commanded.

This intereſting ſtory contains a variety of affecting incidents; is related with the moſt beautiful ſimplicity; and furniſhes many important leſſons of inſtruction.—It diſplays the miſchiefs of parental partiality; the fa⯑tal effects of envy, jealouſy, and diſcord amongſt breth⯑ren; the bleſſings and honours with which virtue is rewarded; the amiableneſs of forgiving injuries; and the tender joys which flow from fraternal love, and fi⯑lial piety. Different, in other reſpects, as your lot may be from that of Joſeph, you have a father, my dear ALEXIS, who feels for you all the affection which Iſrael felt, and who hopes he has a claim to the ſame generous return of gratitude. You have brothers and ſiſters, who are ſtrangers to hatred, who will cheriſh and return your love, and whoſe happineſs is inſepara⯑ble from yours: And you are under the protection and authority of that eternal Being, the God of Abraham, of Iſaac, and of Jacob, who ſees, approves, and will exalt the virtuous.

GOOD-NATURED CREDULITY.

A Chaldean peaſant was conducting a goat to the city of Bagdat. He was mounted on an aſs; and the goat followed him, with a bell ſuſpended from his neck. "I ſhall ſell theſe animals," ſaid he to him⯑ſelf, "for thirty pieces of ſilver; and with this money I can purchaſe a new turban, and a rich veſtment of [202]taffety, which I will tie with a ſaſh of purple ſilk. The young damſels will then ſmile more favourably upon me; and I ſhall be the fineſt man at the Moſque."—Whilſt the peaſant was thus anticipating, in idea, his future enjoyments, three artful rogues con⯑certed a ſtratagem to plunder him of his preſent trea⯑ſures. As he moved ſlowly along, one of them ſlipped off the bell from the neck of the goat; and faſtening it, without being perceived, to the tail of the aſs, car⯑ried away his booty. The man, riding upon the aſs and hearing the ſound of the bell, continued to muſe, without the leaſt ſuſpicion of the loſs which he had ſuſtained. Happening, however, a ſhort while after⯑wards, to turn about his head, he diſcovered, with grief and aſtoniſhment, that the animal was gone, which conſtituted ſo conſiderable a part of his riches: And he inquired, with the utmoſt anxiety, after his goat, of every traveller whom he met.

The ſecond rogue now accoſted him, and ſaid, "I have juſt ſeen, in yonder fields, a man in great haſte, dragging along with him a goat." The peaſant diſ⯑mounted with precipitation, and requeſted the obliging ſtranger to hold his aſs, that he might loſe no time in overtaking the thief. He inſtantly began the purſuit; and, having traverſed in vain the courſe that was point⯑ed out to him, he came back fatigued and breathleſs to the place from whence he ſet out; where he nei⯑ther found his aſs nor the deceitful informer, to whoſe care he had entruſted him.

As he walked penſively onwards, overwhelmed with ſhame, vexation, and diſappointment, his attention was rouſed by the loud complaints and lamentations of a poor man, who ſat by the ſide of a well. He turned out of the way to ſympathize with a brother in afflic⯑tion, recounted his own misfortunes, and enquired the cauſe of that violent ſorrow, which ſeemed to oppreſs him. Alas! ſaid the poor man, in the moſt piteous tone of voice, as I was reſting here to drink, I dropped into the water a caſket full of diamonds, which I was [203]employed to carry to the Caliph at Bagdat; and I ſhall be put to death, on the ſuſpicion of having ſecreted ſo valuable a treaſure. Why do not you jump into the well in ſearch of the caſket, cried the peaſant, aſtoniſh⯑ed at the ſtupidity of his new acquaintance? Becauſe it is deep, replied the man, and I can neither dive nor ſwim. But will you undertake this kind office for me, and I will reward you with thirty pieces of ſilver? The peaſant accepted the offer with exultation; and, whilſt he was putting off his caſſock, veſt, and ſlippers, poured out his ſoul in thankſgivings to the holy pro⯑phet, for this providential ſuccour. But the moment he plunged into the water, in ſearch of the pretended caſket, the man (who was one of the three rogues that had concerted the plan of robbing him) ſeized upon his garments, and bore them off in ſecurity to his comrades.

Thus, through inattention, ſimplicity, and credulity, was the unfortunate Chaldean duped of all his little poſſeſſions; and he haſtened back to his cottage, with no other covering for his nakedneſs, than a tattered garment which he borrowed on the road.

The IMPRESSION of TRUTH on the MIND when ſuggeſted by ſtriking ANALOGY.

WHEN Charles the V. had reſigned the ſceptre of Spain, and the imperial crown of Germany, he retired to the monaſtery of St Juſtus, near the city of Placentia, in Eſtremadura. It was ſeated in a vale, of no great extent, watered by a ſmall brook, and ſur⯑rounded by riſing grounds, covered with lofty trees. From the nature of the ſoil, as well as the temperature of the climate, it was eſteemed the moſt healthful and delicious ſituation in Spain. Here he cultivated with [204]his own hands, the plants in his garden; and ſome⯑times he rode out to a neighbouring wood, on a little horſe, attended only by a ſingle ſervant on foot. When his infirmities confined him to his apartment, and de⯑prived him of theſe more active recreations, he either admitted a few gentlemen, who reſided near the mo⯑naſtery, to viſit him, and entertained them familiarly at his own table; or, he employed himſelf in ſtudying mechanical principles, and in forming works of me⯑chaniſm, of which he had always been remarkably fond, and to which his genius was peculiarly turned. He was extremely curious with regard to the conſtruc⯑tion of clocks and watches; and having found, after repeated trials, that he could not bring any two of them to go exactly alike, he reflected, with a mixture of ſurprize as well as regret, on his own folly (as he might alſo on his cruelty and injuſtice) in having ex⯑exted himſelf, with ſo much zeal and perſeverance, in the more vain attempt of bringing mankind to a uni⯑formity of ſentiment, concerning the doctrines of reli⯑gion.^* Happy would it have been for Europe, if this juſt and ſtriking analogy had occurred to the monarch, during the plenitude of his power! And happy might it now prove, if allowed to operate againſt the ſpirit of bigotry and perſecution, which ſtill actuates many indi⯑viduals, and even large communities!

On the BEAUTY and HAPPINESS of an open BEHAVI⯑OUR and an ingenuous DISPOSITION.

A Great part of mankind, if they cannot furniſh themſelves with the courage and generoſity of the lion, think themſelves equally happy, and much wiſer, [205]with the pitiful cunning of the fox. Every word they ſpeak, however trivial the ſubject, is weighed before it is uttered. A diſguſtful ſilence is obſerved till ſome⯑body of authority has advanced an opinion, and then, with a civil leer, a doubtful and heſitating aſſent is given, ſuch as may not preclude the opportunity of a ſubſequent retraction. If the converſation turn only on the common topics of the weather, the news, the play, the opera, they are no leſs reſerved in uttering their opinion, than if their lives and fortunes depended on the ſentiment they ſhould at laſt venture to advance, with oracular dignity. Whatever may be their real idea on the ſubject, as truth is a trifle compared to the object of pleaſing thoſe with whom they converſe, they generally contrive gently to agree with you; unleſs it ſhould appear to them, on mature conſideration, that their opinion (if contingencies to the number of at leaſt ten thouſand ſhould take place) may, at the diſ⯑tance of half a century, involve them in ſome ſmall danger of giving a little offence, or of incurring a ſmall embarraſſment. They wear a conſtant ſmile on their countenance, and are all goodneſs and benevo⯑lence, if you will believe their profeſſions: But be⯑ware; for their hearts are as dark as the abyſſes which conſtitute the abodes of the evil ſpirit. A man of this character, as Horace ſays, is black, and thou, who juſt⯑ly claimeſt the title of an honeſt Engliſhman, be upon thy guard when thine ill fortune introduces thee into his company.

Theſe crafty animals are even more reſerved, cau⯑tious, timid, and ſerpentine, in action than in conver⯑ſation. They lay the deepeſt ſchemes, and no con⯑clave of cardinals, no combination of conſpirators, no confederacy of thieves, ever deliberated with more im⯑penetrable ſecrecy. Connections are ſought with the moſt painful ſolicitude. No arts and no aſſiduities are neglected to obtain the favour of the great. Their hearts pant with the utmoſt anxiety to be introduced to a family of diſtinction and opulence, not only be⯑cauſe [206]the connection gratifies their pride, but alſo be⯑cauſe, in the wonderful complications and viſſicitudes of human affairs, it may one day promote their intereſt. Alas! before that day arrives, their perpetual uneaſi⯑neſs has often put a period to their ambition, by ter⯑minating their exiſtence. But even if they gain their ends, after a youth and a manhood conſumed in con⯑ſtant care and ſervitude, yet the pleaſure is not ade⯑quate to the pain, nor the advantage to the labour. Every one is ready to complain of the ſhortneſs of life; to ſpend, therefore, the greateſt part of it in perpetual fear, caution, ſuſpenſe, and ſolicitude, mere⯑ly to accompliſh an object of worldly ambition or ava⯑rice; what is it but the proverbial folly of him who loſes a pound to ſave a penny? Give me, O ye pow⯑ers! an ingenuous man would exclaim, give me health and liberty, with a competence, and I will compaſſion⯑ate the man of a timid and ſervile ſoul, who has at laſt crept on hands and knees, through thick and thin, into a ſtall, and ſeated his limbs, after they have been palſied with care, on the bench of judges or of biſhops.

Indeed, the perpetual agitation of ſpirits, the tor⯑menting fears, and the ardent hopes, which alternately diſorder the boſom of the ſubtle and ſuſpicious world⯑ling, are more than a counterbalance to all the riches and titular honours which ſucceſsful cunning can ob⯑tain. What avail croziers, coronets, fortunes, man⯑ſion houſes, parks, and equipages, when the poor poſ⯑ſeſſor of them has worn out his ſenſibility, ruined his nerves, loſt his eyes, and perhaps ſtained his honour, and wounded his conſcience in the toilſome drudgery of the moſt abject ſervitude, from his youth up even to the hoary age of feebleneſs and decrepitude? When a man has a numerous offspring, it may, indeed, be generous to ſacrifice his own eaſe and happineſs to their advancement. He may feel a virtuous pleaſure in his conduct, which may ſoothe him under every cir⯑cumſtance of diſagreeable toil or painful ſubmiſſion. But it is obvious to obſerve, that the moſt artful of [207]men, and the greateſt ſlaves to intereſt and ambition, are frequently unmarried men; and that they were unmarried, becauſe their caution and timidity would never permit them to take a ſtep which could never be revoked: Themſelves, however unamiable, have been the only objects of their love; and the reſt of mankind have been made uſe of merely as the inſtruments of their mean purpoſes and ſelfiſh gratifications. But the reſt of mankind need not envy them, for they inflict on themſelves the puniſhments they deſerve. They are always craving and never ſatisfied; they ſuffer a torment which is juſtly repreſented as infernal; that of being perpetually reaching after bleſſings which they can never graſp, of being prohibited to taſte the fruit, whoſe colour appears ſo charming to the eye, and whoſe flavour ſo delicious to the imagination.

How lovely and how happy, on the other hand, an open and ingenuous behaviour! An honeſt, unſuſpici⯑ous heart diffuſes a ſerenity over life like that of a fine day, when no cloud conceals the blue aether, nor a blaſt ruffles the ſtillneſs of the air;—but a crafty and de⯑ſigning boſom is all tumult and darkneſs, and may be ſaid to reſemble a miſty and diſordered atmoſphere in the comfortleſs climate of the poor Highlander. The one raiſes a man almoſt to the rank of an angel of light; the other ſinks him to a level with the powers of dark⯑neſs.—The one conſtitutes a terreſtrial heaven in the breaſt, the other deforms and debaſes it till it becomes another hell.

An open and ingenuous diſpoſition is not only beau⯑tiful and moſt conducive to private happineſs, but pro⯑ductive of many virtues eſſential to the welfare of ſoci⯑ety. What is ſociety without confidence? But if the ſelfiſh and mean ſyſtem which is eſtabliſhed and recom⯑mended among many whoſe advice and example have weight, ſhould univerſally prevail, in whom, and in what ſhall we be able to confide?—It is already ſhock⯑ing to a liberal mind to obſerve what a multitude of papers, parchments, oaths, and ſolemn engagements is [208]required, even in a trivial negociation. On the con⯑trary, how comfortable and how honourable to human nature, if promiſes were bonds, and aſſertions affidavits! What pleaſure and what improvement would be deri⯑ved from converſation, if every one would dare to ſpeak his real ſentiments, with modeſty and decorum indeed, but without any unmanly fear of offending, or ſervile deſire to pleaſe for the ſake of intereſt? To pleaſe by honeſt means, and from the pure motives of friendſhip and philanthropy, is a duty; but they who ſtudy the art of pleaſing merely for their own ſakes, are, of all characters, thoſe which ought leaſt to pleaſe, and which appear, when the maſque is removed, the moſt diſguſt⯑ful. Truth, and ſimplicity of manners, are not only eſſential to virtue and happineſs, but, as objects of taſte, truly beautiful. Good minds will always be pleaſed with them, and bad minds we need not wiſh to pleaſe.

Since cunning and deceit are thus odious in them⯑ſelves, and incompatible with real happineſs and dig⯑nity, I cannot help thinking, that thoſe inſtructors of the riſing generation, who have inſiſted on ſimulation and diſſimulation, on the thouſand tricks of worldly wiſdom, are no leſs miſtaken in their ideas, than mean, contracted, and illiberal. Liſten not, ye generous young men, whoſe hearts are yet untainted, liſten not to the deluſive advice of men ſo deluded or ſo baſe. Have courage enough to avow the ſentiments of your ſouls, and let your countenance and your tongue be the heralds of your hearts. Pleaſe, conſiſtently with truth and honour, or be contented not to pleaſe. Let juſtice and benevolence fill your boſom, and they will ſhine ſpontaneouſly, like the real gem, without the aid of a foil, and with the moſt durable and captivating brilliancy.

A REMEDY for DISCONTENT.

COMPLAINTS and murmurs are often loudeſt and moſt frequent among thoſe who poſſeſs all the ex⯑ternal means of temporal enjoyment. Something is ſtill wanting, however high and opulent their condi⯑tion, fully to complete their ſatisfaction. Suppoſe an indulgent Providence to accompliſh every deſire; are they now at laſt contented? Alas! no; their uneaſi⯑neſs ſeems for ever to increaſe, in proportion as their real neceſſities are diminiſhed. It is in vain then to endeavour to make them happy by adding to their ſtore, or aggrandizing their honours. Their appetite is no leſs inſatiable than their taſte faſtidious.

But there yet may remain a remedy. Let thoſe, who are miſerable among riches and grandeur, leave, for a moment, their elevated rank, and deſcend from their palaces to the humble habitations of real and unaffect⯑ed woe. If their hearts are not deſtitute of feeling, they will return from the ſad ſcenes to their cloſets, and on their knees pour forth the ejaculations of grati⯑tude to that univerſal Parent, who has given them abundance, and exempted them from the thouſand ills, under the preſſure of which the greater part of his children drag the load of life. Inſtead of ſpending their hours in brooding over their own imaginary evils, they will devote them to the alleviation of real miſery among the deſtitute ſons of indigence, in the neglected walks of vulgar life.

That one half of the world knows not how the other half lives, is a common and juſt obſervation. A fine lady, ſurrounded with every means of accommodation and luxury, complains, in a moment of dejection, that ſurely no mortal is ſo wretched as herſelf. Her ſuffer⯑ings are too great for her acute ſenſibility. She ex⯑pects [210]pity from all her acquaintance, and pleaſes her⯑ſelf with the idea that ſhe is an example of ſingular miſ⯑fortune and remarkable patience. Phyſicians attend, and with affected ſolicitude feel the healthy pulſe, which, however, they dare not pronounce healthy, leſt they ſhould give offence by attempting to ſpoil the re⯑fined luxury of fancied woe. To be ſuppoſed always ill, and conſequently to be always exciting the tender attention and enquiries of all around, is a ſtate ſo charming in the ideas of the weak, luxurious, and in⯑dolent minds of ſome faſhionable ladies, that many ſpend their lives in a perpetual ſtate of imaginary con⯑valeſcence. There is ſomething ſo indelicate in being hale, hearty, and ſtout, like a roſy milk-maid, that a very fine and very high-bred lady is almoſt ready to ſaint at the idea. From exceſſive indulgence, ſhe be⯑comes at laſt in reality, what ſhe at firſt only fancied herſelf, a perpetual invalid. By a juſt retribution, ſhe is really puniſhed with that wretchedneſs of which ſhe ungratefully and unreaſonably complained in the midſt of health, eaſe, and opulence.

One might aſk all the ſiſterhood and fraternity of rich and healthy murmurers, Have you compared your ſituation and circumſtances with that of thoſe of your fellow-creatures who are condemned to labour in the gold mines of Peru? Have you compared your ſitua⯑tion with that of thoſe of your own country, who have hardly ever ſeen the ſun, but live confined in tin mines, lead mines, ſtone quarries, and coal pits? Before you call yourſelf wretched, take a ſurvey of the gaols, in which unfortunate and honeſt debtors are doomed to pine for life; walk through the wards of an hoſpital; think of the hardſhips of a common ſoldier or ſailor; think of the galley-ſlave, the day-labourer; nay, the common ſervant in your own houſe; think of your poor neighbour at the next door; and if there were not danger of its being called unpolite and methodiſti⯑cal, I would add, think of Him who, for your ſake, ſweated, as it were, drops of blood on Calvary.

[211]It is, indeed, a duty to conſider the evils of thoſe who are placed beneath us; for the chief purpoſe of chriſtianity is, to alleviate the miſeries of that part of mankind, whom, indeed, the world deſpiſes; but whom, He who made them, pities, like as a father pitieth his own children. Their miſeries are not fan⯑ciful, their complaints are not exaggerated. The cler⯑gy, when they are called upon to viſit the ſick, or to baptize new-born infants, are often ſpectators of ſuch ſcenes as would cure the diſcontented of every malady. The following repreſentation is but too real, and may be paralleled in many of its circumſtances in almoſt every pariſh throughout the kingdom.

The miniſter of a country village was called upon to baptize an infant juſt born. The cottage was ſituated on a lonely common, and as it was in the midſt of the winter, and the floods were out, it was abſolutely neceſ⯑ſary to wade in water through the lower room to a lad⯑der, which ſerved inſtead of ſtairs. The chamber (and it was the only one) was ſo low, that you could not ſtand upright in it; there was one window which ad⯑mitted air as freely as light, for the rags which had been ſtuffed into the broken panes were now taken out to contribute to the covering of the infant. In a dark corner of the room ſtood a ſmall bedſtead without fur⯑niture, and on it lay the dead mother, who had juſt expired in labour for want of aſſiſtance. The father was ſitting on a little ſtool by the fire-place, though there was no fire, and endeavouring to keep the infant warm in his boſom. Five of the ſeven children, half naked, were aſking their father for a piece of bread, while a fine boy, of about three years old, was ſtand⯑ing by his mother at the bed-ſide, and crying as he was wont to do, "Take me, take me, mammy!"—"Mam⯑my is aſleep," ſaid one of his ſiſters, with two tears ſtanding on her cheeks; "mammy is aſleep, Johnny, go play with the baby on daddy's knee." The father took him up on his knee, and his grief, which had hitherto kept him dumb, and in a ſtate of temporary [212]inſenſibility, burſt out in a torrent of tears, and reliev⯑ed his heart, which ſeemed ready to break. "Don't cry, pray don't cry," ſaid the eldeſt boy, "the nurſe is coming up ſtairs with a two-penny loaf in her hand, and mammy will wake preſently, and I will carry her the largeſt piece." Upon this, an old woman, crooked with age, and clothed in tatters, came hobbling on her little ſtick into the room, and, after heaving a groan, calmly ſat down, dreſſed the child in its rags, then di⯑vided the loaf as far as it would go, and informed the poor man that the church-wardens, to whom ſhe had gone, would ſend ſome relief, as ſoon as they had diſ⯑patched a naughty baggage to her own pariſh, who had delivered herſelf of twins in the eſquire's hovel. Relief indeed was ſent, and a little contribution afterwards raiſed by the interpoſition of the miniſter. If he had not ſeen the caſe, it would have paſſed on as a common affair, and a thing of courſe.

Miniſters and medical practitioners are often witneſ⯑ſes to ſcenes even more wretched than this; where, to poverty, cold, nakedneſs, and death, are added the lan⯑guors of lingering and loathſome diſeaſes, and the tor⯑ments of excruciating pain. A feeling heart, among the rich and the great, who are at the ſame time que⯑rulous without cauſe, would learn a leſſon in many a garret of Broad St. Giles's or Shoreditch, more effica⯑cious than all the lectures of the moral or divine philo⯑ſopher.

On the RESPECT paid by the LACED AEMONIANS and ATHENIANS to OLD AGE.

IT happened at Athens, during a public repreſenta⯑tion of ſome play exhibited in honour of the com⯑monwealth, that an old gentleman came too late for a [213]place ſuitable to his age and quality. Many of the young gentlemen, who obſerved the difficulty and con⯑fuſion he was in, made ſigns to him that they would accommodate him if he came where they ſat: The good man buſtled through the crowd accordingly; but when he came to the ſeats to which he was invited, the jeſt was, to ſit cloſe and expoſe him, as he ſtood out of countenance, to the whole audience. The frolic went round all the Athenian benches. But, on thoſe occa⯑ſions, there were alſo particular places aſſigned for fo⯑reigners: When the good man ſkulked towards the boxes appointed for the Lacedaemonians, that honeſt people, more virtuous than polite, roſe up all to a man, and with the greateſt reſpect, received him among them. The Athenians, being ſuddenly touched with a ſenſe of the Spartan virtue, and their own degenera⯑cy, gave a thunder of applauſe; and the old man cried out, "The Athenians underſtand what is good, but the Lacedaemonians practiſe it."

The RESIGNATION of the EMPEROR CHARLES V.

CHARLES reſolved to reſign his kingdoms to his ſon, with a ſolemnity ſuitable to the importance of the tranſaction; and to perform this laſt act of ſovereignty with ſuch formal pomp, as might leave an indelible impreſſion on the minds, not only of his ſub⯑jects, but of his ſucceſſor. With this view, he called Philip out of England, where the peeviſh temper of his queen, which increaſed with her deſpair of having iſ⯑ſue, rendered him extremely unhappy; and the jea⯑louſy of the Engliſh left him no hopes of obtaining the direction of their affairs. Having aſſembled the ſtates of the Low Countries, at Bruſſels, on the twenty-fifth of October, one thouſand five hundred and fifty-five, [214]Chales ſeated himſelf, for the laſt time, in the chair of ſtate; on one ſide of which was placed his ſon, and on the other his ſiſter the queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands; with a ſpendid retinue of the gran⯑dees of Spain, and princes of the empire, ſtanding be⯑hind him. The preſident of the council of Flanders, by his command, explained in a few words, his inten⯑tion in calling this extraordinary meeting of the ſtates. He then read the inſtrument of reſignation, by which Charles ſurrendered to his ſon Philip all his territories, juriſdiction, and authority in the Low Countries; ab⯑ſolving his ſubjects there from their oath of allegiance to him, which he required them to transfer to Philip, his lawful heir, and to ſerve him with the ſame loyalty and zeal, which they had manifeſted, during ſo long a courſe of years, in ſupport of his government.

Charles then roſe from his ſeat, and leaning on the ſhoulder of the prince of Orange, becauſe he was una⯑ble to ſtand without ſupport, he addreſſed himſelf to the audience, and, from a paper which he held in his hand, in order to aſſiſt his memory, he recounted with dignity, but without oſtentation, all the great things which he had undertaken and performed ſince the commencement of his adminiſtration. He obſerved, that, from the ſeventeenth year of his age, he had de⯑dicated all his thoughts and attention to public objects; reſerving no portion of his time for the indulgence of his eaſe, and very little for the enjoyment of private pleaſure: That, either in a pacific or hoſtile manner, he had viſited Germany nine times, Spain ſix times, France four times, Italy ſeven times, the Low Coun⯑tries ten times, England twice, Africa as often, and had made eleven voyages by ſea: That, while his health permitted him to diſcharge his duty, and the vigour of his conſtitution was equal, in any degree, to the ardu⯑ous office of governing ſuch extenſive dominions, he had never ſhunned labour, nor repined under fatigue: That now, when his health was broken, and his vigour exhauſted by the rage of an incurable diſtemper, his [215]growing infirmities admoniſhed him to retire; nor was he ſo fond of reigning, as to retain the ſceptre in an impotent hand, which was no longer able to protect his ſubjects, or to render them happy: That, inſtead of a ſovereign worn out with diſeaſes, and ſcarcely half alive, he gave them one in the prime of life, accuſtomed already to govern, and who added to the vigour of youth, all the attention and ſagacity of maturer years: That if, during the courſe of a long adminiſtration, he had committed any material error in government; or if, under the preſſure of ſo many and great affairs, and amidſt the attention which he had been obliged to give to them, he had either neglected, or injured any of his ſubjects, he now implored their forgiveneſs: That for his part, he ſhould ever retain a grateful ſenſe of their fidelity and attachment, and would carry the remem⯑brance of it along with him to the place of his retreat, as his ſweeteſt conſolation, as well as the beſt reward for all his ſervices; and, in his laſt prayers to Almighty God, would pour forth his ardent wiſhes for their wel⯑fare.

Then, turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees, and kiſſed his father's hand, "If," ſays he, "I had left you, by my death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made ſuch large additions, ſome regard would have been juſtly due to my memory on that account: But now, when I voluntarily reſign to you what I might ſtill have retained, I may well expect the warmeſt ex⯑preſſions of thanks on your part. With theſe, how⯑ever, I diſpenſe; and ſhall conſider your concern for the welfare of your ſubjects, and your love of them, as the beſt and moſt acceptable teſtimony of your gra⯑titude to me. It is in your power, by a wiſe and vir⯑tuous adminiſtration, to juſtify the extraordinary proof which I this day give of my paternal affection; and to demonſtrate, that you are worthy of the confidence which I repoſe in you, preſerve an inviolable regard for religion; maintain the Catholic faith in its purity; let the laws of your country be ſacred in your eyes; [216]encroach not on the rights and privileges of your peo⯑ple: And, if the time ſhall ever come, when you ſhall wiſh to enjoy the tranquillity of private life, may you have a ſon endowed with ſuch qualities, that you can reſign your ſceptre to him with as much ſatisfaction as I give up mine to you!"

As ſoon as Charles had finiſhed this long addreſs to his ſubjects, and to their new ſovereign, he ſunk into the chair exhauſted, and ready to faint with the fatigue of ſuch an extraordinary effort. During his diſcourſe, the whole audience melted into tears; ſome, from ad⯑miration of his magnanimity; others, ſoftened by the expreſſions of tenderneſs towards his ſon, and of love to his people; and all were affected with the deepeſt ſorrow, at loſing a ſovereign, who had diſtinguiſhed the Netherlands, his native country, with particular marks of his regard and attachment.

A few weeks afterwards, Charles, in an aſſembly no leſs ſpendid, and with a ceremonial equally pompous, reſigned to his ſon the crowns of Spain, with all the territories depending on them, both in the Old and in the New World. Of all theſe vaſt poſſeſſions he re⯑ſerved nothing to himſelf, but an annual penſion of a hundred thouſand crowns, to defray the charges of his family, and to afford him a ſmall ſum for acts of bene⯑ficence and charity.

The place he had choſen for his retreat, was the mo⯑naſtery of St. Juſtus, in the province of Eſtremadura. It was ſeated in a vale of no great extent, watered by a ſmall brook, and ſurrounded by riſing grounds, cover⯑ed with lofty trees. From the nature of the ſoil, as well as the temperature of the climate, it was eſteem⯑ed the moſt healthful and delicious ſituation in Spain. Some months before his reſignation, he had ſent an architect thither, to add a new apartment to the mo⯑naſtery, for his accommodation; but he gave ſtrict or⯑ders, that the ſtyle of building ſhould be ſuch as ſuited his preſent ſituation rather than his former dignity. It conſiſted only of ſix rooms; four of them in the form [217]of friars' cells, with naked walls; the other two, each twenty feet ſquare, were hung with brown cloth, and furniſhed in the moſt ſimple manner. They were all on a level with the ground; with a door on one ſide, into a garden, of which Charles himſelf had given the plan, and which he had filled with various plants, in⯑tending to cultivate them with his own hands. On the other ſide, they communicated with the chapel of the monaſtery, in which he was to perform his devo⯑tions. Into this humble retreat, hardly ſufficient for the comfortable accommodation of a private gentleman, did Charles enter, with twelve domeſtics only. He buried there, in ſolitude and ſilence, his grandeur, his ambition, together with all thoſe vaſt projects which, during half a century, had alarmed and agitated Eu⯑rope, filling every kingdom in it, by turns, with the terror of his arms, and the dread of being ſubjected to his power.

The STORY of DIONYSIUS the TYRANT.

DIONYSIUS, the tyrant of Sicily, ſhewed how far he was from being happy, even whilſt he aboun⯑ded in riches, and all the pleaſures which riches can procure. Damocles, one of his flatterers, was compli⯑menting him upon his power, his treaſures, and the magnificence of his royal ſtate, and affirming, that no monarch ever was greater or happier than he. "Have you a mind, Damocles," ſays the king, "to taſte this happineſs, and know, by experience, what my enjoy⯑ments are, of which you have ſo high an idea?' Da⯑mocles gladly accepted the offer. Upon which the king ordered, that a royal banquet ſhould be prepared, and a gilded couch placed for him, covered with rich embroidery, and ſideboards loaded with gold and ſilver [218]plate of immenſe value. Pages of extraordinary beau⯑ty were ordered to wait on him at table; and to obey his commands with the greateſt readineſs, and the moſt profound ſubmiſſion. Neither ornaments, chaplets of flowers, nor rich perfumes were wanting. The table was loaded with the moſt exquiſite delicacies of every kind. Damocles fancied himſelf amongſt the gods. In the midſt of all his happineſs, he ſees, let down from the roof exactly over his neck as he lay indulging him⯑ſelf in ſtate, a glittering ſword hung by a ſingle hair. The ſight of deſtruction thus threatening him from on high, ſoon put a ſtop to his joy and revelling. The pomp of his attendance, and the glitter of the carved plate, gave him no longer any pleaſure. He dreads to ſtretch forth his hand to the table. He throws off the chaplet of roſes. He haſtens to remove from his dan⯑gerous ſituation, and at laſt begs the king to reſtore [...] to his former humble condition, having to deſire to enjoy any longer ſuch a dreadful kind of happineſs.

A remarkable INSTANCE of filial DUTY.

THE praetor had given up to the triumvir a wo⯑man of ſome rank, condemned, for a capital crime, to be executed in the priſon. He who had the charge of her execution, in conſideration of her birth, did not immediately put her to death. He even ven⯑tured to let her daughter have acceſs to her in priſon; carefully ſearching her, however, as ſhe went in, leſt ſhe ſhould carry with her any ſuſtenance; concluding, that in a few days the mother muſt of courſe periſh for want, and that the ſeverity of putting a woman of fa⯑mily to a violent death, by the hand of the execution⯑er, might thus be avoided. Some days paſſing in this manner, the triumvir began to wonder that the daugh⯑ter [219]ſtill came to viſit the mother, and could by no means comprehend, how the latter ſhould live ſo long. Watching, therefore, carefully, what paſſed in the in⯑terview between them, he found, to his great aſtoniſh⯑ment, that the life of the mother had been, all this while, ſupported by the milk of the daughter, who came to the priſon every day, to give her mother her breaſts to ſuck. The ſtrange contrivance between them was repreſented to the judges, and procured a pardon for the mother. Nor was it thought ſufficient to give to ſo dutiful a daughter the forfeited life of her condemned mother, but they were both maintained af⯑terwards by a penſion ſettled on them for life. And the ground upon which the priſon ſtood was conſecrated, and a temple to filial piety built upon it.

What will not filial duty contrive, or what hazards will it not run, if it will put a daughter upon ventu⯑ring, at the peril of her own life, to maintain her im⯑priſoned and condemned mother in ſo unuſual a man⯑ner! For what was ever heard of more ſtrange, than a mother ſucking the breaſts of her own daughter? It might even ſeem ſo unnatural, as to render it doubtful whether it might not be, in ſome ſort, wrong, if it were not that duty to parents is the firſt law of nature.

The STORY of a diſabled SOLDIER.

NO obſervation is more common, and at the ſame time more true, than, That one half of the world are ignorant how the other half lives. The misfor⯑tunes of the great are held up to engage our attention; are enlarged upon in tones of declamation; and the world is called upon to gaze at the noble ſufferers: The great, under the preſſure of calamity, are conſcious of [220]ſeveral others ſympathizing with their diſtreſs; and have, at once, the comfort of admiration and pity.

There is nothing magnanimous in bearing misfor⯑tunes with fortitude, when the whole world is looking on: Men in ſuch circumſtances will act bravely, even from motives of vanity; but the who, in the vale of ob⯑ſcurity, can brave adverſity; who, without friends to pity, or even without hope to alleviate, his misfortunes, can behave with tranquillity and indifference, is truly great; whether peaſant or courtier, he deſerves admi⯑ration, and ſhould be held up for our imitation and re⯑ſpect.

While the ſlighteſt inconveniencies of the great are magnified into calamities; while tragedy mouths out their ſufferings in all the ſtrains of eloquence; the mi⯑ſeries of the poor are entirely diſregarded; and yet ſome of the lower ranks of people undergo more real hardſhips in one day than thoſe of a more exalted ſta⯑tion ſuffer in their whole lives. It is inconceivable what difficulties the meaneſt of our common ſailors and ſoldiers endure without murmuring or regret; without paſſionately declaiming againſt Providence, or calling their fellows to be gazers on their intrepidity. Every day is to them a day of miſery, and yet they en⯑dure their hard ſate without repining.

With what indignation do I hear an Ovid, a Cicero, or a Rabutin, complain of their misfortunes and hard⯑ſhips, whoſe greateſt calamity was that of being unable to viſit a certain ſpot of earth, to which they had fool⯑iſhly attached an idea of happineſs! Their diſtreſſes were pleaſures, compared to what many of the adven⯑turing poor every day endure without murmuring—They ate, drank, and ſlept; they had ſlaves to attend them; and were ſure of ſubſiſtence for life: While many of their fellow-creatures are obliged to wander without a friend to comfort or aſſiſt them, and even without ſhelter from the ſeverity of the ſeaſon.

I have been led into theſe reflections from accident⯑ally meeting, ſome days ago, a poor fellow, whom I [221]knew when a boy, dreſſed in a ſailor's jacket, and beg⯑ging at one of the outlets of the town with a wooden leg. I knew him to have been honeſt and induſtrious when in the country, and was curious to learn what had reduced him to his preſent ſituation. Wherefore, after having given him what I thought proper, I deſired to know the hiſtory of his life and misfortunes, and the manner in which he was reduced to his preſent diſtreſs. The diſabled ſoldier, for ſuch he was, though dreſſed in a ſailor's habit, ſcratching his head, and leaning on his crutch, put himſelf into an attitude to comply with my requeſt, and gave me his hiſtory, as follows:—

"As for my misfortunes, maſter, I can't pretend to have gone through any more than other folks; for, ex⯑cept the loſs of my limb, and my being obliged to beg, I don't know any reaſon, thank Heaven, that I have to complain: There is Bill Tibbs, of our regiment, he has loſt both his legs, and an eye to boot; but thank Hea⯑ven, it is not ſo bad with me yet.

"I was born in Shropſhire; my father was a la⯑bourer, and died when I was five years old; ſo I was put upon the pariſh. As he had been a wandering ſort of a man, the pariſhioners were not able to tell to what pariſh I belonged, or where I was born, ſo they ſent me to another pariſh, and that pariſh ſent me to a third. I thought in my heart, they kept ſending me about ſo long, that they would not let me be born in any pariſh at all; but at laſt, however, they fixed me. I had ſome diſpoſition to be a ſcholar, and was reſol⯑ved, at leaſt, to know my letters; but the maſter of the workhouſe put me to buſineſs as ſoon as I was able to handle a mallet; and here I lived an eaſy kind of life for five years. I only wrought ten hours in the day, and had my meat and drink provided for my la⯑bour. It is true, I was not ſuffered to ſtir out of the houſe, for fear, as they ſaid, I ſhould run away; but what of that, I had the liberty of the whole houſe, and the yard before the door, and that was enough for me. [222]I was then bound out to farmer, where I was up both early and late; but I ate and drank well, and liked my buſineſs well enough, till he died, when I was obliged to provide for myſelf; ſo I was reſolved to go ſeek my fortune.

"In this manner I went from town to town, work⯑ed when I could get employment, and ſtarved when I could get none: When happening one day to go through a field belonging to a juſtice of the peace, I ſpy'd a hare croſſing the path juſt before me; and I believe the devil put it in my head to fling my ſtick at it:—Well, what will you have on't? I killed the hare, and was bringing it away, when the juſtice himſelf met me; he called me a poacher and a villain; and, collaring me, deſired I would give an account of my⯑ſelf. I fell upon my knees, begged his worſhip's par⯑don, and began to give a full account of all that I knew of my breed, ſeed, and generation; but, though I gave a very true account, the juſtice ſaid I could give no ac⯑count; ſo I was indicted at the ſeſſions, found guilty of being poor, and ſent up to London to Newgate, in or⯑der to be tranſported as a vagabond.

"People may ſay this and that of being in jail, but, for my part, I found Newgate as agreeable a place as ever I was in in all my life. I had my belly-full to eat and drink, and did no work at all. This kind of life was too good to laſt for ever; ſo I was taken out of priſon, after five months, put on board a ſhip, and ſent off, with two hundred more, to the plantations. We had but an indifferent paſſage, for, being all confined in the hold, more than a hundred of our people died for want of ſweet air; and thoſe that remained were ſickly enough, God knows. When we came a-ſhore, we were ſold to the planters, and I was bound for ſev⯑en years more. As I was no ſcholar, for I did not know my letters, I was obliged to work among the negroes; and I ſerved out my time, as in duty bound to to do.

"When my time was expired, I worked my paſſage [223]home, and glad was I to ſee Old England again, becauſe I loved my country. I was afraid, however, that I ſhould be indicted for a vagabond once more, ſo did not much care to go down into the country, but kept about the town, and did little jobs when I could get them.

"I was very happy in this manner for ſome time, till one evening, coming home from work, two men knocked me down, and then deſired me to ſtand.—They belonged to a preſs-gang: I was carried before the juſtice, and, as I could give no account of myſelf, I had my choice left, whether to go on board a man of war, or liſt for a ſoldier: I choſe the latter; and, in this poſt of a gentleman, I ſerved two campaigns in Flanders, was at the battle of Val and Fontenoy, and received but one wound, through the breaſt here; but the doctor of our regiment ſoon made me well again.

"When the peace came on I was diſcharged; and, as I could not work, becauſe my wound was ſometimes troubleſome, I liſted for a landman in the Eaſt-India company's ſervice. I have fought the French in ſix pitched battles; and I verily believe that, if I could read or write, our captain would have made me a cor⯑poral. But it was not my good fortune to have any promotion, for I ſoon fell ſick, and ſo got leave to re⯑turn home again with forty pounds in my pocket.—This was at the beginning of the preſent war, and I hoped to be ſet on ſhore, and to have the pleaſure of ſpending my money; but the government wanted men, and ſo I was preſſed for a ſailor before ever I could ſet foot on ſhore.

"The boatſwain found me, as he ſaid, and obſtinate fellow: He ſwore he knew that I underſtood my buſi⯑neſs well, but that I ſhammed Abraham, to be idle; but, God knows, I knew nothing of ſea-buſineſs, and he beat me, without coſidering what he was about. I had ſtill, however, my forty pounds, and that was ſome comfort to me under every beating; and the money I [224]might have had to this day, but that our ſhip was taken by the French, and ſo I loſt all.

"Our crew was carried into Breſt, and many of them died, becauſe they were not uſed to live in a jail; but, for my part, it was nothing to me, for I was ſea⯑ſoned. One night, as I was aſleep on the bed of boards, with a warm blanket about me, for I always loved to lie well, I was awakened by the boatſwain, who had a dark lanthorn in his hand: 'Jack,' ſays he to me, 'will you knock out the French centry's brains?' 'I don't care,' ſays I, ſtriving to keep myſelf awake, 'if I lend a hand.' 'Then follow me,' ſays he, 'and I hope we ſhall do buſineſs.' So up I got, and tied my blanket, which was all the cloaths I had, about my middle, and went with him to fight the Frenchmen. I hate the French, becauſe they are all ſlaves, and wear wooden ſhoes.

"Though we had no arms, one Engliſhman is able to beat five French at any time; ſo we went down to the door, where both the centries were poſted, and, ruſhing upon them, ſeized their arms in a moment, and knocked them down. From thence nine of us ran together to the quay, and ſeizing the firſt boat we met, got out of the harbour, and put to ſea. We had not been here three days before we were taken up by the Dorſet privateer, who were glad of ſo many good hands, and we conſented to run our chance. How⯑ever, we had not as much luck as we expected. In three days we fell in with the Pompadour privateer, of forty guns, while we had but twenty-three; ſo to it we went, yard-arm and yard-arm. The fight laſted for three hours, and I verily believe we ſhould have taken the Frenchman, had we but had ſome more men left behind; but, unfortunately, we loſt all our men juſt as we were going to get the victory.

"I was once more in the power of the French, and I believe it would have gone hard with me had I been brought back to Breſt; but, by good fortune, we were retaken by the Viper. I had almoſt forgot to tell you [225]that, in that engagement, I was wounded in two pla⯑ces; I loſt four ſingers off the left hand, and my leg was ſhot off. If I had had the good fortune to have loſt my leg and uſe of my hand on board a king's ſhip, and not a-board a privateer, I ſhould have been entitled to cloathing and maintenance during the reſt of my life! But that was not my chance: One man is born with a ſilver ſpoon in his mouth, and another with a wooden ladle. However, bleſſed be God, I enjoy good health, and will for ever love liberty and Old England. Liberty, property, and Old England for ever, huzza!"

Thus ſaying, he limped off, leaving me in admiration at his intrepidity and content; nor could I avoid ac⯑knowledging, that an habitual acquaintance with miſe⯑ry, ſerves better than philoſophy to teach us to deſpiſe it.

SCENE between COLONEL RIVERS and SIR HARRY; in which the COLONEL, from PRINCIPLES of HO⯑NOR, refuſes to give his DAUGHTER to SIR HARRY.

COLONEL, your moſt obedient: I am come upon the old buſineſs; for, unleſs I am allowed to entertain hopes of Miſs Rivers, I ſhall be the moſt miſerable of all human beings.

Sir Harry, I have already told you by letter, and I now tell you perſonally, I cannot liſten to your propoſals.

No, Sir!

No, Sir: I have promiſed my daughter to Mr Sidney. Do you know that, Sir?

I do: But what then? Engagements of this kind you know—

So then, you do know I have promiſed her to Mr Sidney?

I do—But I alſo know that matters are not finally ſettled between Mr Sidney and you; and I moreover know, that his fortune is by no means equal to mine; therefore—

Sir Harry, let me aſk you one queſtion before you make your conſequence.

A thouſand, if you pleaſe, Sir.

Why then, Sir, let me aſk you, what you have ever obſerved in me, or my conduct, that you deſire me ſo familiarly to break my word? I thought, Sir, you conſidered me as a man of honour?

And ſo I do, Sir—a man of the niceſt ho⯑nor.

And yet, Sir, you aſk me to violate the ſanctity of my word; and tell me directly, that it is my intereſt to be a raſcal!

I really don't underſtand you, Colonel; I thought, when I was talking to you, I was talking to a man who knew the world; and as you have not yet ſigned—

Why this is mending matters with a witneſs! And ſo you think, becauſe I am not legally bound, I am under no neceſſity of keeping my word! Sir Harry, laws were never made for men of honor: They want no bond but the rectitude of their own ſentiments; and laws are of no uſe but to bind the villains of ſo⯑ciety.

Well! But, my dear Colonel, if you have no regard for me, ſhew ſome little regard for your daughter.

I ſhew the greateſt regard for my daughter, by giving her to a man of honor; and I muſt not be in⯑ſulted with any further repetition of your propoſals.

Inſult you, Colonel! Is the offer of my al⯑liance an inſult? Is my readineſs to make what ſettle⯑ments you think proper—

Sir Harry, I ſhould conſider the offer of a king⯑dom [227]an inſult, if it were to be purchaſed by the viola⯑tion of my word. Beſides, though my daughter ſhall never go a beggar to the arms of her huſband, I would rather ſee her happy than rich; and if ſhe has enough to provide handſomely for a young family, and ſome⯑thing to ſpare for the exigencies of a worthy friend, I ſhall think her as affluent as if ſhe were miſtreſs of Mexico.

Well, Colonel, I have done; but I be⯑lieve—

Well, Sir Harry, and as our conference is done, we will, if you pleaſe, retire to the ladies. I ſhall be always glad of your acquaintance, though I cannot receive you as a ſon in-law; for a union of in⯑tereſt I look upon as a union of diſhonor, and conſider a marriage for money at beſt but a legal proſtitution.

The STORY of ABBAS.

—THE ſun appearing above the horizon, So⯑lyman proſtrated himſelf in the profound⯑eſt adoration. When he aroſe from his devotions, he advanced towards the Engliſh merchant, his fellow-traveller, with a look of kindneſs mixed with pity and concern. The merchant underſtood him: But as he was unwilling to controvert the principles of his reli⯑gion, he made no apology for his conduct during the devotions of Solyman.

The mild morning light which was diffuſed over the vallies and ſtreams, the various beauty of the mea⯑dows, the regular diſpoſition of bloſſomed hedge-rows, the ſoothing murmur of bees at their early labour, and the full concert of the feathered creation, drew their converſation on the univerſal beneficence of nature.—'I feel,' ſaid Solyman, 'a delight, which I can neither [228]account for nor deſcribe. Theſe mountains gilded with the rays of the orient ſun, thoſe painted vallies that ſhame the rich carpets of Perſia, yon diſtant wa⯑ters which gleam with the ſhifting effulgence of light, the general buſy voice of joy and activity in the animal creation, conſpire to fill my heart with inexpreſſible pleaſure.'

'That pleaſure,' replied the merchant, 'I believe proceeds from ſympathy: It is ſcarce poſſible, unleſs you have ſome peculiar cauſe of miſery, not to be plea⯑ſed when you ſee every thing around you happy. On the contrary, if you go into the manſions of ſorrow, it will be impoſſible to withſtand the infection of it.—The God of nature ſeems to have given us theſe ſym⯑pathetic feelings, to link our affections in the great chain of ſociety: Hence, ſocial virtue is not left to de⯑pend ſolely on the moral will, but is founded on the principles of our nature.

'But the object of your adoration is ſo profuſe of his favours, that I ſhould now be glad to find ſome convenient ſhade. I think, I diſcover a cave on the ſouthern declivity of the mountain; let us retire to it during the heat of they day.'

As they were advancing towards the cave, they per⯑ceived a beaten path, leading directly from it to a diſ⯑tant rivulet: This made them apprehenſive that it might be the habitation of ſome wild beaſt, that had worn the path by conſtantly going to drink at the ſtream: But their fears were ſoon removed upon the appearance of an aged hermit, advancing ſlowly towards the rivulet with an earthen pitcher. At ſight of the travellers, he haſted to his abode with all the feeble precipitancy of age: They agreed not to diſturb him, and only took the advantage of the rock which projected over his cell to ſhelter themſelves from the ſun; but they had not long continued in this ſituation, before the hermit, perceiving them to be inoffenſive travellers, invited them into his cave.

'You will excuſe,' ſaid the hoary ſage, 'the cau⯑tion [229]of years: Theſe mountains are not ſecure from the ravage of human ferocity; and theſe grey hairs would be no defence from the wanton cruelty of man. I have ſuffered ſo much from my own ſpecies, that I have at laſt forſaken their ſociety: I thought it better to give up the conveniences of it, than to bear the evils; and I have long lived in this ſolitary cave on nothing more than what uncultivated nature would afford me.'—'Thoſe ſufferings,' ſaid Solyman, 'muſt, indeed, have been extraordinary, that could make you give up one of the greateſt advantages of life, the ſoci⯑al intercourſe of your fellow-creatures.'—'The narra⯑tives of age,' replied the hermit, 'are ſeldom agreea⯑ble to youth; but as inſtruction can be gained only from experience, you will do wiſely to learn it from the misfortunes of Abbas.

'I was born to a competent fortune in the province of Lureſtan: But being early left an orphan, my affairs came under the cognizance of a juſticiary court, which the members of it call the court of equity; but ſo equi⯑table were they with regard to me, that they claimed two parts of my little fortune for their care of the third.'—'Would to God, that were never the caſe in Great Britain!' interrupted the merchant. 'But pro⯑ceed.'—'Though I had ſuch an early and convincing proof of the treachery and rapacity of mankind; yet, as I had always exerciſed the benevolent virtues myſelf, I could not think others totally devoid of them; and at my three and twentieth year being inclined to travel, I without ſcruple entruſted the remains of my fortune with a perſon whom I had long known and reſpected; a perſon, Holy Allah! who lifted his hands to thee; but I had not been abſent from Lureſtan more than three moons, when he pretended a commiſſion to diſpoſe of my effects, and immediately left the place. Upon my return therefore to the province, I found neither friend nor fortune; and being bred to no buſineſs, I was re⯑duced to the moſt diſtreſsful ſtate of indigence. I ap⯑plied, however, not without hopes of redreſs or relief, [230]to a perſon of power and eminence, whom I had often heard ſpeak of his friendſhip with my father. After long and frequent attendance, I was admitted to an in⯑terview. I laid open my diſtreſs to him with that kind of eloquence which the miſeries we ſuffer from the treachery of others always ſuggeſts; and which, how⯑ever unaffecting it may be to indifferent perſons, utters its complaints with dignity and reſentment. I was heard half-way through my ſtory, and diſmiſſed with the following reply:' "It is not neceſſary, young man, to proceed with your complaints; I perceive you have been abuſed, and I am ſorry for you. But that ſhall not be the only proof of my regard for you; I will give you a little advice: You ſhould never depend ſo much on the benevolence or integrity of any human being, as to truſt him with your fortune or your life." 'Thus ended my hopes from the friend of my father; whoſe benevolence extended no farther, than to inſtruct me how to ſecure the fortune that was ſtolen, and to preſerve the life which I wiſhed to loſe.

'I had now no choice, but to enter, as a common ſoldier, into the army of the Sophi. I had always de⯑lighted in martial exerciſes, and was expert in the uſe of arms: My dexterity and addreſs drew upon me the attention of my officers; and, in a ſhort time, I obtain⯑ed a ſmall commiſſion. I had now almoſt forgot my miſeries, and embraced my new ſituation with chear⯑fulneſs and hope; but fortune, who had for a while ceaſed to perſecute me as below her notice, as if ſhe had been indignant at my ſatisfaction, and jealous of my proſpects, now renewed and redoubled her ſeve⯑rity.

'My commanding officer had a daughter of extra⯑ordinary beauty, and an uncommon capacity. Zara was the object of univerſal admiration; but ſhe had ſet her heart on the unfortunate Abbas. The firſt mo⯑ment I beheld her, I diſcovered in her looks the moſt tender and affectionate regard for me, which I imputed to her compaſſion for my misfortunes; though at the [231]ſame time I wiſhed, without knowing why, that it might proceed from another cauſe. She aſked me for the ſtory of my life: I told it in the plaineſt and moſt pathetic manner; yet, when I had finiſhed, ſhe deſired me to repeat it. From this moment I had done with peace; her infectious tenderneſs had ſuch an influence upon my heart, that I could think of nothing but Zara; without Zara I was miſerable. A thouſand times did I flatter myſelf, that there was ſomething more than mere compaſſion in her look and manner; and not many days had paſſed, before I was convinced of the dear fatal truth from this letter:—

'The emotions I felt on the receipt of this letter, can only be conceived by thoſe who, in the midſt of deſpairing love, have beheld a gleam of hope. The tu⯑mult of my heart hurried me to the place appointed, long before the time: I walked backward and forward in the utmoſt confuſion, totally regardleſs of every ob⯑ject about me; ſometimes raiſing my hands and eyes in the ſudden effuſions of tranſport, and ſometimes ſmi⯑ling with the complacency of delight.

'At length the day departed; and Zara came. My heart bounded at her ſight: I was unable to ſpeak, and threw myſelf at her feet. She was alarmed at my ex⯑ceſſive earneſtneſs and confuſion; but, commanding me to riſe, "Abbas," ſaid ſhe, "if your confuſion proceeds from your modeſt gratitude, reſtrain it, till you find whether I am able to ſerve you; if it ariſe [232]from any other cauſe, I muſt leave you this moment" 'I entreated ſhe would tell me, to what I was indebted for the happineſs of this interview, and I would be calm and attentive?' "My regard for your merit, and my compaſſion for your ſufferings," ſaid ſhe, "make me wiſh to ſerve you. Tell me, Abbas, can I aſſiſt you through the intereſt of my father?" I faltered out my acknowledgments; telling her, that to her I muſt owe all my hopes of future happineſs.

'She left me immediately without reply. The ſin⯑gularity of my behaviour on the parade before the coming of Zara, had drawn upon me the attention of an officer who was ſecretly her admirer, and who, ei⯑ther through curioſity or ſuſpicion, though unobſerved by me, had waited at a convenient diſtance to watch my motions. No ſooner did he perceive the approach of Zara, than, as well to gratify his revenge, as to in⯑gratiate himſelf with her father, he immediately told him of our interview.

'Zara, ignorant of what had paſſed, with her uſual freedom and good-nature, began to expreſs her-com⯑paſſion for the misfortunes of Abbas, talked of his me⯑rits, and wiſhed to ſee him preferred. The old gene⯑ral, who was naturally jealous and impetuous, exclaim⯑ed, with a burſt of indignation, "Yes, I ſhall prefer him!" Early the next morning he ſent me my diſ⯑charge; and while I was gazing in ſtupid aſtoniſh⯑ment upon my general's letter, a youth, maſked, brought me a ſmall caſket, with a letter from Zara, which, to the beſt of my remembrance, was as follows:

'In the anguiſh and confuſion of my heart, I fol⯑lowed my guide, without knowing whither he was leading me, or what I was about to do. I vented my grief in broken ejaculations, frequently calling upon the name of Zara, but not once addreſſing myſelf to my attendant. By the evening of the ſecond day, we had advanced forty miles ſouthward from the province of Lureſtan; when—how ſhall I relate the laſt horrid ſcene of my miſeries!—pardon me!—theſe aged eyes have yet a tear left, yet a tear for the memory of Zara!—we were attacked by a band of robbers. My guide was Zara! in her fright ſhe threw off her maſk, and cried, "Zara!" Love, rage, fear, and vengeance, gave me ſupernatural ſtrength: Three of the villains fell by my ſabre; a fourth diſarmed me; and the reſt of the gang carried off Zara.'

At this criſis of his ſtory, the ſpirits of the aged her⯑mit were exhauſted by their own violence; and it was ſome time before he could proceed.

'You have now,' continued he, 'heard the com⯑pletion of my misfortunes. When I was recovered of the wounds I had received, I ſpent ſome months in a fruitleſs ſearch of Zara: At laſt, deſpairing to gain any intelligence of her, I tranſmitted an account of the af⯑fair to her father; not without hope, that his power, or his wealth, might be a means of finding her out, and redeeming her: But I was deceived; and had ſoon the mortification to hear, that the unnatural wretch exulted in our misfortunes, and uttered the moſt dreadful im⯑precations on his only child.

'Deprived of hope, and dejected with melancholy, I could no longer bear the ſociety of mankind: I there⯑fore [234]betook myſelf to theſe ſolitary mountains, where this cell has been my habitation for years, that have paſſed away in unvaried ſorrow; and where you are the firſt of human beings that have heard me tell my tale.'

Solyman expatiated on the ſufferings of Abbas with the moſt tender ſenſibility, and inveighed againſt the baſeneſs of mankind with all the rage of honeſt reſent⯑ment. 'Surely,' ſaid he to the merchant, 'man is the vileſt of all creatures! in proportion as he excels them in reaſon, he exceeds them in the ability to do miſchief; and being equally cruel, the miſchief he does renders him more deteſtable. Sacred Mithra! why doſt thou lend thy light to the villain and the tyrant? Were it not for the enjoyment of your company, my friend, I ſhould have few inducements to go farther from the valley of Irwan; for poſſibly to ſee more of human life, is only to know more of its crimes and miſeries.'

'From the complicated diſtreſſes of one perſon,' re⯑plied the merchant, 'you draw a partial image of the life of man. But the day declines: Let us haſten over theſe mountains, that we may repoſe at night in ſome village of the valley.'

The GRATEFUL TURK.

AT a time when the Venetians and Turks were at war, one of the ſhips of the latter was taken and carried into Venice, where the crew were all ſold for ſlaves. One of theſe unhappy people happened to live oppoſite the houſe of a rich Venetian, who had an only ſon, then in the twelfth year of his age. The little youth uſed frequently to ſtop and gaze at Hamet, for [235]ſuch was the name of the ſlave, and at laſt, an acquaint⯑ance commenced between them.

Though Hamet ſeemed always delighted with the tender regards of his little friend, yet the latter fre⯑quently obſerved, that involuntary tears trickled down the cheeks of Hamet. The little youth at laſt ſpoke of it to his father, and begged of him, if he could, to make Hamet happy.

Hereupon the father determined to ſee the ſlave, and talk to him himſelf. He went to him the next day, and aſked him if he were the Hamet, of whom his ſon had ſpoken ſo kindly. He replied, that he was the unfortunate Hamet, who had been three years a cap⯑tive; and that during that time, his little ſon was the only perſon who had in the leaſt pitied his misfortunes. "And I, night and morning," added he, "offer up my prayers to that power, who is equally the God of Turks and Chriſtians, to ſhower down upon his head every bleſſing he deſerves, and to preſerve him from miſeries like mine."

The Venetian merchant then entered into cloſer converſation with Hamet, and could not help admiring his generous ſentiments and manly fortitude. He aſk⯑ed him what he would do to regain his liberty. "What would I do?" anſwered Hamet, "By the eternal Ma⯑jeſty of Heaven, I would chearfully face every danger, and even death itſelf, in whatever ſhape it might ap⯑pear!"

The merchant then told him, that the means of his deliverance were in his own hands. "Hear me at⯑tentively," ſaid the merchant. "An inveterate foe of mine lives in this city, and has heaped upon me every injury that can ſting the heart of man. He is as brave as he is haughty, and I muſt confeſs, that his ſtrength and valour prevent my attempting perſonally to revenge my wrongs. Now, Hamet, take this dagger, and as ſoon as the ſhade of night ſhall envelope the city, I will lead you to the place, where you may at once re⯑venge the injuries of your friends, and regain your own freedom."

[236]Scorn and contempt now flamed in the eyes of Ha⯑met, and, as ſoon as his paſſion had a lattle ſubſided, he exclaimed, "O gracious prophet! are theſe the wretches by whom you ſuffer your faithful ſervants to be enſlaved! Go, wicked Chriſtian, and be aſſured, that Hamet would not become an aſſaſſin for all the riches of Venice, or to purchaſe the freedom of his whole race!" The merchant coolly replied, that he was ſorry he had offended him, but thought that he prized his freedom at a higher rate; and added, as he turned his back, "You will perhaps change your mind to⯑morrow, after you ſhall have more maturely reflected on the matter," and he then left him.

The next day, the merchant, accompanied by his ſon, returned to Hamet, and was going to renew his for⯑mer converſation, when the honeſt Turk exclaimed, with a ſevere and fixed countenance, "Chriſtian! ceaſe to inſult the miſerable with propoſals more ſhock⯑ing than death itſelf! The Chriſtian religion may tole⯑rate ſuch acts, but to a Mahometan they are an abo⯑mination!"

Franciſco, for ſuch was the name of the Venetian merchant, now tenderly embraced Hamet, and begged he would forgive the trial to which he put his virtue, aſſuring him at the ſame time, that his ſoul abhorred all deeds of blood and treachery, as much as Hamet himſelf. "From this moment," ſaid the merchant, "you are free; your ranſom is paid, and you are at liberty to go where you pleaſe. Perhaps, hereafter, when you ſee an unhappy Chriſtian groaning in Turkiſh fetters, your generoſity may bring Venice to your re⯑membrance."

The feelings of Hamet at this unexpected deliverance are not to be deſcribed. Franciſco put him on board a ſhip, which was bound to one of the Grecian iſlands, and, after taking leave of him in the tendereſt manner, forced him to accept of a purſe of gold to pay his ex⯑pences. Affectionate was the parting of Hamet with [237]his little friend, whom he embraced in an agony of tenderneſs, wept over him, and implored Heaven to grant him all the bleſſings of this life.

About ſix months afterwards, one morning, while the family were all in bed, Franciſco's houſe was diſ⯑covered to be on fire, and great part of the houſe was in flames before the family was alarmed. The terrified ſervants had but juſt time to awaken Franciſco, who was no ſooner got into the ſtreet, than the whole ſtair⯑caſe gave way, and fell into the flames.

If the merchant thought himſelf happy on having ſaved himſelf, it was only for a moment, as he ſoon recollected, that his beloved ſon was left behind to the mercy of the flames. He ſunk into the deepeſt deſpair, when upon enquiry he found, that his ſon, who ſlept in an upper apartment, had been forgotten in the general confuſion. He raved in agonies of grief, and offered half his fortune to any one, who would riſk his life to ſave his child. As he was known to be very rich, ſe⯑veral ladders were inſtantly raiſed by thoſe who wiſhed to obtain the reward; but the violence of the flames drove every one down who attempted it.

The unfortunate youth then appeared on the top of the houſe, extending his arms, and calling out for aid. The unhappy father became motionleſs, and remained in a ſtate of inſenſibility. At this critical moment, a man ruſhed through the crowd, and aſcended the tal⯑leſt ladder, ſeemingly determined to reſcue the youth, or periſh in the attempt. A ſudden guſt of flame burſting forth, led the people to ſuppoſe he was loſt; but he preſently appeared deſcending the ladder with the child in his arms, without receiving any material injury. An univerſal ſhout attended this noble action, and the father, to his inexpreſſible ſupriſe, on recover⯑ing from his ſwoon, found his child in his arms.

After giving vent to the firſt emotions of tenderneſs, he enquired after his generous deliverer, whoſe features were ſo changed by the ſmoke, that they could not be diſtinguiſhed. Franciſco immediately preſented him [238]with a purſe of gold, promiſing the next day to give him the reward he offered. The ſtranger replied, that he ſhould accept of no reward. Franciſco ſtarted, and thought he knew the voice, when his ſon flew to the arms of his deliverer, and cried out, "It is my dear Hamet! it is my dear Hamet!"

The aſtoniſhment and gratitude of the merchant were equally excited, and, retiring from the crowd, he took Hamet with him to a friend's houſe. As ſoon as they were alone, Franciſco enquired by what means he had been a ſecond time enſlaved.

"I will tell you in a few words," ſaid the generous Turk. "When I was taken by the Venetian gallies, my father ſhared in my captivity. It was his fate, and not my own, which ſo often made me ſhed thoſe tears, which firſt attracted the notice of your amiable ſon.—As ſoon as your bounty had ſet me free, I flew to the Chriſtian who had purchaſed my father. I told him, that as I was young and vigorous, and he aged and in⯑firm, I would be his ſlave inſtead of my father. I add⯑ed, too, the gold which your bounty had beſtowed on me, and by theſe means I prevailed on the Chriſtian to ſend back my father in that ſhip you had provided for me, without his knowing the cauſe of his freedom.—Since that time I have ſtaid here a willing ſlave, and Heaven has been ſo gracious as to put it into my pow⯑er to ſave the life of that youth, which I value a thou⯑ſand times more than my own."

The merchant was aſtoniſhed at ſuch an inſtance of gratitude and affection, and preſſed Hamet to accept of the half of his fortune, and to ſettle in Venice for the remainder of his days. Hamet, however, with a noble magnanimity, refuſed the offer, ſaying, he had done no more than what every one ought to do in a ſimilar ſitu⯑ation. Though Hamet ſeemed to under-rate his paſt ſervices to the merchant, yet the latter could not ſuffer things to paſs in this manner. He again purchaſed his freedom, and fitted and ſhip out on purpoſe to take him back to his own country. At parting, they mutually [239]embraced each other, and, as they thought, took an e⯑ternal farewel.

After many years had elapſed, and young Franciſco was grown up to manhood, beloved and reſpected by every one, it ſo happened, that ſome buſineſs made it neceſſary for him and his father to viſit a neighbouring city on the coaſt, and as they ſuppoſed a paſſage by ſea would be more expeditious than by land, they em⯑barked in a Venetian veſſel, which was bound to that port, and ready to ſail.

A favourable gale ſoon wafted them out of ſight, and promiſed them a ſpeedy paſſage; but unfortunately for them, before they had proceeded half their voyage, they were met by ſome Turkiſh veſſels, who, after an obſtinate reſiſtance from the Venetians, boarded them, loaded them with irons, and carried them priſoners to Tunis. There they were expoſed in the market-place in their chains, in order to be ſold as ſlaves.

At laſt a Turk came to the market who ſeemed to be a man of ſuperior rank, and after looking over the pri⯑ſoners, with an expreſſion of compaſſion, he fixed his eyes upon young Franciſco, and aſked the captain what was the price of that young captive. The captain re⯑plied, that he would not part with him for leſs than five hundred pieces of gold. The Turk conſidered that as a very extraordinary price, ſince he had ſeen him ſell others, that exceeded him in ſtrength and vi⯑gour, for leſs than a fifth part of that money.

"That is true," replied the captain, "but he ſhall either fetch me a price that will repay me the damage he has occaſioned me, or he ſhall labour all the reſt of his life at the oar." The Turk aſked him, what da⯑mage he could have done him more than the reſt of the crew. "It was he," replied the captain, "who ani⯑mated the Chriſtians to make a deſperate reſiſtance, and thereby proved the deſtruction of many of my bra⯑veſt ſeamen. We three times boarded them with a fury that ſeemed invincible, and each time did that youth attack us with a cool and determined oppoſition; [240]ſo that we were obliged to give up the conteſt, till other ſhips came up to our aſſiſtance. I will therefore have that price for him, or I will puniſh him for life."

The Turk now ſurveyed young Franciſco more at⯑tentively than before; and the young man, who had hitherto fixed his eyes in ſullen ſilence on the ground, at length raiſed them up; but he had no ſooner beheld the perſon who was talking to the captain, than, in a loud voice, he uttered the name of Hamet. The Turk, ſtruck with aſtoniſhment, ſurveyed him for a moment, and then caught him in his arms.

After a moment's pauſe, the generous Hamet lifted up his hands to Heaven, and thanked his God, who had put it in his power to ſhew his gratitude; but words cannot expreſs his feelings, when he found that both father and ſon were ſlaves. Suffice it to ſay, that he inſtantly bought their freedom, and conducted them to his magnificent houſe in the city.

They had here full leiſure to diſcourſe on the ſtrange viciſſitudes of fortune, when Hamet told his Venetian friends, that after their generoſity had procured him liberty, he became an officer in the Turkiſh army, and happening to be fortunate in all his enterpriſes, he had been gradually promoted, till he arrived at the dignity of baſhaw of Tunis. That in this ſituation, he found the greateſt conſolation in alleviating the misfortunes of the Chriſtian priſoners, and always attended the ſales of thoſe unhappy ſlaves, to procure liberty to a certain number of them. "And gracious Allah," added he, "has this day put it in my power, in ſome meaſure, to return the duties of gratitude."

They continued ſome days with Hamet, who did every thing in his power to amuſe and divert them; but as he found their deſire was to return to their own country, he told them, that he would not wiſh to de⯑tain them againſt their wiſhes, and that they ſhould embark the next day in a ſhip bound for Venice, which would be furniſhed with a paſſport to carry them ſafe there.

[241]The next day he diſmiſſed them with every mark of tenderneſs and affection, and ordered [...] party of his own guards to attend them to the veſſel. They had no ſooner got on board, than they found, to their inex⯑preſſible ſurpriſe and joy, that they were in the very ſhip in which they had been taken, and that, by the generoſity of Hamet, not only the ſhip, but even the whole crew, were redeemed and reſtored to freedom. Franciſco and his ſon, after a quick paſſage, arrived in their own country, where they lived beloved and re⯑ſpected, and endeavoured to convince every one they knew, how great were the viciſſitudes of fortune, and that God never ſuffers humanity and generoſity to go unrewarded, here or hereafter.

The HISTORY of the EMPRESS CATHERINA.

CATHERINA Alexowna, born near Derpat, a lit⯑tle city in Livonia, was heir to no other inheri⯑tance than the virtues and frugality of her parents.—Her father being dead, ſhe lived with her aged mother, in their cottage covered with ſtraw; and both, though very poor, were very contented. Here, retired from the gaze of the world, by the labour of her hands, ſhe ſupported her parent, who was now incapable of ſup⯑porting herſelf. While Catherina ſpun, the old wo⯑man would ſit by, and read ſome book of devotion; thus when the fatigues of the day were over, both would ſit down contentedly by their fireſide, and enjoy the frugal meal with vacant feſtivity.

Though her face and perſon were models of perfec⯑tion, yet her whole attention ſeemed beſtowed upon her mind; her mother taught her to read, and an old Lutheran miniſter inſtructed her in the maxims and duties of religion. Nature had furniſhed her not only [242]with a ready, but a ſolid, turn of thought; not only with a ſtrong, but a right, underſtanding. Such truly female accompliſhments procured her ſeveral ſolicita⯑tions of marriage from the peaſants of the country; but their offers were refuſed; for ſhe loved her mother too tenderly to think of a ſeparation.

Catherina was fifteen when her mother died; ſhe now therefore left her cottage, and went to live with the Lutheran miniſter, by whom ſhe had been inſtruct⯑ed from her childhood. In his houſe ſhe reſided in quality of governeſs to his children; at once reconci⯑ling in her character unerring prudence with ſurpriſing vivacity.

The old man, who regarded her as one of his own children, had her inſtructed in dancing and muſic by the maſters who attended the reſt of his family; thus ſhe continued to improve till he died, by which acci⯑dent ſhe was once more reduced to priſtine poverty.—The country of Livonia was at this time waſted by war, and lay in a moſt miſerable ſtate of deſolation. Thoſe calamities are ever moſt heavy upon the poor; where⯑fore Catherina, though poſſeſſed of ſo many accompliſh⯑ments, experienced all the miſeries of hopeleſs indi⯑gence. Proviſions becoming every day more ſcarce, and her private ſtock being entirely exhauſted, ſhe re⯑ſolved at laſt to travel to Marienburgh, a city of greater plenty.

With her ſcanty wardrobe, packed up in a wallet, ſhe ſet out on her journey on foot: She was to walk through a region miſerable by nature, but rendered ſtill more hideous by the Swedes and Ruſſians, who, as each happened to become maſters, plundered it at diſ⯑cretion: But hunger had taught her to deſpiſe the dan⯑gers and fatigues of the way.

One evening, upon her journey, as ſhe had entered a cottage by the way ſide, to take up her lodging for the night, ſhe was inſulted by two Swediſh ſoldiers, who inſiſted upon qualifying her, as they termed it, to follow the camp. They might, probably, have carried [243]their inſults into violence, had not a ſubaltern officer, accidentally paſſing by, come in to her aſſiſtance: Up⯑on his appearing, the ſoldiers immediately deſiſted; but her thankfulneſs was hardly greater than her ſur⯑priſe, when ſhe inſtantly recollected in her deliverer, the ſon of the Lutheran miniſter, her former inſtruct⯑or, benefactor, and friend.

This was an happy interview for Catherina: The little ſtock of money ſhe had brought from home was, by this time, quite exhauſted; her cloaths were gone, piece by piece, in order to ſatisfy thoſe who had enter⯑tained her in their houſes; her generous countryman, therefore, parted with what he could ſpare, to buy her cloaths, furniſhed her with an horſe, and gave her let⯑ters of recommendation to Mr Gluck, a faithful friend of his father's, and Superintendant of Marienburgh.

Our beautiful ſtranger had only to appear to be well received; ſhe was immediately admitted into the Su⯑perintendant's family as governeſs to his two daughters; and though yet but ſeventeen, ſhewed herſelf capable of inſtructing her ſex, not only in virtue, but politeneſs. Such was her good ſenſe and beauty, that her maſter himſelf in a ſhort time offered her his hand, which, to his great ſurprize, ſhe thought proper to refuſe. Ac⯑tuated by a principle of gratitude, ſhe was reſolved to marry her deliverer only, even though he had loſt an arm, and was otherwiſe disfigured by wounds in the ſervice.

In order, therefore, to prevent further ſolicitations from others, as ſoon as the officer came to town upon duty, ſhe offered him her perſon which he accepted with tranſport, and their nuptials were ſolemnized as uſual. But all the lines of her fortune were to be ſtri⯑king: The very day on which they were married, the Ruſſians laid ſiege to Marienburgh; the unhappy ſol⯑dier had now no time to enjoy the well-earned pleaſures of matrimony; he was called off before conſummation to an attack, from which he was never after ſeen to return.

[244]In the mean time the ſiege went on with fury, ag⯑gravated on one ſide by obſtinacy, on the other by re⯑venge. This war between the two northern powers at that time was truly barbarous: The innocent pea⯑ſant and the harmleſs virgin often ſhared the fate of the ſoldier in arms. Marienburgh was taken by aſſault; and ſuch was the fury of the aſſailants, that not only the garriſon, but almoſt all the inhabitants, men, wo⯑men, and children, were put to the ſword; at length when the carnage was pretty well over, Catherina was found hid in an oven.

She had been hitherto poor, but ſtill was free; ſhe was now to conform to her hard fate, and learn what it was to be a ſlave: In this ſituation, however, ſhe be⯑haved with piety and humility; and though misfor⯑tunes had abated her vivacity, yet ſhe was chearful.—The ſame of her merit and reſignation reached even Prince Menzikoff, the Ruſſian General; he deſired to ſee her, was ſtruck with her beauty, bought her from the ſoldier, her maſter, and placed her under the direc⯑tion of his own ſiſter. Here ſhe was treated with all the reſpect which her merit deſerved, while her beauty every day improved with her good fortune.

She had not been long in this ſituation, when Peter the Great paying the prince a viſit, Catherina happened to come in with ſome dry fruits, which ſhe ſerved round with peculiar modeſty. The mighty monarch ſaw, and was ſtruck with her beauty▪ He returned the next day, called for the beautiful ſlave, aſked her ſeveral queſtions, and found her underſtanding even more perfect than her perſon.

He had been forced, when young, to marry from motives of intereſt, he was now reſolved to marry pur⯑ſuant to his own inclinations. He immediately enquir⯑ed the hiſtory of the fair Livonian, who was not yet eighteen. He traced her through the vale of obſcurity, through all the viciſſitudes of her fortune, and found her truly great in them all. The meanneſs of her birth was no obſtruction to his deſign; their nuptials [245]were ſolemnized in private: The prince aſſuring his courtiers, that virtue alone was the propereſt ladder to a throne.

We now ſee Catherina, from the low mud walled cottage, empreſs of the greateſt kingdom upon earth. The poor ſolitary wanderer is now ſurrounded by thou⯑ſands, who find happineſs in her ſmile. She, who for⯑merly wanted a meal, is now capable of diffuſing plen⯑ty upon whole nations. To her fortune ſhe owed a part of this pre-eminence, but to her virtues more.

She ever after retained thoſe great qualities which firſt placed her on a throne; and while the extraordi⯑nary prince, her huſband, laboured for the reformation of his male ſubjects, ſhe ſtudied in her turn the im⯑provement of her own ſex. She altered their dreſſes, introduced mixed aſſemblies, inſtituted an order of fe⯑male knighthood, and, at length, when ſhe had great⯑ly filled all the ſtations of empreſs, friend, wife, and mother, bravely died without regret;—regretted by all.

FILIAL AFFECTION.

CINNA, the Roman Conſul, who ſcrupled no at⯑tempt, how villainous ſoever, which could ſerve his purpoſe, undertook to get Pomponius Strabo mur⯑dered in his tent; but his ſon ſaved his life, which was the firſt remarkable action of Pompey the Great. The treacherous Cinna, by many alluring promiſes, had gained over one Terentius, a confidante of Pompey's, to his intereſt, and prevailed on him to aſſaſſinate the general, and ſeduce his troops. Young Pompey being informed of this deſign a few hours before it was to be put in execution, placed a faithful guard round the praetorium; ſo that none of the conſpirators could come near it. He then watched all the motions of the [246]camp, and endeavoured to appeaſe the fury of the ſol⯑diers, who hated the general his father, by ſuch acts of prudence as were worthy of the oldeſt commanders. However, ſome of the mutineers having forced open one of the gates of the camp, in order to deſert to Cinna, the general's ſon threw himſelf flat on his back in their way, crying out, that they ſhould not break their oath, and deſert their commander, without tread⯑ing his body to death. By this means he put a ſtop to their deſertion, and afterwards wrought ſo effectually upon them by his affecting ſpeeches and engaging car⯑riage, that he reconciled them to his father.