ESSAY XXI. INSTITUTES of MOSES.

PASSAGE.

THE laws of Moſes are, in part, very properly aboliſhed, be⯑ing, indeed, only inſtituted for local occaſions, and adapted to the temper of the times. But there are others which, with little or no alteration, are, and deſerve to be, of eternal force. In the two verſes [2]directly preceding this paſſage, there is a very excellent diſtinction made in point of puniſhments and offences. ‘He that killeth a man ſhall ſurely be put to death: and he that killeth a beaſt, ſhall ſure⯑ly make it good.’ Thus the hu⯑man perſon is rendered ſacred, and the animal, which is private pro⯑perty, is made ſecure to the pro⯑prietor. Methinks the following verſe may be conſidered as one of the great and original foundations of ſocial preſervation: ‘Breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth.’ It is at this very day the true recriminating prin⯑ciple, not, indeed, quite literally, [3]but eventually: and who can call the rectitude of it in queſtion? In reading theſe ancient records, how⯑ever, we find ſeveral crimes pe⯑nable, which are now, though highly attrocious, ſcarce within the letter of the law. The blaſ⯑phemer, and ſabbath-breaker, for inſtance, was ſtoned; and now the price of an oath is, at worſt, but a ſhilling: and the other matter, for the moſt part, is no object of attention. There are many mi⯑nute articles in the code of Moſes ſtill in being amongſt us: thus, an hired horſe, dying upon its journey, is, to this day, as it was formerly; being an hired thing, [4]it came for his hire. The mat⯑ter and cuſtom of gleaning was, cer⯑tainly, firſt derived from the fol⯑lowing command:

The term of an apprentiſhip ſeems to originate from the follow⯑ing inſtitute: ‘If thou buy an [5]Hebrew ſervant, ſix years he ſhall ſerve, and at the end of the ſeventh he ſhall go out free: and if a man fell his daughter for a maid-ſervant, ſhe ſhall not go out, as the men ſervants do.’ There is, I think, no doubt, but this is the foundation of the rule of allotting the harder labour of the fields to the male, and the eaſier cares of the houſe to the female. Theſe are, indeed, curious and ſmall; but ſurely, no man will think them unintereſting remarks. Now I am upon the ſubject of the ſtatutes of Moſes, I cannot neglect mention of various humane and ſocial inſtitutions, [6]ſome of which are very improperly abrogated.

It is much to be feared, the enemies of the preſent day will ſcarce forbear ſmiling at this in⯑junction, ſo far from obeying it.

[7] In one ſenſe, this is moſt rigid⯑ly obſerved in all the courts of Juſtice.

The modern maxim of ſtriking a bargain, is, perhaps, ſomething different from this.

[8] It is really painful to comment, and draw parallels betwixt ancient and modern times, when we are compelled to cenſure the latter in ſo many caſes:—let us, therefore, cloſe the ſubject.

ESSAY XXII. STORY of BALAAM and his Ass.

PASSAGE.

IN whatever light this matter is viewed, whether as an opera⯑tion of the Deity (which we have no right to diſpute, ſince the ſame power which can command water from the rock, can as eaſily inſpire [10]the animal with argument) or whether we conſider it in the light merely of a moral fable, it is won⯑derfully beautiful and pathetic. I ſhall endeavour to illuſtrate it both ſcripturally and hiſtorically.

‘Now Balaam was riding upon his aſs, and his two ſervants were with him.’ In the very ſetting out of the journey, it was a thing diſpleaſing to the Deity, and the firſt hints of his diſpleaſure were very remarkably diſplayed. ‘And the aſs ſaw the angel of the Lord ſtanding in the way, and his ſword drawn in his hand.’ Upon this, the poor creature, very [11]naturally aſtoniſhed at ſuch a ſpec⯑table, turned aſide out of the way, and went into the field; ‘And Balaam ſmote the aſs to turn her into the way.’ In oppoſiti⯑on however to blows, the animal awhile went on, till the ſame an⯑gelic appearance, ſtanding in a path of the vineyards, made her fly in terror towards the wall, a⯑gainſt which ſhe unfortunately cruſhed the foot of her maſter: and for this ſecond offence he ſmote her again. But ſtill the celeſtial viſitant reſolved, as it were, to obſtruct, or at leaſt to de⯑lay the journey, ſtood at laſt in ſo narrow a place, that there was no [12]poſſibility of paſſing either to the right hand, or to the left; and when the aſs found herſelf thus beſet, and thus thwarted in all her endeavours—what could ſhe do? She had reſpect to the commands of her lord, but ſhe was unable to obey them; poſſibly too, ſhe was more than affrighted—ſhe might be awed by the figure be⯑fore her—ſhe, therefore, fell down; and Balaam, conſidering this third treſpaſs as a ſtill greater aggrava⯑tion of obſtinacy, ſmote the aſs with his ſtaff. Then it was that the Power, who knew the innocence of the poor thing, took pity upon her ſufferings, and, to put at once [13]an end to the hard uſage, her mouth was opened, that ſhe might plead her own cauſe with the man, and enter into a pathetic remon⯑ſtrance with him upon the ſubject of his barbarity. ‘And ſhe ſaid unto Balaam, What have I done unto thee, that thou haſt ſmitten me theſe three times?’ But Balaam was now too violently angry to attend even to miracles, and, without regarding the cir⯑cumſtance, as being preternatural, he replied to it merely as an ordi⯑nary queſtion, by wiſhing, in the vehemence of his heart, a ſword was in his hand, that he might kill the offender upon the ſpot. And [14]now ſucceeds an anſwer which might melt the hardeſt heart, and ſoften the compaſſionate into tears. ‘Am not I thine aſs upon which thou haſt ridden ever ſince I was thine, unto this day? Was I ever wont to do ſo unto thee?’ Imagination here unavoidably ex⯑tends the commentary. How, Balaam, canſt thou thus ill entreat thy ſervant? Have I at any time, ſave now, reſiſted thy deſigns, and have not thy ſlighteſt wiſhes been to me in the nature of injunctions? Thrice haſt thou lifted up thine arm in anger againſt me, and thrice have I borne the anguiſh without complaining. Ah, un⯑gentle [15]maſter—couldeſt thou not conceive that ſome peculiar occa⯑ſion prevented my obedience? if haply nothing ſtruck thine eye as an obſtacle, ſurely, thou mighteſt have relied upon one, whoſe fide⯑lity, both by day and by night, thou haſt ſo often experienced. Am I not the old ſlave of your pleaſure, contented with whatever food it is convenient for you to allot me—nothing loath to per⯑form the labours to which I was born, and to earn the herb of the field before I ate it! To this ex⯑poſtulation, which one would think might have force enough to re⯑ſtrain the iron hand of inhumani⯑ty [16]itſelf, Balaam replied, by confeſ⯑ſing that her arguments were true: ‘Was I ever wont to do ſo unto thee?’ Nay, anſwered Balaam.

Soon after this dialogue, the angel convinced Balaam of his fault, and he then bowed his face to the earth—ſtruck, probably, with a ſenſe of double impro⯑priety—Why haſt thou ſmitten thine aſs?—If a man was to be fairly aſked this queſtion in the courts of moral equity, thoſe courts where Conſcience ſits as judge, how would he be able to anſwer it? There is no need to run this fine narrative into the perplexities [17]of ſubtle and latent meaning, it is ſufficiently admirable as an addreſs to the human heart, And, in⯑deed, the ſcriptures are not more earneſt and perſuaſive in the cauſe of compaſſion, than in the cauſe of ſalvation. There is ſcarce a chapter in which pity, that ſweet emanation of Heaven, is not en⯑joined; and that the reader might not be fatigued with ſameneſs of ſentiment, or tired with likeneſs of language, the ſtyle of the ſubject is varied, almoſt a thouſand times: ſometimes the lovely quality of mercy is recommended to us, (as in the preſent inſtance) by a ten⯑der and attracting narrative—ſome⯑times [18]by a beautiful allegory, or parable; and very often by a con⯑ciſe moral ſentence, expreſſed in a way ſo irreſiſtibly ſtriking, that we are led to the practice of the virtue, not only by a veneration for its intrinſic charms, but by the additional graces which it re⯑ceives from compoſition.

Even the ſoreſt curſes in the ſcriptures are, for the moſt part, againſt cruelty, and to recommend kindneſs: and in the beginning of the 22d chapter of Deuteronomy, i. e. from verſe the firſt to verſe the ſeventh, there are ſentiments of the moſt humane and affec⯑tionate [19]tendency that ever were read, conceived, inſpired, or prac⯑tiſed. Let every man who has a heart, peruſe them—I will not add—attentively—becauſe, to pe⯑ruſe them negligently, where any degree of feeling is beſtowed, is utterly impoſſible.

What muſt have been the ſen⯑ſations of Balaam when he under⯑ſtood from the lip of a Divinity, that unleſs the aſs had turned in the very manner he did, the maſter would have been ſlain, and the ſervant preſerved alive? How ex⯑treme ſhould be the caution, and how palpable the error before pu⯑niſhment [20]is inflicted; for ſuch is the infirmity of man, he may thrice ſmite his preſerver for thoſe very actions, which, ultimately, produce the moſt deſirable and eminent bleſſings; and when once ſuch a miſtake happens, and the indig⯑nity is given, where is the man poſſeſſed of ſufficient effrontery to meet the eye of his benefactor? Every ſtroke we have given re⯑turns invigorated upon ourſelves, and we feel the blows ſhamefully burning upon our cheeks.

ESSAY XXIII. DEATH of MOSES.

PASSAGE.

HOW few are there at this day in the world, whom ſuch a command would not terrify? It is plainly aſcertaining the moſt awe⯑ful [22]moment of mortality: yet the excellent perſon to whom it was ſpoken, appears to have received it without the leaſt alarming emo⯑tion; and that, not becauſe he was inſenſible, but becauſe he had talked with his maker as with a friend, and becauſe he was aſſur⯑ed. Being informed of his own death, indeed, he was anxious to fill up the vacancy which he ſhould leave, properly, and therefore for the ſake of poſterity, petitioned for a ſucceſſor. In theſe times, ſuch intelligence, even though it were communicated in a dream, would diſorder all the felicity of the day, and the very beſt of us, [23]would dread the advances of the night, leſt the horrid images ſhould again appear: but if, as in this place, the tidings were conveyed by the voice of God himſelf, al⯑though the event was not to hap⯑pen for fifty years, the whole ſcheme of life (however delight⯑fully our imaginations had before coloured it, however bright our expectation, or ſplendid our cir⯑cumſtances) would be inſtantly deſtroyed: The radiance of the morning enwrapt ſuddenly amidſt the gloom of midnight, gives us but a faint ſimile to expreſs the aſtoniſhment and the anguiſh, that would, upon ſuch an occaſion, ſeize [24]the ſoul: Inſtead of attending to our ſecular affairs, we ſhould be incapable either of buſineſs or pleaſure; even intereſt would want its uſual ſtimulus, the verieſt Nig⯑gard would forget his unviſited hoard, and at laſt, when the blow was juſt deſcending, with a fear⯑ful voice, and trembling hand, he would appoint a ſucceſſor; or what is full as probable, his ap⯑prehenſions would predominate over all ideas of natural juſtice, or elſe the ſtrange ſuggeſtions of at leaſt a poſſibility, that deſtiny might delay to diſcharge its pro⯑miſe, would induce him to die amidſt the deceits of hope, and [25]leave his unſecured property to the rapacity of law, and the con⯑teſt of various claimants. Moſes, however, is repreſented as going on, immediately after this, in the great affairs which were allotted to him. Undiſturbed by the common terrors of ordinary men, we ſtill find him tranſmitting the laws of life and eternity, from God to man: He continued, as before, to ſettle with the ſame ſagacity, the moral, civil and religious ſyſtem: He was the amanuenſis of Providence; and after he had done all the appointed ſervice to ſociety, he died at the age of one hundred and twenty years, in the fulleſt poſſeſſion of [26]every faculty; for ‘his eye was not dim, nor his natural force abated.’ And yet, as there has not ariſen another like unto Mo⯑ſes, whom God knew face to face; and, as the life of man is, ſince conſiderably ſhortened (inſomuch that all the ſcriptural ſimiles of its brevity are in a moral ſenſe unable to give us the preciſe idea) the concealment of the laſt hour, is a particular indulgence to us: Preſcience would diſtreſs the moſt virtuous mind, and in every light we can poſſibly view this matter, ignorance is bliſs, and foreknowledge, would, to all in⯑tents and purpoſes, be agony.

ESSAY XXIV. STORY of CALEB and OTHNIEL.

PASSAGE.

IN the ſhort, but very pleaſing narratives of Caleb and Oth⯑niel, bravery and piety are pow⯑fully recommended and rewarded. Caleb's ſtory is related by himſelf in the 14th chapter of Joſhua, [28]from whence we eaſily ſee into his character. Enamoured of glory himſelf, he naturally loved it in others; and being called to battle in a righteous cauſe, he propoſed, by way of encouragement to the youthful heroes of his day, the moſt precious prize in his poſſeſ⯑ſion—even Achſah, his daughter. This propoſal fired the boſom and, animated the exertions of the youth Othniel, who took it, and received the beautiful reward. With this fair preſent, it ſhould ſeem, he led a life of honour and virtue, ever warmly devoted to his God, and his country: for, after the death of Joſhua, when the children of [29]Iſrael again relapſed into diſobedi⯑ence, and ingratitude, and the Almighty ſold them to the king of Meſopotamia, as a puniſhment, Othniel was the perſon who, upon their repentance, was ordained to deliver them from the chains of captivity: and ſuch was the wiſ⯑dom of this hero's mind, that after he had reſcued them from ſlavery by the valour of his arm, he kept the land in the compoſure of peace forty years. All that time the place had reſt; nor do we hear of any farther flagrant inſtances of treſpaſs, or violation, till after his death; upon which, that diſ⯑obedient [30]people once more began to revolt, and degenerate.

The union of magnamity and moral goodneſs well deſerve the higheſt treaſures of reward; and it were to be wiſhed, that the cou⯑rage of Othniel was conſtantly en⯑riched by the principles of Othniel. War, in itſelf, is certainly only a more legal butchery than private murder, but when the ſword is drawn in a cauſe like this, where integrity was blended with intre⯑pidity, every boſom is officious to ſhare the honours, and every hand ready to beſtow the laurel. The father-in-law of Othniel was, him⯑ſelf [31]not inſenſible, however, to the deſerts of victory, and we find him aſſerting his claim before Joſhua, like a ſoldier. How beautifully has be contrived to rehearſe his own ſucceſſes, without vain-glory, or oſtentation! And he ſpeaks of the ſervices he has done, and is ſtill able to do the ſtate, without incurring from delicacy itſelf the character of a boaſter. ‘Forty years old was I, (ſays he) when Moſes, the ſervant of the Lord ſent me from Kadeſh-barnea to eſpy out the land; and I brought him word again, as it was in mine heart. And Moſes ſware on that day, ſaying, ſurely the [32]land whereon thy feet have trod⯑den, ſhall be thine inheritance, and thy childrens' for ever; be⯑cauſe thou haſt wholly followed the Lord thy God. And now, behold the Lord hath kept me alive, as he ſaid, theſe forty and five years, even ſince the Lord ſpake this word unto Moſes, while the children of Iſrael wandered in the wilder⯑neſs; and now, lo, I am this day, fourſcore and five years old: and yet, I am as ſtrong this day as I was in the day that Moſes ſent me: as my ſtrength was then, even ſo is my ſtrength now for war, both to go out, [33]and to come in. Now, there⯑fore, give me this mountain, &c. if ſo be the Lord be with me then I ſhall be able to drive them out.’

His plea was irreſiſtible. The whole ſpeech was ſuſtained by a manly firmneſs, and a diſdain of all that nauſeous incenſe which is too frequently laviſhed by the ſer⯑vile petitioner. In conſequence of this oration, Joſhua bleſſed him, and willingly gave that which was requeſted. His own con⯑queſts thus paid, he was reſolved to do juſtice to congenial merit: and, as an inſtance of his love of [34]glory, and an example to others, he gave his child to him who ſhould moſt deſerve her. Othniel had no ſooner obtained her, than the noble parent ſettled upon their iſſue a freſh inheritance of fields and ſprings. Here it is not eaſy to glance at a deficiency of modern times—a deficiency long deplored, and ſtill remaining to be ſo. Where is the adequate meed for the preſent race of con⯑querors? Are the deliverers of our country for ever to be neg⯑lected—to ſtarve after the toils of war, upon the ſtipend of divided pay, and to ſee the hand of power lifting up over their venerable [35]heads, the beardleſs babies of the troop to the very top round of the ladder of preferment, while they are condemned to languiſh at the view, and, even in the ſeaſon of the ſilver hair, ſtand uncovered in the preſence of their puerile ſupe⯑riors?—O, Britain, where is thy gratitude! O, ye diſtributers of honour, whither is fled the ſpirit of recompenſe?

ESSAY XXV. STORY of NAOMI and RUTH.

PASSAGE.

THERE never was any thing more happily conceived, or more ſweetly told than the book of Ruth. It ſeems chiefly de⯑ſigned to exhibit to us a lively and [38]high-coloured picture of the force of female friendſhip on the one hand, and the weakneſs of reſolu⯑tion, when oppoſed by cuſtom, on the other. The general circum⯑ſtances of the ſtory being un⯑commonly fine, will ſpeak beſt for themſelves, and afford proper comments in the progreſs of re⯑citing them.

When the famine raged with much ſeverity in her native land, Naomi, and her huſband Elime⯑lech, and their two ſons, went to ſojourn in the country of Moab; but Elimelech died, and Naomi, the widow, was left with her chil⯑dren: [39]ſoon after this, thoſe chil⯑dren ‘took them wives of the wo⯑men of Moab; the name of the one was Orpah, and the other Ruth.’ It came to paſs that the young men, their huſbands, died alſo, both of them, and now the poor widow was bereaved of her ſons and her huſband. Unable, therefore, to bear any longer a place in which every ſcene pre⯑ſented ſome image of loſt endear⯑ment, or revived ſome diſtracting idea of conjugal or maternal ten⯑derneſs, ſhe reſolved to ſeek ſolace from her ſorrow, by change of reſidence. So ſhe aroſe with her daughters-in-law Orpah and Ruth, [40]that ſhe might return from the country of Moab. It preſently occured to the poor woman, as ſhe was journeying on her way, that if ſhe was herſelf unhappy, it was no teſtimony of her affection to involve her ſons' wives in equal calamities; and judging the re⯑ception ſhe would be likely to meet in the land of Judah, enter⯑ing it deſolate, unfriended, and unadorned, ſhe pauſed a moment, and thus pathetically addreſſed the young widows: ‘Go, my chil⯑dren, each of you return to your mother's houſe; the Lord deal kindly with you as you have dealt with the dead, and with me. [41]The Lord grant that ye may find reſt, each of you, in the houſe of your dear deceaſed huſband.’— Having uttered this ſhort prayer for their happineſs, ſhe kiſſed them, and prepared to depart alone. How true to nature was their reply! They did not pour forth unmeaning compliments of condolance—They did not inter⯑change any idle civilities of ſor⯑row, for their anguiſh was too ſin⯑cere for ceremony—Neither did they enter into the parade of pro⯑miſing future interviews—for they ſpoke not at all. The extreme of grief has, at the firſt ſurprize, lit⯑tle to do with language—at the [42]moſt, it burſts into ſhort exclama⯑tions, as if it would ſhew the im⯑poſſibility of proceeding: for our alleviation, therefore, in theſe caſes, that power, who to every wound hath provided ſomething where⯑with to heal it, gave the comfort of tears, ſo that the fullneſs of the ſad heart is, in part, diſcharged by that kindly effuſion which Provi⯑dence has intended as a fountain to relieve the exceſſes of nature; either in the ſurplus of miſery, or tranſ⯑port. ‘They lift up their voice and wept’—A folio could not ſo well diſplay their condition—After ſome time paſſed in this kind of ſignificant ſilence, they ſaid unto [43]her: ‘Surely, we will return with thee unto thy people.’ Here again genuine grief diſcovers itſelf: one tender ſentence, and one only, ex⯑preſſes their deſigns and wiſhes to attend her. In ſuch caſes, conciſe⯑neſs is nature, and circumlocution, mere art and affectation ^*. Per⯑ceiving the deſign of the daughters, [44]the widow-woman Naomi again began to diſſuade them, and to [45]preſs their ſpeedy return. She painted the various diſaſters they [46]would be liable to, in her com⯑pany—told them ſhe had no more ſons to give them for huſbands— nor even a hut, however uncheary, and forlorn, to accommodate them with in her own country—and furthermore, that ſhe had not wherewithal to repoſe her own head upon, if, after the fatigues of tra⯑vel, ſhe ſhould haply arrive ſafe. And, now ſhe once more preſſed the women in a farewel embrace, whilſt ſhe cloſed her arguments with ano⯑ther bleſſing, more melting even than the firſt. ‘Nay—my daugh⯑ters—weep not I intreat you. It grieveth me more for your ſakes than my own, that the hand of the [47]Lord hath gone out againſt me.’ This was the touchſtone: ſhe had now fairly diſcovered all the hor⯑rors of her ſituation, and ſhewed herſelf a woman without accom⯑modation—a traveller without hope of reſt at the end of her journey, and a widow, without one to take her by the hand, and ſay unto her, Welcome unfortunate —welcome again to thine own coun⯑try. The picture was too darkly ſhaded for Orpah. The dread of poverty, and all its ſable catalogue of terrors, ſtruck her at once: ſhe ſhed the tribute of a few more tears—ſacrificed a few more ſighs, and went her way. Not ſo the [48]affectionate Ruth. How excel⯑lently marked, and that, by a ſin⯑gle word, is the conduct of each. ‘Orpah kiſſed her mother-in-law; but Ruth clave unto her.’ The ſentence, though thus compreſſed, is emphatically copious in point of meaning: but, indeed, the multum in parvo, ſhould be one characteriſtic of the ſacred writ⯑ings. ‘Orpah kiſſed her mother-in⯑law,’ i. e. ſhe gave her a farewel embrace, wept a woman's ſorrow, and left her mother to wander over the world. ‘But Ruth clave unto her.’ Struck to the heart at the proſpect of ſeeing her friend and parent no more, and ſtill calling [49]to mind the thouſand endearments which had formerly made precious her ſociety, and even feeling ſome additional ſympathy from being involved in a calamity, which aroſe from the miſchances of one houſe, and one family, ſhe endured not the idea of her departure: ſo far otherwiſe, indeed, that ſhe ‘clave unto her,’ i.e. clung round her neck—kiſſed her with an ardour, as if ſhe deſigned to leave the ſeal of her very ſoul impreſſed on her lips for ever. In vain did the no⯑ble-minded Naomi exhibit to her the various miſeries which were at hand, and againſt which, there was no comfortable proviſion— [50]In vain did ſhe point to the ex⯑ample, the politic and prudent ex⯑ample of Orpah, her ſiſter—In ſcorn of ſuch conduct, and to cloſe at once all future diſſuaſions, ſhe thus deelared, to the eternal ho⯑nour of her ſex, the glowing reſo⯑lutions of her ſoul. ‘Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee, for whither thou goeſt, I will go; and where thou lodgeſt, I will lodge: thy people ſhall be my people, and thy God my God.’ The whole beauty and force of this paſſage is not ſeen at once: it is a very fine climax, and there is amazing elegance in the grada⯑tions. [51]The full ſenſe implied, ſeems to branch out in this man⯑ner. She begins with deſiring Naomi to urge the ſubject of ſepa⯑ration no longer, ſince ſhe has completely made up her mind up⯑on it. This is the firſt and ſlighteſt part. In the next place, ſhe un⯑folds her firſt deſign to follow her fortunes in whatever part of the habitable globe ſhe thinks proper to purſue them: but not thinking this ſufficiently expreſſive of her affection, ſhe reſolves to take up her abode in the ſame houſe with her—to lodge under the ſame roof, however poor, and to ſhare the ſame bed, however inelegant.— [52]After this, ſhe reſolves to know no other people, than ſuch as are equally the common friends of both—to enter into no attach⯑ments, but thoſe which are united by the ſame tender ties to her dear Naomi; and to form no connec⯑tions whatever, that can, in the leaſt, derogate from the love ſhe bore her. But ſhe is not contented with having delivered theſe aſſur⯑ances, for ſhe goes on, declaring that her very religion ſhall be the religion of her friend—that one faith, and one hope, ſhall animate their devotion, and that the God of one, ſhall be the God of the other. Even this does not ſatisfy [53]her: for, ſhe next determines not only to go with her the pilgrimage of life, but attend her beyond the gate of death—to die with her Naomi, ſhould it be her Naomi's lot to fall firſt, and to be buried at laſt in the ſame grave: and this ſhe confirmed by an immediate oath of the utmoſt importance and ſanctity amongſt the daughters of Judah: ‘The Lord God do ſo to me, aud more alſo, if ought but death’—ſhe might have ſaid—if death itſelf, part thee and me.

‘When Naomi ſaw that ſhe was ſteadfaſtly minded to go, ſhe left [54]off perſuading her; ſo they went until they came to Beth-lehem; and when they arrived, it came to paſs, that all the city were mov⯑ed about them, and they ſaid, Is this Naomi?’ Here are freſh morals and freſh elegancies opened upon us: the diſconſolate Naomi had no ſooner ſet her foot upon her own land, than all thoſe little paſſions which lie lurking in the boſoms of the illiberal and the in⯑hoſpitable, were inſtantly awaken⯑ed. Curioſity ſurveyed the tatters which ſhe had not the ſoul to re⯑pair.—Ill-nature was, we may be ſure, officious enough to throw in her bitter ſarcaſm. Pride was [55]ready with her inſulting offer of pity—Avarice lamented his inca⯑pacity to anſwer the good wiſhes of his heart; and in ſhort, every arrogant, every paltry propenſity was in arms againſt our defence⯑leſs travellers. But as Naomi ori⯑ginally lived in ſome degree of comfort and credit in her own country, and was now reduced, ſhe, of courſe, more particularly was the mark of their obloquy and converſation.

Upon entering the city, there⯑fore, the mob flocked about her, to indulge the vulgar and villainous joy, of adding a freſh load to the [56]heart which was already groaning under its burthen; for it is, but too generally the horrid maxim, to aſſiſt where aſſiſtance is unne⯑ceſſary, and to deny ſuch aſſiſtance where it may be the means of continuing life, or of promoting happineſs. And they ſaid one to another—meaſuring no doubt the poor wretch from top to toe; and noteing with cruel criticiſm, every unfortunate particular—‘Is this Naomi?’ God of Heaven, as much as to ſay—is this the woman —the wife of Elimelech, who lived in ſuch plenty—this poor ragged wretch—this ſhadow of herſelf— "Is this Naomi?" Mercy upon us [57]—who would have thought it? Having exhauſted all the unfeeling and hardened remarks, cuſtomary on ſuch occaſions, all their com⯑paſſion, and all their cruelty, ended exactly in the old way:—in leav⯑ing her the loſs of ſome ſighs and tears—poorer than they found her. She ſoon found, that to rely upon the kindneſs of old friends, was but a precarious mercy: for it is not bearing too hard I fear upon human nature to ſuppoſe, that her very next-door neighbour, the very companion of all her girliſh ſports, would give with an ill grace, if ſhe gave at all, that pil⯑low, or that bread, of which, after [58]ſo wearyſome a journey ſhe cer⯑tainly ſtood much in need. Ill⯑uſed by the world therefore, ſhe began to loſe the hope of ſuch re⯑ſources—the benevolence of diſ⯑tant relations, in whoſe memory ſhe might be able to revive the images of tenderneſs, was likewiſe a fond idea, that was born and buried almoſt in the ſame inſtant. Nothing of comfort ſeemed to re⯑main in reſerve, till the excellent Ruth, the faithful partner of her ſufferings, ſuggeſted an expedient. And ſhe ſaid unto her friend, I perceive, oh my dear Naomi, that our conveniencies muſt depend upon ourſelves, and that we muſt [59]owe our daily bread, to our daily labour: as it is now the beginning of the harveſt, behold the oppor⯑tunity of exerting ourſelves is at hand. Thou, indeed, art too much afflicted to toil: but for my part —much and tenderly as I ſympa⯑thize with thee, I am in the prime of my youth, and able to gather ſomething from the field: ‘Let me now therefore go and glean ears of corn after him in whoſe ſight I may find grace.’

‘Now it was ſo, that Naomi had a kinſman of her huſband's, a mighty man of wealth, of the family of Elimelech, and his [60]name was Boaz:’ and it hap⯑pened as Ruth was gleaning af⯑ter the reapers, ſhe was ſituate on a part of the field belong⯑ing to Boaz. This circum⯑ſtance occaſioned a turn of fortune perfectly dramatic. For, Boaz, coming to take a view of his reapers, perceiving the ſtranger, ſaid unto the ſervant who was ſet over the reapers, ‘Whoſe damſel is this?’ The ſervant's anſwer is penned with the moſt natural ſimplicity. ‘It is the Moabitiſh damſel, that came back with Naomi, out of the country of Moab: and ſhe ſaid, I pray you let me glean, and gather [61]after the reapers among the ſheaves: ſo ſhe came and hath continued amongſt us even from the morning until now, that ſhe tarried a little in the houſe.’ Something there was either in this account, or in the appearance of the object, which won much upon the favour of the landlord: for it is ſurely a ſofter voice, even than the voice of hoſ⯑pitality, that ſpeaks in the ſequel. ‘Heareſt thou not my daughter? go not I charge you to glean in any other field, neither go from hence, but abide here faſt by my maidens.’ I have given par⯑ticular injunctions to ‘the young [62]men that they ſhall not touch thee. And when thou art a⯑thirſt, go to the veſſels, and drink of that which the young men have drawn.’ Here, be⯑gan the firſt fruits of her fidelity; and the partiality of Boaz made a very rapid progreſs, for in his ſecond addreſs he was more bene⯑volent than in the firſt: He in⯑vited her to conſider herſelf, as one of his own people, to ‘eat of the bread, to dip her welcome morſel in the vinegar’ at meal times, and to ſit chearfully beſide the reap⯑ers. Nay more, with his own hand—ſurely the heart extended it—‘he reached her parched corn, [63]and ſhe did eat, and was ſuffi⯑ced and left.’ Now it was that Boaz began to diſcover more evidently, that, the ſpring of this generous current lay very near the heart: When ſhe was riſen up to glean after her repaſt, he com⯑manded the young men to ſhew her all poſſible marks of courteſy and diſtinction. His ſtrict orders were, not to ſuffer her to gather the ſcanty pittance, ear by ear, af⯑ter the cautious rake had gone over the ground, but to let her glean unqueſtioned, even amongſt the ſheaves. Nay more, they were to let ſome handfulls fall on pur⯑poſe for her, and leave them for [64]her particular gleaning: And in⯑deed, ſuch was the ſucceſsful con⯑ſequence of theſe indulgences, that after ſhe had beat out what ſhe had been permitted to glean in one ſingle day, ‘it was about an ephah of barley.’ This, the kind creature carried with all the expe⯑dition of affection to her friend: and when Naomi ſaw it—when the ſoul of the ſorrowful widow ſang for joy; then Ruth related to her the whole hiſtory of her good fortune, and concluding that the name of the hoſpitable owner of the land was Boaz. This in⯑telligence revived her ſpirits like a cordial, and ſhe exclaims with the [65]moſt animated tranſport: ‘the man is near a-kin to us,’ my beloved Ruth—‘one of our next kinſmen.’ Often, and with equal ſucceſs, ſhe went after this into the field, and continued there to earn a very comfortable living for herſelf and her friend, even to the cloſe of the harveſt. In the mean time, the paſſion of Boaz had made a very pathetic progreſs, and the re⯑ſult of it was, that he became the honourable lover of our fair glean⯑er, and renewed his acquaintance with his relation Naomi, to whom he made, we are told, various pre⯑ſents. Boaz and Ruth were ſoon united, and, as a convincing in⯑ſtance [66]of the harmony in which the family lived together, we find, highly to the gratification of every elegant heart, that when Ruth preſented to Boaz a child—her firſt-born—Naomi,—after all the perils of her paſt life,—re-enjoyed the ſweets of privacy and peace: ‘for ſhe took the babe, and laid it in her boſom, and became nurſe unto it:’ And I muſt not forget to add, that this very child, whoſe name was Obed, was the grandfather of the famous David, to whoſe pen, the Pſalms are at⯑tributed; which, both as pieces of ſcripture and of writing, are to⯑tally unrivalled in point of energy [67]and ſublimity, by any compoſition that hath yet been, or that pro⯑bably ever will be, produced in human language.

Undoubtedly our Engliſh Vir⯑gil, the author of the Seaſons, took from this ſtory the hint of his epiſode of Palemon and La⯑vinia: but, beautiful as that epi⯑ſode may be, I by no means think he hath improved the preſent ſub⯑ject. Indeed, it is not eaſy to improve any of the ſacred narra⯑tives, nor was Mr. Thomſon a poet of ſimplicity. He hath, however, followed the original pretty cloſely, eſpecially in the [68]principal incidents: yet Palemon is a poor copy of Boaz, and La⯑vinia is leſs captivating than Ruth.

But I ſhall quote Mr. Thom⯑ſon's poetical paraphraſe—for it is little more—that the reader may compare it with the original.

ESSAY XV. GOLIAH of GATH.

PASSAGE.

IT is very remarkable, that all thoſe perſonages of ſacred me⯑mory, whoſe tranſactions are re⯑corded in the biographical parts of the Bible, have diſtinguiſhed themſelves for perſonal bravery in the moſt early periods of life. [80]Thus, Moſes, yet a child, ſmote the Egyptian in defence of his brother; and, in the caſe before us, the youth David, who was, even before this time, ſo enchanting a muſician, as to vanquiſh an evil ſpirit by the melody of his harp, commences an illuſtrious and war⯑like character all at once, by ſub⯑duing the man, of whom, whole armies were afraid, in ſingle com⯑bat. This hiſtory, is, likewiſe, fruitful of very fine things, and favourable to the remark of a com⯑mentator. There is a ſkill ob⯑ſervable in the conduct of the ſa⯑cred narratives rarely, if ever, ſeen in other writings: and it ſhall he [81]the buſineſs of this illuſtration to ſhew, that the chain of real cir⯑cumſtances relating to the duel betwixt David and Goliah, is, from the beginning to the end, from the firſt ſyllable to the laſt, a match for any compoſition what⯑ever—ſetting aſide the matter of ſcripture—even in point of what the dramatiſts call fable. And I am thus particularly earneſt to diſ⯑play, in this work, the literary excellence of the Holy Bible, be⯑cauſe I have reaſon to apprehend it is too frequently laid by, under a notion of its being a dull, dry, and unentertaining ſyſtem; whereas the fact is quite otherwiſe: it con⯑tains [82]all that can be wiſhed, by the trueſt intellectual taſte; it enters more ſagaciouſly, and more deep⯑ly, into human nature; it deve⯑lopes character, delineates man⯑ner, charms the imagination, and warms the heart more effectually than any other book extant: and if once a man would take it into his hand, without that ſtrange prejudicing idea of its flatneſs, and be willing to be pleaſed, I am morally certain he would find all his favourite authors dwindle in the compariſon, and conclude, that he was not only reading the moſt religious, but the moſt entertain⯑ing book in the world.

[83] It is my preſent deſign, there⯑fore, to diſplay the ſtory now un⯑der conſideration, as a perform⯑ance, written with the greateſt art, and managed with the moſt maſ⯑terly judgment. This will beſt be done, by ſelecting, from the whole matter, particular paſſages, and making a few comments thereupon.

The very exordium of the ſtory preſents us with an image, that prepares us for ſomething extra⯑ordinary.

‘Saul and the men of Iſrael were gathered together, and [84]pitched by the valley of Elah, and ſet the battle in array, a⯑gainſt the Philiſtines. And the Philiſtines ſtood on a mountain on the one ſide, and Iſrael ſtood on a mountain on the other, and there was a valley between them.’ Fancy herſelf could not have imagined any thing more pictureſque; nor could any mar⯑tial ſkill have made a more aweful arrangement. The next circum⯑ſtance is as intereſting as unex⯑pected: ‘And there went out a champion out of the camp of the Philiſtines, named Goliah of Gath.’ The deſcription of this man is every way ſuited to [85]alarm; and I will be bold to ſay, far tranſcends in equipment the heroes of Homer himſelf. I ſub⯑mit it to all the poetical enthuſi⯑aſts. ‘His height was ſix cubits and a ſpan: he had an helment of braſs upon his head, and was armed with a coat of mail; and the weight of the coat was five thouſand ſhekles of braſs.’ I muſt here interrupt the narrative, to obſerve, with what ſkill we are told of the ſtrength of Goliah. It is not mentioned in the ordinary way, by a recital of his former atchievements, but it is implied by the prodigious burthen he was able to bear upon his back; for, beſides [86]that, ‘the head of his ſpear weigh⯑ed ſix hundred ſhekles of iron,’ the ‘weight of his coat was five thouſand ſhekles of braſs.’ But to go on.

‘And he had greaves of braſs upon his legs, and a target of braſs between his ſhoulders: and the ſtaff of his ſpear was like a weaver's beam; and his ſpear's head weighed ſix hun⯑dred ſhekles of iron; and one, bearing a ſhield, went before him.’ The terror and conſter⯑nation with which this gigantic appearance muſt ſtrike the ſpecta⯑tors, is much eaſier conceived than it can be deſcribed. All muſt [87]have been ſuſpenſe, and ſilent agi⯑tation—the Iſraelites muſt look at the man of Gath, with diſmay; and the Philiſtines muſt have view⯑ed their warrior as the tremendous tower of their ſtrength. His ad⯑dreſs to the armies of the adverſe party, could only ſerve to heighten their apprehenſions, for he defied the whole force of Iſrael, and thirſted for war, as if it were an appetite in him: ‘Give me a man (ſaid he), give me a man, that we may fight together.’ What a ſanguinary ſentence! it ſmacks of blood and of diſpatch: it ſhews at once, an eagerneſs to deſtroy, and to ſeize a ſecond victim. Even [88]Saul was daunted at the challenge, and in all the tribes of embattled Iſ⯑rael (amongſt which were the bro⯑thers of David) there could not be found a man to accept it. The unri⯑valled Philiſtine, in all the arro⯑gance of ſuperiority and triumph, repeated the challenge, morning and evening, for forty days.— About this time, young David was diſpatched by his father Jeſſe to carry proviſions to his brethren in the camp; for this office he was called up from the paſtoral em⯑ployment of tendence on the flocks. Theſe, he left to the care of another keeper, and went, as he had been commanded; ‘And [89]he came to the trench as the armies of the hoſt were go⯑ing forth to the fight, and were ſhouting for the battle: for Iſrael and the Philiſtines had put the battle in array, army againſt army.’

The ſtripling could not have ar⯑rived in a more critical time, nor at any more likely to awake in him the ſparks of glory, eſpecially as his brethren were all engaged in the cauſe. He had ſcarce finiſhed the firſt ſalutations with his brethren, before another matter fell out won⯑derfully well calculated to kindle the flame of honour; for, while [90]he was converſing with his breth⯑ren, there came up the Philiſtine of Gath again, and, with addi⯑tional inſolence, announced his defiance. The Iſraelites were ſore afraid, and ingloriouſly fled. David's brethren, then, related to him, the former menaces of Goliah, and the promiſes of reward which the king offered to any man who ſhould kill him—that the houſe of the conqueror's father was to be free, and the victor himſelf, to have great riches, and the hand of the king's daughter. How finely is the nature of envy and warlike ambition touched in the conduct of David's brother, when the lad [91]firſt ſhewed the dawnings of his ſpirit: and this is carried ſtill higher, when Saul himſelf ex⯑preſſes, afterwards, the jealouſy of his heart, at his being called only the Slayer of Thouſands, while to David's arm the women aſcribed victory over Tens of Thouſands. But of this in its place. Some ſtrokes of emulation there were in David's diſcourſe, which ſoon reached the ear of the general, and which procured him an im⯑mediate interview. Courage is no reſpecter of perſons: the young man is repreſented as ſpeaking to Saul, with even more intrepidity than he ſpake to his brethren. In [92]the firſt part of his converſation he addreſſes him upon the ſubject, with all the ardour of a glowing and inde⯑pendent ſpirit. He ſaid: ‘Let no man's heart fail him, becauſe of this Goliah; thy ſervant, will go, and fight with the Philiſtine.’ Modeſt, but glorious: thy ſervant will, at leaſt, go and fight with this preſumptuous boaſter. It was na⯑tural for Saul to treat this offer at firſt, as a ſally of juvenile ſpi⯑rit, laudable enough, but nothing effectual; and his reply to it muſt have been delivered ſmilingly. Thou, child! Thou art not able to go againſt this Philiſtine, to fight with him: for thou art but [93]a youth, though a brave one; ‘and he a man of war from his youth’ —from his very infancy, trained to the knowledge and exerciſe of arms. The modeſty, brevity, and conciſeneſs with which our young hero aſſerts his pretenſions to ſuc⯑ceſs from this engagement, is in⯑conceivably pretty, and attracting.

‘Thy ſervant kept his fa⯑ther's ſheep, and there came a lion and a bear, and took a lamb out of the flock:’

‘And I went out after him, and ſmote him, and delivered the lamb out of his mouth, and [94]when he aroſe again, I caught him by his beard, and ſmote him, and flew him.’

‘Thy ſervant ſlew both, the lion and the bear: and this un⯑circumciſed Philiſtine ſhall be one of them, ſeeing he hath de⯑fied the armies of the living God.’

‘The Lord that delivered me out of the paw of the lion, and out of the paw of the bear, he will deliver me alſo out of the hand of this Philiſtine ^*.’

[95] Saul was ſo charmed with his bravery and herioc ſentiments, [96]that he began already to hope ſomething from his efforts, inſo⯑much, that he ſaid: ‘Go, my lad, and the Lord go with thee.’ But the preparatory ceremony, [97]which ſucceeded this commiſſion, is moſt beautiful, indeed! De⯑lighted with his generous ambi⯑tion, Saul, with his own hand and acoutrements, equipped David for the battle; he put an helmet of braſs upon his head, and defended his body with a coat of mail; then, girding his ſword upon his armour, he aſſayed to go—but— touched by ſome ſecret inſpiration —he again diveſted himſelf of the armour, and putting only five ſmooth ſtones out of the brook, he took his ſtaff, his ſcrip, and his ſling, and thus, like a ſhepherd, drew near to the Philiſtine. There [98]is great imagery in the following verſes.

‘And the Philiſtine came on, and the man that bare the ſhield went before him; and when the Philiſtine looked about and ſaw David, he diſdained him.’ Diſdained is, perhaps, the only word in this language that could have been uſed properly on this occaſion. There was ſo palpable a difference between the combatants, and the ſuperiority and ſtrength evidently lay ſo much on the ſide of Goliah, that he diſdained to fight with him, very naturally thinking him no object of his ſpear: for David had [99]every perſonal advantage, being a lad of a ruddy and fair counte⯑nance.

It never entered into the imagi⯑nation of the Philiſtine that the battle was not always to the ſtrong, nor the race to the ſwift. The ideas of a more powerful Provi⯑dence were ſwallowed up in the vanity of his own vigour; and yet that vanity was ſomewhat piqued, when he beheld our daring youth meet him only with a ſtick, and a ſtring. ‘Am I a dog, that thou comeſt to me with ſtaves?’ This ſoon exaſperated him, and he curſed David by his own gods. [100]Whoever examines the ſcriptures, will find the niceſt preſervation of character, each delicately deſcrimi⯑nated, and ſo admirably con⯑traſted, that nothing which marks one, is given heterogenouſly, to another. This has alſo been con⯑ſidered among the firſt excellencies of compoſition: its beauty is ma⯑nifeſted in Shakeſpear much, but in the Bible more. An inſtance of this is before us. We never once loſe ſight of the ſavage auda⯑city of Goliah, from his firſt me⯑nace to his death—he ſpeaks but little, but every word ſeems to fall from the lip of a giant. When David perſiſts in his reſolution to [101]fight, he ſaid, ‘Come to me, and I will give thy fleſh unto the fowls of the air, and to the beaſts of the field.’ The dependence of Da⯑vid was upon his God, and in ſuch confidence he returned the threat of Goliah with additional fury. ‘This day will the Lord deliver thee into my hand, and I will ſmite thee, and take thine head from thee, that all the earth may know there is a God in Iſ⯑rael: and all this aſſembly ſhall know that the Lord ſaveth not with the ſword and ſpear; for the battle is the Lord's, and he will give you into our hands.’ They engaged, and the propheſy [102]of the young warrior was fulfilled. The power of the Divine aſſiſtance which can make all human ſtrength more feeble than the ſinews of the new-born babe, is nobly il⯑luſtrated in the death of Goliah, which, notwithſtanding all appear⯑ances, was effected by a ſtone ejected by a very boy, from a ſling. But the account itſelf is well worth reciting.

‘And it came to paſs, when the Philiſtine aroſe, and came and drew nigh to meet David, that David haſted, and ran to⯑ward the army to meet the Phi⯑liſtine. And David put his [103]hand in his bag, and took thence a ſtone and ſlang it, and ſmote the Philiſtine in his forehead, that the ſtone ſunk into his fore⯑head; and he fell upon his face unto the earth.’

‘Then he ran and ſtood upon the Philiſtine, and took the ſword of Goliah, and drew it out of the ſheath, and ſlew him and cut off his head therewith: and when the Philiſtines ſaw their champion was dead, they fled.’

By ſuch means was the victory completed, and thus fell that ter⯑ror [104]to the Iſraelitiſh bands, Go⯑liah of Gath.

Having gone through the moſt important parts of this intereſting duel, we have leiſure for a few ſupplemental reflections, in the way of literary criticiſm. This Goliah of Gath reminds one of Homer's Ajax; and, indeed, the proceſs of the engagement between the giant and David, is, in many particulars, like the ceremony of the ſingle combat of Telamon and Hector. The above deſcription of Goliah's perſon, and warlike preparations, are more military and formidable than the hero of [105]Homer. Let the foregoing cha⯑racter of the Giant of Gath be com⯑pared with what follows:

Scarce any part of this deſcription, [106]nor of its original, will bear bring⯑ing near that of the ‘giant war⯑rior’ of the ſcripture. His mov⯑ing with majeſtic pace to combat, is leſs terrific than Goliah's trium⯑phant march in the full view of the aſtoniſhed Philiſtines. There ſeems alſo leſs propriety in Hec⯑tor's pauſe of fear, than in the in⯑apprehenſive and intrepid conduct of David, who, though not prac⯑tiſed like Hector,

was, nevertheleſs, uniformly brave and heroic to the very heart, [107]without ever finding that heroiſm ſuſpended, even at the preſence of Goliah. "All Troy" might, in⯑deed, be ſuppoſed to tremble at the mighty ſon of Telamon, in the ſame manner as Saul and the tribes of embattled Iſrael, trem⯑bled before the arrogant Philiſtine: but for Hector's heart to fail him, though but for a moment, was, ſurely, ſuch a falling off from the idea we wiſh to entertain of that celebrated hero, that one is almoſt angry with Homer for doing our favourite ſo palpable an injury in the tendereſt and brighteſt part of his character. It may be urged, indeed, that David had confidence in [108]his God, and that his bravery ema⯑nated from inſpiration. An ar⯑gument, very ſimilar, may be brought in favour of the Trojan hero, who, as we are to believe, certainly truſted as much in the virtue of his cauſe, and the good⯑neſs of his god, as the other; nor did the poet ever ſuffer him to go to the battle till thoſe deities were firſt ſupplicated. Witneſs the addreſs offered up, on the very occaſion of the conteſt with Ajax.

[109] The ſhield of Ajax is, however, more particularly deſcribed than the ſhield of Goliah.

But the circumſtantial account of the giant's ſpear, the weight of its head, his greaves of braſs, and his target; his coat of mail, and his maſſey helmet, are all ſuch evi⯑dences of his aſtoniſhing STRENGTH, and, apparently, invincible vigour, that, without any parade or ſuper⯑fluity of words, they give us the ex⯑act [110]image of the ſavage, who called out, in an exclamation, worthy of him, ‘Give me a man, give me a man, that we may fight together.’

But if, indeed, we expect in any performance to find a character delineated with parallel force—if we wiſh to read any deſcription like Goliah of Gath, we muſt ſearch for it in the writings of one, whoſe inſpiration was chiefly drawn from the ſources of ſacred compo⯑ſition. Milton drank at the foun⯑tain-head, and his poetry flowed

[111] The ſublimity with which he has drawn Satan, when

is ſuch a piece of poetry, and ex⯑hibits ſuch an aſſemblage of grand images, as nothing but a genius al⯑together illimitable could poſſibly furniſh. Long quotations, however, not coming within the deſign or compaſs of this work, I ſhall only preſent ſuch lines as ſhew the Prince of Darkneſs not very unlike —in point of warlike preparation, and perſonal appearance—to the giant, who was ſubdued by the youth David; and with theſe verſes we will cloſe the Eſſay.

ESSAY XXVI. STORY of ELIJAH and the Widow of ZAREPHATH.

PASSAGE.

THIS paſſage is pregnant with pleaſing illuſtrations, being taken from a ſtory inferior to few, if any, in ſacred compoſition: for it not only abounds with moſt agreeable incidents, but furniſhes [114]a ſtriking and conſpicuous moral: the virtue of Gratitude is very emphatically illuſtrated on the one hand, and the duty of Hoſpitali⯑ty, on the other. Nor has it eſcaped, indeed, the remark of ſeveral writers; but the ſcriptures, as I have before had occaſion to obſerve, are treaſuries affording inexhauſted novelty to their ad⯑mirers.

The perſons particularly con⯑cerned in this ſacred drama, are, Elijah the prophet, and a poor widow-woman, who lived, by very hard and conſtant labour; ſo hard indeed, that ſhe was obliged to [115]pick her faggot to light her fire, before ſhe could bake the bread, which that labour had gleaned. At the time of her firſt meeting with Elijah, ſhe was more than uſually ſtraightened; for her whole ſtock conſiſted of a handful of meal, and a little oil; and ſhe was then ſtooping, in ſearch of a few ſticks, to dreſs this ſcanty modi⯑cum, to preſerve from death, her⯑ſelf and her ſon. Yet this was the critical period—even while ſhe was thus affectionately employed— this was the moment marked out by Providence, to try the ſtrength of her ſympathy: it was alas! no time to beſtow, while her bounty [116]was thus circumſcribed: nor was it a fit ſeaſon to ſhew the natural courteſy of her temper, when ſhe was exerting her laſt efforts in re⯑lief of her child, and wanted, in the ſoreſt degree, the ordinary ac⯑commodations of life herſelf. Un⯑der this preſſure of her circum⯑ſtances, it is worth while to ſee how ſhe conducted herſelf. When Elijah the prophet (who figures ſo ſplendidly in ſacred hiſtory) foretold, that a divine puniſhment ſhould alight upon Ahab (a man, who is repreſented as wicked and ill-diſpoſed above all that were before him) then, to eſcape that reſentment, which his prophecy [117]had kindled againſt him in the breaſt of Ahab, he hid himſelf by the brook Cherith, where the ravens were commanded to cater for his ſupport, while the brook ſupplied him with drink. The reſource of the ſtream however ſoon failing, he again ſought ſhel⯑ter elſewhere, and removed to Zarephath, where he no ſooner arrived, than he beheld this widow⯑woman engaged, as before deſcrib⯑ed, in gathering ſticks; and he im⯑mediately called to her, and re⯑queſted her to fetch him a little water in a veſſel. This was not unreaſonable; but did not he ren⯑der it ſomewhat ſo, when he again [118]called her back as ſhe was haſten⯑ing to oblige him, to deſire ſhe would bring a morſel of bread likewiſe in her hand? A morſel of bread, and a little water, was, to be ſure, aſking the favour in as de⯑cent language as could be; but in this poor woman's particular ſituation, it muſt have had a very important ſound: there is a moſt beautiful diſplay of her charitable heart, in her anſwer.—‘As the Lord thy God liveth, I have not a cake, but a handful of meal in a barrel, and a little oil in a cruſe: and behold, I am gathering two ſticks that I may go in and dreſs it for me and my ſon, that we [119]may eat it and die:’ as if ſhe had ſaid, you ſee my ſtock, ſtranger— it is my very laſt meal—I am picking two ſticks that I may lay my poor meal acroſs, and then— (as all further reſources fail)—my child and I will die in the arms of one another. Then it was, that Eli⯑jah bid her not fear, for that ‘the barrel of meal ſhould not waſte, nor the cruſe of oil fail unto the day that the Lord ſendeth rain upon the face of the earth;’ and this he aſſured her, was the ſenti⯑ment of God himſelf. Now, had this woman been inclined to ſave her meal and oil to herſelf—had ſhe been ſwayed, or indeed ought [120]influenced by that powerful ſelf⯑love which has ſo general an aſ⯑cendency in the human breaſt; or had ſhe even yielded to the force of thoſe prudent maxims which teach, that, charity begins at home, and that ſelf-preſervation is nature's firſt law, how eaſily might ſhe have evaded this requeſt? nay, what a ſwarm of right, ſound apo⯑logies preſented themſelves for a fair denial! To the reaſons al⯑ready urged ſhe might (had ſhe been a woman of the world) have added many others: ſuch as the expecting condition in which ſhe left her half-famiſhed child—her own extreme hunger, and the piety [121]of preſerving herſelf and her lit⯑tle one, as long as ſhe could poſ⯑ſibly find the ſmalleſt means of ſubſiſtance. That to die, while yet a meal remained, would be a kind of ſuicide; and to give a morſel from any part of her own family, when a morſel was all that was left for the ſupport of two, would be a prodigality for which ſhe ought to ſuffer the poverty that muſt inevitably reſult from it. As to its being, as he ſaid, the com⯑mand of the Almighty, ſhe might reaſonably offer a doubt as to the truth of that particular. Is there not—ſhe might reply—is there not, ſomething of inconſiſtency, [122]good ſtranger, in this part of your ſtory? That we ſhould aſſiſt one another, is, I know a ſocial and a religious duty; but this muſt be where plenty, or at leaſt compe⯑tence, preſents us with the de⯑lightful power.—It is not indeed ſurprizing that I, (being the firſt perſon you have ſeen) ſhould be the firſt addreſſed on this occaſion, be⯑cauſe I know hunger catches at the ſlighteſt and neareſt poſſibili⯑ties: but excuſe me, if I think the matter of the promiſed mira⯑cles not a little problematical. Would God have directed your application to a poor defenceleſs widow-woman, who has a father⯑leſs [123]child to toil for, and is now labouring in the laſt exigency.— Would he have ſaid—let her di⯑vide her all with you? Would He, who knows human nature ſo intimately, and who never expects us to injure ourſelves on any ſcore whatever.—Would He have me liſten to that which ſounds ſo like the trick of a needy traveller, and ſhall I credulouſly give my ſtaff from my hand in expectation of another dropping down from Hea⯑ven?—No—friend—I underſtand ſomething of this world; and though I admire to do good, I muſt not expoſe myſelf to ridicule—for if I was to comply with your re⯑queſt, [124]tell me honeſtly wouldſt thou not laugh at my weakneſs? Farwell then, and be aſſured, I lament my inability as much as thou lamenteſt thy neceſſity.

Having thus ſhewn what a very cautious woman might have ſaid: let us now ſee what was really the ſentiment of the occaſion. There is no other anſwer recorded than that ſhe did according to the deſire of Elijah. She did not even ſtay to expatiate upon her own generoſity —nor tell him, that if his pro⯑phecy ſhould be unfulfilled, ſhe muſt only ſtarve ſo much the ſooner for her good nature; but, [125]ſhe relied ſo implicity on his ſin⯑cerity, and obeyed ſo willingly the inſpired impulſe of benevo⯑lence, that ſhe haſted to make a little cake for Elijah firſt, and then attended to the wants of her little one and herſelf. But this courteſy and confidence was pre⯑ternaturally rewarded: for ſhe and he, and her houſe, eat many days; ‘and the barrel of meal waſted not, nor did the cruſe of oil fail.’

Elijah now became a lodger in the widow's houſe, and was conſi⯑dered as a part of her family, till a ſuſpicious circumſtance fell out, [126]which gave her at firſt but too much reaſon to alter her opinion of him. Soon after this friend⯑ſhip was formed between them, the ſon of the hoſteſs fell ſick, and his ſickneſs was of ſo ſore a nature, that it preſently terminat⯑ed in his death. The unhappy mother attributed it to ſome ſecret exertion of cruel power in Elijah; for as he could divine one miracle in her favour, ſo ſhe apprehended he might be able to effect ano⯑ther to her prejudice: However, certain it is, ſhe entertained ideas exceedingly to his diſcredit, and indeed, eſteemed the thing ſo very ungrateful a return for her fair [127]conduct and demeanour, that we find her reproaching him with all the ſeverity of an ill-intreated friend, and all the diſtraction of an injured parent. ‘What have I do with thee—thou man of God! art thou come unto me, to call my ſin to my remembrance, and to ſlay my ſon?’ This appears to have been ſpoken with the utmoſt bitterneſs of irony, as if ſhe had ſaid:—Thou man, who pretend⯑edſt to have been directed hi⯑ther by the expreſs orders of God: —Thou meſſenger from the Lord of Heaven—what have I done unto thee, that thou ſhouldeſt thus requite me?—Doſt thou do this [128]to warn me how I ſhare again my laſt meal with a ſtranger? True it is, that thou haſt in one inſtance been found faithful: true, that thou haſt prolonged the lives which ſeemed to be drawing ſooner to a period. But what of that— Haſt thou taken this opportunity to render the mourning of the wi⯑dow thus additionally ſore, by firſt conveying to her, the joyful tid⯑ings of plenty, only to make the after-ſtroke the more intolerable, by ſlaying her dear and only dar⯑ling; even him, whom the fa⯑mine hath ſpared? Inhuman! ſhame upon thee! for this—ſhall the widow's curſe purſue thee for [129]ever: for this—but I cannot ſpeak. Behold, the innocent victim of your barbarity—behold—my child is breathleſs before you.—Alas! my ſon—my ſon! how haſt thou been ſacrificed to the inſidiouſneſs of a ſtranger! It was highly in character to reprove him in this manner; and it is equally natural, that the good man ſhould feel the reproof with all imaginable ſeve⯑rity. Many circumſtances con⯑curred to make him truly wretch⯑ed, even under ſuch an imputation: for he doubtleſs conſidered her in the tendereſt degree, as his beſt benefactor—as one who had ma⯑nifeſted the ſenſibility and duty of [130]her heart, in the very criſis, both of his fate and her own; and laſt⯑ly, as a widow, whoſe life was wrapt up in the life of her ſon. Nor could he indeed fairly blame her ſuſpicions. Since the time, the place, and the ſuddeneſs of the lad's death, gave in ſome ſort, a colour of probability to them. Her miſery too, had its ſource ſo near the ſoul, that he could not attempt either to check or to chide it; ad⯑vice would have been rejected, and pity impertinent: he troubled her with neither; but taking the baby corpſe out of the mother's boſom, where (though it was dead) ſhe was ſtill careſſing and ſtill crad⯑ling [131]it, he carried it up to his own apartment, and laid him gently upon his own bed.

And now being at liberty to ad⯑dreſs the God who had ſo often, and ſo miraculouſly befriended and indulged, and honoured him, he broke out into the moſt earneſt ſupplication. ‘Oh Lord my God, my God, haſt thou brought evil upon the widow with whom I ſojourn, by ſlay⯑ing her ſon? I pray thee, that the child's ſoul may come into him again.’ The prayer was heard. In the mean time, in what a ſituation muſt he have left the [132]afflicted parent! it was however, one of thoſe ſorrows which are compenſated by a reverſe of joy: the tranſition was almoſt inſtanta⯑neous; for when the babe began to revive, he brought it down out of the chamber into the houſe, and delivered it into the deſiring arms of its weeping mother. Were words ever calculated to ex⯑preſs ſuch a ſtroke of tranſport? it muſt have been a bliſs which trod hard upon the very heels of agony. Parents may, perhaps, paint it to themſelves: they may ſee (through the mirror of a ſympa⯑thetic fancy) the poor widow re⯑ceiving her child from the healing [133]hand of the prophet—a child freſh blooming in the beauties of a ſe⯑cond birth.—They may imagine they behold the joyful woman as it were in a frenzy of felicity, kneeling, firſt to the inviſible re⯑ſtorer, then to Elijah, and laſt bathing the cheek of the child with tears of tenderneſs, unuttera⯑ble. The prophet, indeed, ſaid lit⯑tle; for language was unneceſſary; the thing ſpoke for itſelf, the lovely eye was again gently opened on the light, the dimple reſumed its reſidence, and all its little ſen⯑ſibilities were fully reſtored. "See" cried Elijah,—"thy ſon liveth." He ſubmitted the truth of the aſ⯑ſertion [134](without any tedious ex⯑planation of the means by which the recovery had been effected) to the pleaſing evidence of her own ſenſes. He had now fully rewarded her former kindneſs, and evinced his gratitude for the diviſion of her laſt meal, by raiſing the treaſure of her ſoul, even from the dead. I ſhall ſay no more on this charming ſtory, but juſt obſerve, that every gentle heart will have its own commen⯑tary, and purſue the hints I have given, till they have long in⯑dulged themſelves in the elegant reflection which ſo maſterly and intereſting a ſcene excites.

ESSAY XXVII. CHARACTER of SOLOMON.

PASSAGE.

THERE is, perhaps, as much moral ſenſe, and literary beau⯑ty, compriſed in this paſſage, as ever was conveyed to the human underſtanding, by the hand of tra⯑dition. What a paradiſaical pic⯑ture does it give us of the reign [136]of Solomon! Majeſty and mild⯑neſs, power and pleaſure, ſeem to have been the grand ſupporters of his throne: and we read the hiſtory of his times, with a mixture of joy and admiration.

The very firſt inſtance of his wiſ⯑dom, gave to mankind the moſt delightful earneſt of what might be expected from him. I ſpeak of his judgment betwixt the two harlots. How finely did he diſ⯑tinguiſh the ſimplicity of natural ſorrow, from the whineing com⯑plaint of adventitious woe: he ſaw the real parent, in her fears, her wiſhes, and her tears; and he de⯑tected [137]the impoſture, by every ac⯑tion. The beginning of the reign exhibits this illuſtrious heir of the noble David in all the glory of ſublunary greatneſs; ‘For he had dominion over all the region, on this ſide the river, from Tiphſhah, even to Azzah, over all the kings on this ſide the river:’ and in the midſt of ſo extenſive an authority, he main⯑tained peace on all ſides around him: ‘Every man dwelt ſafely under his vine, and under his fig-tree,’ from one end of his realms to the other, ‘from Dan even to Beer-ſheba.’

[138] What a proſpect was here for the people! What a joyful pro⯑miſe for the public heart! But with what energy—I had almoſt ſaid—enchantment—is the diſpo⯑ſition of this prince characterized in the ſubſequent verſe?

‘And God gave Solomon wiſ⯑dom and underſtanding, ex⯑ceeding much, and largeneſs of heart, even as the ſand that is on the ſea-ſhore.’

He had, it ſeems, not only the greateſt wealth, but the niceſt judg⯑ment, and the nobleſt inclination, to diſtribute that wealth, to make [139]it conducive to general felicity. He equalled his father in his poe⯑tical capacity, and even ſurpaſſed him as a moraliſt: his ſongs are marked by an enthuſiaſm, a ten⯑derneſs, and a pathos, in which all the treaſures of the warmeſt, gayeſt, and ſublimeſt imagination, appear to have been exhauſted. Image and metaphor were equally at his command; and a genius, ſo etherial, is ſometimes diſcovered in theſe ſallies of his pen, that his conception takes a flight too lofty for the eye to reach him. But, how⯑ever amazing the powers of his fancy, they were, at leaſt, equalled by the graver abilities of his judg⯑ment. [140]He, by no means, figured leſs as a moral writer: for, his Proverbs are a collection of con⯑ciſe maxims, which ſtand, altoge⯑ther unrivalled; and are the foun⯑dation of all thoſe ſhort, multitu⯑dinous remarks, which have been iſſued from the preſs, ſince his time: but thoſe of Solomon will, indeed, be ever ſeparated from all others. Such knowledge of life, ſuch va⯑rious beauty in the expreſſion— ſuch aſtoniſhing terſeneſs in the ſtyle—ſuch poignancy in the ſa⯑tire—ſuch purity in the phraſe, and ſuch ſolidity in the ſenſe, en⯑titled their author to the immorta⯑lity [141]which he claims, and which he poſſeſſes.

There ſeems to have been a epocha in his genius: his compo⯑ſitions preſent us with a climax. From the Poet, he riſes to the Mo⯑raliſt, and from the Moraliſt he ſoars to the Divine. The book of Eccleſiaſtes, is one of the fineſt ſyſtems, or bodies of divinity. Every ſentence is ſound and ortho⯑dox. His obſervations are accu⯑rate and devotional; and the whole book well becomes the preacher and the pulpit. In a word, Solo⯑mon was the greateſt and moſt ge⯑neral literary character that ever [142]wrote. As a prince, he was amia⯑ble, beloved, and popular; and it is impoſſible to give a more pleaſ⯑ing aſſurance of it, than the paci⯑fic and tranquil idea ſuggeſted by the text: ‘Every man dwelt in ſafety under his own vine and fig-tree, even all the days of Solomon.’ It is ſomewhat painful to view him in a religious light. Ah, Solomon, thou wiſeſt of the wiſe—how couldſt thou, at any time, forget the power who had dealt by thee in ſo liberal a manner? eminent alike, in intel⯑lect, and in magnificence, how couldſt thou ſo ſtain thy annals, as to turn aſide from the author of [143]all thy greatneſs? How couldſt thou ſo diſgrace—ſo proſtitute the ſplendour of that temple which thou hadſt reared and dedicated to the true God, to the dreams and weakneſſes of idolatry? What, alas, could the viſionary goddeſs of the Zidonians do for thee? What could Molech, or Aſhtoreth, that deſerved thy devotion, or ſacri⯑fices? Could they inſpire thee with intelligence above all others, and ſtore thy mind with all the or⯑naments of taſte and ſcience, and elegance and joy?

One apology, however, not a little mitigating, preſents itſelf. [144]He did not yield to this infatua⯑tion till he was in the decline of life—poſſibly, when his faculties were ſomewhat impaired—and when the ill advice of thoſe who were about him, eſpecially his eoncubines, teazed him into er⯑ror. The power of a bad woman, who has any hold upon the heart, is unlimited, and will generally render pliable to its purpoſes, not only the fineſt head, but the fineſt heart: and it muſt be alſo remem⯑bered, that the ſtrength of the ten⯑der paſſions is always in proportion to the ſtrength of the genius; ſo that Soloman might be led, as it were, captive, in the bonds of [145]love, and ſacrifice to Chemoſh, not becauſe he venerated that ima⯑ginary deity, but to avoid the per⯑ſecution of the female party, which was formed againſt his religious in⯑tegrity. At all events, let us not be too rigid, to degrade ſo great a character. It is well known, that the wiſeſt men, are the moſt fre⯑quently ſeduced into the weakeſt treſpaſſes. With all his ſagacity, Solomon was a human creature. Great ſenſibility is liable to great miſtake: where we cannot defend his conduct, let us avoid it, and where we are ſtruck with the ſplen⯑dour of his capacity, let it inſpire us with a modeſt imitation.

ESSAY XXVIII. CONCLUDING STRICTURES.
On SCRIPTURAL SUBLIMITY, and BEAUTY.

PASSAGE.

THE elegant Mr. Burke ^*, with his uſual ingenuity, obſerves, that magnificence is a ſource of the ſublime: after commenting upon which, he proceeds to illuſtrate his precepts by ſuitable examples, [148]amongſt which is that of the above paſſage, and thoſe others ſucceed⯑ing it, which belong to the de⯑ſcription. It was with great pro⯑priety he fixed upon this noble pa⯑negyric, on the high prieſt Si⯑mon the ſon of Onias, as a ſpeci⯑men of ſcriptural ſublimity, in the richneſs of imagery, and alluſion. But I cannot agree with him in thinking that ſublimity ariſes from a profuſion of thoſe images in which the mind is ſo dazzled as to make it impoſſible to attend to that exact coherence and agree⯑ment of the alluſions, which we ſhould require on every other oc⯑caſion. With due deference to [149]Mr. Burke, I will venture to ſay, that, moſt of the alluſions are exact, and coherent. The proof is be⯑fore us. Read the whole deſcrip⯑tion.

‘How was he honoured in the midſt of the people, in his com⯑ing out of the ſanctuary! He was as the morning ſtar in the midſt of a cloud, and as the moon at the full: as the ſun ſhining upon the temple of the Moſt High, and as the rain⯑bow giveth light in the bright clouds: and as the flower of roſes in the ſpring of the year: as lilies by the rivers of waters, [150]and as the frankincenſe-tree in ſummer; as fire and incenſe in the cenſer; and as a veſſel of gold ſet with precious ſtones; as a fair olive-tree budding forth fruit; and as a cypreſs which groweth up to the clouds.— When he put on the robe of honour, and was cloathed with the perfection of glory, when he went up to the holy altar, he made the garment of holineſs honourable. He himſelf ſtood by the hearth of the altar com⯑paſſed with his brethren round about, as a young cedar in Li⯑banus, and as palm-trees com⯑paſſed they him about. So [151]were all the ſons of Aaron in their glory, and the oblations of the Lord in their hands, &c.’

It was the intention of the ſon of Sirach, in theſe ſentences, to ſet forth his object with all the ad⯑vantages of language. Poetry and oratory were equally ſolicited to animate and to adorn the portrait of the prieſt: in conſequence of which, he is attended from the ſanctuary to the altar, by all the images and inſtruments of the Sub⯑lime and Beautiful. Behold him thus ſurrounded—examine the whole ſcene as it paſſes before your eye, and you will pronounce it [152]uniformly admirable. He is de⯑ſcribed as coming out of the ſanc⯑tuary amidſt the acclamations of the people. The word honoured, is a moſt dignified addition to the greatneſs of his character—Let us, for a moment, leave out this ſin⯑gle word, and ſee how the idea diminiſhes: ‘He was in the midſt of the people in his coming out of the ſanctuary.’ How poor! Reſtore to the ſentence its full compliment, and the deſign of the writer, as well as the excellence of the object, is complete. ‘He was honoured in the very midſt of the people.’ The next allu⯑ſion carries him higher ſtill. ‘He [153]was as the morning ſtar in the midſt of a cloud.’ No ſooner was he out of the ſanctuary, than his noble and majeſtic figure was diſtinguiſhable from the reſt of the multitude, ‘as the morning ſtar in the midſt of a cloud.’ The alluſion to the cloud, hath alſo the advantage of a double propriety, being, in a metaphorical ſenſe, aptly deſigned to repreſent the thickneſs, and duſky appearance of the admiring multitude. Some of the ſucceeding alluſions were admitted to give the high prieſt the qualities of amiableneſs, as well as grandeur. ‘He was as the flower of roſes in the ſpring of [154]the year: as lilies by the rivers of waters; and as the frankin⯑cenſe-tree in ſummer.’ All theſe are expreſſive rather of love⯑lineſs than magnificence, and are connected, rather, with the Beau⯑tiful, than with the Sublime. Yet, mark how they are heightened, and what ſuperior attractions they poſſeſs, by certain delicate ſtrokes, not to be ſeen in the ordinary ſketches of common poets. Theſe would have thought it ſufficient to have compared him to roſes, lilies, and the frankincenſe-tree. Not ſo the ſon of Sirach. He painted the ſon of Onias with more exqui⯑ſite colouring—he drew him with [155]a more maſterly pencil. The roſes to which he was compared, were the roſes of the ſpring, a ſeaſon of the year when thoſe flowers are more particularly ſweet and cap⯑tivating—the lilies, which, in a fugurative ſenſe, reſembled him, were thoſe which derived more ele⯑gance from their ſituation by the rivers of waters, and, whatever perfumes belong to the frankin⯑cenſe-tree, our poet preſented it to us, in the pride of ſummer, when its beauties would naturally be in bloſſom. Beſides this, there ap⯑pears a coherence in theſe allu⯑ſions, which may eſcape us at firſt. They ſeem to aim at the diſplay [156]of the moral character of the high prieſt. "A good name," ſays the ſcripture, "ſmelleth ſweet." How proper, therefore, is Simon com⯑pared to the fragrance of roſes, and other odoriferous ſhrubs. Li⯑lies have ever been emblematic of innocence, and purity. The agree⯑ment of the alluſion is, therefore, exact here alſo. Thus might I proceed to obſerve the moral as well as deſcriptive propriety of comparing him with the reſt. But it is wholly unneceſſary. The abrupt and animated tranſition from one image to another, in this deſcription, are ſo many noble in⯑ſtances of the Sublime and Beau⯑tiful. [157]What a divine glow, and what incomparable dignity is of⯑fered to us in the following paſſage, where the figures are changed, and the alluſions altered in a moment. When he put on the robe of ho⯑nour, and was cloathed with the perfection of glory; when he went up to the holy altar, he made the garment of holineſs honourable.— Had Longinus been now to reviſe his golden treatiſe, he would aſ⯑ſuredly have inſerted this paſſage amongſt his examples of the ge⯑nuine Sublime; becauſe it boaſts of every property, which, agree⯑able to his own definition, belongs thereto.

[158] "That" ſays he, ‘is grand and lofty, which the more we con⯑ſider, the greater ideas we con⯑ceive of it: whoſe force we cannot poſſibly withſtand; which immediately finks deep, and makes ſuch impreſſions on the mind, as cannot eaſily be worn out or effaced.’ Never were theſe precepts better illuſtrated than by the deſcription of Simon the ſon of Onias. The more we conſider him, the greater is our conception of his grandeur, his virtue, and the veneration which attends it. From the time that he iſſues from the ſanctuary amidſt the honours of the people, to his [159]ſtanding by the ‘altar compaſſed by his brethren,’ he riſes upon us with a force and a ſuperiority, which ‘cannot poſſibly be with⯑ſtood,’ and which makes upon the mind an indelible impreſſion. In vain ſhall we look amongſt other poets and orators for a rival deſcription ſo excellent throughout.

Mr. Burke ^* indeed, hath [160]brought one from an author ^* the moſt likely to furniſh it: but, al⯑though ſome of the alluſion may be equal, others are very much inferior, and taken upon the whole, cannot bear the brightneſs of the compariſon.

I have already obſerved, that the deſcriptions of Oſſian breathe ſometimes, a ſublimity truly ſcrip⯑tural; and I have already, in a former eſſay, given an inſtance.

But as was before noted, when parallel paſſages are produced by way of compariſon from the ſcrip⯑tures, [161]the pictures of the author of Fingal are only in ſhadow, and muſt ever ſtand in the back ground of criticiſm. The following allu⯑ſions would be very capital, if the imagination of the reader had not been previouſly charmed by thoſe which have been the ſubject of our preſent Eſſay.

‘Far before the reſt, the ſon of Oſſian comes; bright in the ſmiles of youth, fair as the firſt beams of the ſun. His long hair waves on his back: his dark brow is half hid beneath his helmet: the ſword hangs looſe on the hero's ſide: and his ſpear [162]glitters as he moves: I fled from his terrible eye.’ This is intereſting, warm, and warlike; but I again refer every reader of taſte to the text. The ſacred penmen ſurpaſs all writers, gene⯑rally ſpeaking, in point of figure, ſentiment, alluſion, narration, and every other property of perfect compoſition. Diſtributed up and down the Old and New Teſta⯑ment, there a thouſand paſſages more than I have now leiſure to contemplate, which utterly anni⯑hilate any thing that can be brought from the ſtores of ancient or modern learning.—I conclude theſe little ſketches, which are [163]only intended as an introduction to more, with the ſelection of a few paſſages from different parts of thoſe moſt admirable volumes.

‘O Lord my God thou art very great, thou art cloathed with honour and majeſty: who covereſt thyſelf with light as with a garment: who ſtretcheſt out the Heavens like a curtain: who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters: who maketh the clouds his chariot: who walketh upon the wings of the wind. Thou coveredſt it with the deep as with a gar⯑ment: the waters ſtood above [164]the mountains—at thy rebuke they fled; at the voice of thy thunder they haſted away.’— What inexpreſſible ſublimity in every one of theſe thoughts, and with how much accuracy the dic⯑tion is adapted to diſplay them! What ideas can exceed thoſe of the Deity's covering himſelf in a mantle of light, mounting his cloudy chariot, and walking on the wings of the wind?

The aſcending ſeries, is in this paſſage, very judiciouſly preſerv⯑ed; the whole ſentiment is a glo⯑rious gradation from great, to greater, and from that to the laſt [165]poſitive degree of the climax. I beg the reader to mark the riſe of the expreſſions as he repeats them. There is alſo a parti⯑cular beauty here, in the ſudden tranſition from one perſon to ano⯑ther—‘Who walketh upon the wings of the wind;’ and then inſtantly altering the addreſs to—‘Thou coveredſt it with a deep as with a garment.’

But a ſecond example courts our admiration, and that of ſo high and exalted a nature, that a reader of true taſte, and a real ſenſe of religion, will hardly bear to engage his time in looking at [166]minor or modern authors; while ſome, probably, who have been prejudiced againſt the Bible, will be ſurprized to find ſuch admira⯑ble, and unequalled writing in a book, which they have been taught to conſider as a dull, unintereſting code of maxims, proverbs, and ordinary ſentiments.

‘Whither ſhall I go from thy ſpirit? Or whither ſhall I flee from thy preſence? If I aſcend up into Heaven, thou art there: If I make my bed in Hell, be⯑hold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermoſt parts of [167]the ſea: even there ſhall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand ſhall hold me. If I ſay, ſurely the darkneſs ſhall cover me, even the night ſhall be light about me. Yea, the darkneſs hideth not from thee; but the night ſhineth as the day: the darkneſs and the light are both alike to thee.’ In ſhort, this, and various other portions of the ſa⯑cred books, as infinitely exceed Homer, as Homer ſurpaſſes Black⯑more. There is a verſe or two uſed in the burial of the dead (than which there never was a ſublimer, more ſerious, or more ſuitable ceremony). Oſſian hath [168]alſo touched the ſame ſubject, but the ſacred writer hath ten times the ſimplicity, and is abundantly more correct in the metaphors; beſides that, the alluſions are truer to nature and familiar life.

‘A thouſand years in thy fight, O Lord, are but as yeſterday: ſeeing that is paſt as a watch in the night. As ſoon as thou ſcattereſt them, they are even as a ſleep, and fade away ſuddenly, like the graſs. In the morn⯑ing it is green and groweth up; but in the evening it is cut down, dried up, and withered.’

[169] Were we to run the parallel be⯑tween this paſſage and that quoted from Oſſian, the inferiority of the latter would, perhaps, not be very agreeable to the admirers of that pictureſque bard. To ſpeak im⯑partially, it is ſcarcely giving any profane writers, however popular, fair play, in comparing them with thoſe Sublime, Beautiful, and Pa⯑thetic compoſitions, which are the objects of the preſent volumes: on the other hand, thoſe compoſitions themſelves, have ſo ſeldom fair play ſhewn to them, while many flimſy, frivolous, or bombaſtic per⯑formances, run away with the huzza of the multitude, that hav⯑ing [170]had the laſh of juſtice in hand, it was but right to uſe it a little; eſpecially as it formed an impor⯑tant part of my ſubject, to vindi⯑cate the Scriptures from negli⯑gence, and to hold them up as the patterns of purity, perſpicuity, and all the ſources of the true Sub⯑lime.

Theſe ſources branch out, ac⯑cording to Longinus, into the fol⯑lowing diviſions:

It hath been my endeavour in this work, to try certain paſſages in the SACRED WRITINGS, by the teſt of Longinus's principles. I ſhall account myſelf ſingularly for⯑tunate if ſuch endeavours have, in [173]any degree, done a ſervice to com⯑poſitions, which are ſo able to ſup⯑port the trial; but whoſe beau⯑ties and ſublimities, though thickly ſcattered through almoſt every page, are ſo ſhamefully neglected, or miſunderſtood, merely, it is feared, becauſe they are of a devo⯑tional, as well as of a poetical na⯑ture.