[]THE BEAUTIES OF STERNE.

THE PRECEPTOR.

YOU ſee 'tis high time, ſaid my father, addreſſ⯑ing himſelf equally to my uncle Toby and Yorick, to take this young creature out of theſe womens' hands, and put him into thoſe of a private governor.

Now as I conſider the perſon who is to be about my ſon, as the mirror in which he is to view himſelf from morning to night, and by which he is to adjuſt his looks, his carriage, and perhaps the inmoſt ſentiments of his heart;—I would have one, Yorick, if poſſible, poliſhed at all points, fit for my child to look into.

There is, continued my father, a certain mien and motion of the body and all its parts, both in acting and ſpeaking, which argues a man well [2] within. There are a thouſand unnoticed openings, continued my father, which let a penetrating eye at once into a man's ſoul; and I maintain it, add⯑ed he, that a man of ſenſe does not lay down his hat in coming into a room,—or take it up in go⯑ing out of it, but ſomething eſcapes, which diſco⯑vers him.

I will have him, continued my father, cheerful, faceté, jovial; at the ſame time, prudent, atten⯑tive to buſineſs, vigilant, acute, argute, inventive, quick in reſolving doubts and ſpeculative queſtions;—he ſhall be wiſe and judicious, and learned:—And why not humble, and moderate, and gentle tempered, and good? ſaid Yorick;—And why not, cried my uncle Toby, free, and generous, and bountiful, and brave?—He ſhall, my dear Toby, replied my father, getting up and ſhaking him by his hand.—Then, brother Shandy, anſwered my uncle Toby, raiſing himſelf off the chair, and lay⯑ing down his pipe to take hold of my father's other hand,—I humbly beg I may recommend poor Le Fever's ſon to you;—a tear of joy of the firſt water ſparkled in my uncle Toby's eye,—and another, the fellow to it, in the Coporal's, as the propoſition was made;—you will ſee why when you read Le Fever's ſtory.

THE STORY OF LE FEVER.

IT was ſome time in the ſummer of that year in which Dendermond was taken by the allies; when my uncle Toby was one evening getting his ſupper, with Trim ſitting behind him at a ſmall ſideboard,—I ſay ſitting—for in conſideration of the Corporal's lame knee (which ſometimes gave him exquiſite pain)—when my uncle Toby dined or ſupped alone he would never ſuffer the Corporal to ſtand; and the poor fellow's veneration for his maſter was ſuch, that with a proper artillery, my uncle Toby could have taken Dendermond itſelf, with leſs trouble than he was able to gain this point over him; for many a time when my uncle Toby ſuppoſed the Corporal's leg was at reſt, he would look back, and detect him ſtanding behind him with the moſt dutiful reſpect: this bred more little ſquabbles betwixt them, than all other cauſes for five-and-twenty years together—But this is neither here nor there—why do I mention it?—Aſk my pen,—it governs me,—I govern not it.

[4] He was one evening ſitting thus at his ſupper, when 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 gen⯑tleman,—I think of the army, ſaid the landlord, who has been taken ill at my houſe four days ago, and has never held up his head ſince, or had a de⯑ſire 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, or 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 compaſ⯑ſionate fellow—Trim,—yet I cannot help enter⯑taining [5] a high opinion of his gueſt too; there muſt be ſomething more than 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 concerned 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 ſtir⯑red from the bedſide theſe two days.

My uncle Toby laid down his knife and fork, and thruſt his plate from before him, as the land⯑lord 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.

Trim! ſaid my uncle Toby, I have a project in my head, as it is a bad night, of wrapping myſelf [6] up warm in my roquelaure, and paying a viſit to this poor gentleman.—Your honour's roquelaure, replied the Corporal, has not once been had on, ſince the night before your honour received 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 roque⯑laure, and what with the weather, it will 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 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 ſor thee to drink with his ſervant.—I ſhall get it all out of him ſaid the Corporal, ſhutting the door.

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

[7] I deſpaired, at firſt, ſaid the Corporal, of being able to bring back your honour any kind of intelli⯑gence concerning 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 will fill another pipe, ſaid my uncle Toby, and not interrupt thee till thou haſt done; ſo ſit down at thy eaſe, Trim, in the win⯑dow-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 began 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 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 himſelf unable to proceed, (to join, I [8] ſuppoſe, the regiment), he had diſmiſſed the morn⯑ing 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 Cor⯑poral, 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 gentle⯑man, 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 myſelf.—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.

[9] —I never in the longeſt march, ſaid the Cor⯑poral, 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 na⯑tured fellow.

When I gave him the toaſt, Continued the Cor⯑poral, I thought it was proper to tell him I was Captain 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 comſort the youth.—I thought it 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 [10] 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 his 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; haraſſed, perhaps, in his rear to-day;—haraſſing others to⯑morrow;—detached here;—countermanded there;—reſting this night out upon his arms;—beat up [11] in his ſhirt the next;—benumbed in his joints;—perhaps without ſtraw in his tent to kneel on;—muſt ſay his prayers how and when he can.—I believe, ſaid I,—for I was piqued, quoth the Corporal, for the reputation of the army, I believe an' 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 ſhouldſt 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 judgment, (and not till then)—it will be 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 com⯑fort, 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 enquired 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 the ſtory.

[12] 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 raiſed upon his hand, with his elbow upon the pillow, and a clean white cambrick handkerchief beſide it:—The youth was juſt ſtooping down to take up the cuſhion, upon which I ſuppoſed he had been kneeling,—the book was laid upon the bed,—and as he roſe, in taking up the cuſhion with one hand, he reached 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 his bed-ſide:—If you are Cap⯑tain Shandy's ſervant, ſaid he, you muſt preſent my thanks to your maſter. with my little boy's thanks along with them, for his courteſy to me;—if he was of Levens's—ſaid the Lieutenant.—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, how⯑ever, that the perſon his good nature has laid un⯑der obligations to him, is one Le Fever, a Lieute⯑nant in Angus's—but he knows me not,—ſaid he, [13] 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 unfortu⯑nately killed with a muſket ſhot, as ſhe lay in my arms in my tent.—I remember the ſtory, an' pleaſe your honour, ſaid I, very well.—Do you ſo? ſaid he, wiping his eyes with his handker⯑chief,—then well may I.—In ſaying this, he drew a little ring out of his boſom, which ſeemed tied with a black ribband about his neck, and kiſs'd 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 concerned;—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,—and particu⯑larly well that he, as well as ſhe, upon ſome account [14] or other, (I forget what,) was univerſally pitied by the whole regiment;—but finiſh the ſtory thou art upon:—'Tis finiſhed already, ſaid the Corporal,—for I could ſtay no longer,—ſo wiſhed his honour a good night; young Le Fever 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 join the regi⯑ment 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, that he ſet aſide every other concern, and only conſi⯑dered how he himſelf ſhould relieve the poor Lieu⯑tenant and his ſon.

—That kind BEING, who is a friend to the friend⯑leſs, ſhall recompence 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 Fever,—as ſickneſs and travelling are both expenſive, and thou knoweſt he was but a poor [15] Lieutenant, with a ſon to ſubſiſt as well as himſelf out of his pay,—that thou didſt not make an offer to him of my purſe; becauſe, had he ſtood in need, thou knoweſt, Trim, he had been as welcome to it as myſelf.—Your honour knows, ſaid the Cor⯑poral, I had no orders;—True, quoth my uncle Toby,—thou didſt very right, Trim, as a ſoldier,—but certainly very wrong as a man.

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 [16] 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 hea⯑ven'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 it out for ever.

—My uncle Toby went to his bureau,—put his purſe into his breeches pocket, and having or⯑dered 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 Fever's and his af⯑flicted ſon's; the hand of death preſs'd heavy upon [17] his eye-lids,—and hardly could the wheel at the ciſtern turn round its circle,—when my uncle Toby, who had roſe up an hour before his wonted time, entered the Lieutenant's room, and without pre⯑face or apology, ſat himſelf down upon the chair by the bed-ſide, and independently of all modes and cuſtoms, opened the curtain in the manner 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 without giving him time to anſwer any one of the 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 Fever, ſaid 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 Fever.

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, [18] ſuperadded, which eternally beckoned to the un⯑fortunate 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 Fever, 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 mo⯑ment,—he looked up wiſhfully in my uncle Toby's face,—then caſt a look upon his boy,—and that ligament, fine as it was,—was never broken.—

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

All that is neceſſary to be added is as follows—

That my uncle Toby, with young Le Fever in his hand, attended the poor Lieutenant, as chief mourners, to his grave.

When my uncle Toby had turned every thing into money, and ſettled all accounts betwixt the [19] agent of the regiment and Le Fever, and betwixt Le Fever and all mankind,—there remained no⯑thing more in my uncle Toby's hands, than an old regimental coat and a ſword; ſo that my uncle Toby found little or no oppoſition from the world in taking adminiſtration. The coat my uncle Toby gave the Corpora;—Wear it, Trim, ſaid my uncle Toby as long as it will hold together, for the ſake of the poor Lieutenant—And this, ſaid my uncle Toby, taking up the ſword in his hand, and drawing it out of the ſcabbard as he ſpoke—and this, Le Fever, I'll ſave for thee—'tis all the fortune, continued my uncle Toby, hanging it up upon a crook, and pointing to it,—'tis all the fortune, my dear Le Fever, which God has leſt thee; but if he has given thee a heart to fight thy way with it in the world,—and thou doeſt it like a man of honour,—'tis enough for us.

As ſoon as my uncle Toby had laid a foundation, he ſent him to a public ſchool, where, excepting Whitſuntide and Chriſtmas, at which times the Corporal was punctually diſpatched for him,—he remained to the ſpring of the year, ſeventeen; when the ſtories of the Emperor's ſending his army into Hungary againſt the Turks, kindling a ſpark of fire in his boſom, he left his Greek and Latin [20] without leave, and throwing himſelf upon his knees before my uncle Toby, begged his father's ſword, and my uncle Toby's leave along with it, to go and try his fortune under Eugene.—Twice did my uncle Toby forget his wound, and cry out, Le Fever! I will go with thee, and thou ſhalt fight beſide me—And twice he laid his hand upon his groin, and hung down his head in ſorrow and diſconſolation.—

My uncle Toby took down the ſword from the crook, where it had hung untouched ever ſince the Lieutenant's death, and delivered it to the Corporal to brighten up;—and having detained Le Fever a ſingle fortnight to equip him, and contract for his paſſage to Leghorn,—he put the ſword into his hand,—If thou art brave, Le Fever, ſaid my uncle Toby, this will not fail thee,—but Fortune, ſaid he, (muſing a little)—Fortune may—And if ſhe does,—added my uncle Toby, embracing him, come back again to me, Le Fever, and we will ſhape thee another courſe.

The greateſt injury could not have oppreſſed the heart of Le Fever more than my uncle Toby's pa⯑ternal kindneſs;—he parted from my uncle Toby, as the beſt of ſons from the beſt of fathers—both dropped tears—and as my uncle Toby gave him [21] his laſt kiſs, he ſlipped ſixty guineas, tied up in an old purſe of his father's, in which was his mother's ring, into his hand,—and bid God bleſs him.

Le Fever got up to the Imperial army juſt time enough to try what metal his ſword was made of, at the defeat of the Turks before Belgrade; but a ſeries of unmerited miſchances had purſued him from that moment, and trod cloſe upon his heels for four years together after: he had withſtood theſe buſſetings to the laſt, till ſickneſs overtook him at Marſeilles, from whence he wrote my uncle Toby word, he had loſt his time, his ſervices, his health, and, in ſhort, every thing but his ſword;—and was waiting for the firſt ſhip to return back to him

Le Fever was hourly expected; and was upper⯑moſt in my uncle Toby's mind all the time my father was giving him and Yorick a deſcription of what kind of a perſon he would chooſe for a precep⯑tor to me: but as my uncle Toby thought my father at firſt ſomewhat fanciful in the accompliſh⯑ments he required, he forbore mentioning Le Fever's name,—till the character, by Yorick's inter⯑poſition, ending unexpectedly, in one, who ſhould be gentle tempered, and generous, and good, it im⯑preſſed [22] the image of Le Fever, and his intereſt upon my uncle Toby ſo forcibly, he roſe inſtantly off his chair; and laying down his pipe, in order to take hold of both my father's hands—I beg, brother Shandy, ſaid my uncle Toby, I may recommend poor Le Fever's ſon to you—I beſeech you, do, added Yorick—He has a good heart, ſaid my uncle Toby—And a brave one too, an' pleaſe your honour, ſaid the Corporal.

—The beſt hearts, Trim, are ever the braveſt, replied my uncle Toby.

THE PULSE.

PARIS.

HAIL ye ſmall ſweet courteſies of life, for ſmooth do ye make the road of it! like grace and beauty which beget inclinations to love at firſt ſight: 'tis ye who open this door and let the ſtranger in.

—Pray, Madame, ſaid I, have the goodneſs to tell me which way I muſt turn to go to the Opera Comique:—Moſt willingly, Monſieur, ſaid ſhe, lay⯑ing aſide her work—

I had given a caſt with my eye into half a dozen ſhops as I came along in ſearch of a face not likely to be diſordered by ſuch an interruption; till at laſt, this hitting my fancy, I had walked in.

She was working a pair of ruffles as ſhe ſat in a low chair on the far ſide of the ſhop facing the door—

—Tres volontiers: moſt willingly, ſaid ſhe, lay⯑ing her work down upon a chair next her, and [24] riſing up from the low chair ſhe was ſitting in, with ſo cheerful a movement and ſo cheerful a look, that had I been laying out fifty louis d'ors with her, I ſhould have ſaid—"This woman is grateful."

You muſt turn, Monſieur, ſaid ſhe, going with me to the door of the ſhop, and pointing the way down the ſtreet I was to take—you muſt turn firſt to your left hand—mais prenez garde—there are two turns; and be ſo good as to take the ſecond—then go down a little way and you'll ſee a church, and when you are paſt it, give yourſelf the trouble to turn directly to the right, and that will lead you to the foot of the pont neuf, which you muſt croſs—and there any one will do himſelf the pleaſure to ſhew you—

She repeated her inſtructions three times over to me with the ſame good natured patience the third time as the firſt;—and if tones and manners have a meaning, which certainly they have, unleſs to hearts which ſhut them out—ſhe ſeemed really intereſted, that I ſhould not loſe myſelf.

I will not ſuppoſe it was the woman's beauty, notwithſtanding ſhe was the handſomeſt Griſſet, I think, I ever ſaw, which had much to do with the [25] ſenſe I had of her courteſy; only I remember, when I told her how much I was obliged to her, that I looked very full in her eyes,—and that I repeated my thanks as often as ſhe had done her inſtructions.

I had not got ten paces from the door, before I found I had forgot every tittle of what ſhe had ſaid—ſo looking back, and ſeeing her ſtill ſtanding in the door of the ſhop as if to look whether I went right or not—I returned back, to aſk her whether the firſt turn was to my right or left—for that I had abſo⯑lutely forgot.—Is it poſſible! ſaid ſhe, half laughing.—'Tis very poſſible, replied I, when a man is think⯑ing more of a woman, than of her good advice.

As this was the real truth—ſhe took it, as every woman takes a matter of right, with a ſlight courteſy.

—Attendez, ſaid ſhe, laying her hand upon my arm to detain me, whilſt ſhe called a lad out of the back-ſhop to get ready a parcel of gloves. am juſt going to ſend him, ſaid ſhe, with a packet into that quarter, and if you will have the complai⯑ſance to ſtep in, it will be ready in a moment, and he ſhall attend you to the place.—So I walked in with her to the far ſide of the ſhop, and taking up [26] the ruffle in my hand which ſhe laid upon the chair, as if I had a mind to ſit, ſhe ſat down herſelf in her low chair, and I inſtantly ſat myſelf down be⯑ſide her.

—He will be ready, Monſieur, ſaid ſhe, in a moment—And in that moment, replied I, moſt willingly would I ſay ſomething very civil to you for all theſe courteſies. Any one may do a caſual act of good nature, but a continuation of them ſhews it is a part of the temperature; and certainly, added I, if it is the ſame blood which comes from the heart, which deſcends to the ex⯑tremes (touching her wriſt), I am ſure you muſt have one of the beſt pulſes of any woman in the world—Feel it, ſaid ſhe, holding out her arm. So laying down my hat, I took hold of her fingers in one hand, and applied the two ſore-fingers of my other to the artery—

—Would to heaven! my dear Eugenius, thou hadſt paſſed by, and beheld me ſitting in my black coat, and in my lack-aday-ſical manner, counting the throbs of it, one by one, with as much true devotion as if I had been watching the critical ebb or flow of her fever—How wouldſt thou have laugh'd and moralized upon my new profeſſion— [27] and thou ſhouldſt have laugh'd and moralized on—Truſt me, my dear Eugenius, I ſhould have ſaid, "there are worſe occupations in this world than feeling a woman's pulſe."—But a Griſſet's! thou wouldſt have ſaid—and in an open ſhop! Yorick—

—So much the better: for when my views are direct, Eugenius, I care not if all the world ſaw me feel it.

I had counted twenty pulſations, and was going on faſt towards the fortieth, when her huſband coming unexpected from a back parlour into the ſhop, put me a little out of my reckoning.—'Twas nobody but her huſband, ſhe ſaid,—ſo I began a freſh ſcore—Monſieur is ſo good, quoth ſhe, as he paſs'd by us, as to give himſelf the trouble of feeling my pulſe—The huſband took off his hat, and making a bow, ſaid I did him too much honour—and having ſaid that, he put on his hat and walked out.

Good God! ſaid I to myſelf, as he went out—and can this man be the huſband of this woman?

[28] Let it not torment the few who know what muſt have been the grounds of this exclamation, if I ex⯑plain it to thoſe who do not.

In London a ſhop-keeper and a ſhop-keeper's wife ſeem to be one bone and one fleſh: in the ſeveral endowments of mind and body, ſometimes the one, ſometimes the other has it, ſo as in general to be upon a par, and to tally with each other as nearly as man and wife need to do.

In Paris, there are ſcarce two orders of beings more different: for the legiſlative and executive powers of the ſhop not reſting in the huſband, he ſeldom comes there—in ſome dark and diſmal room behind, he ſits commerceleſs in his thrum night-cap, the ſame rough ſon of Nature that Nature left him.

The genius of a people where nothing but the monarchy is ſalique, having ceded this department, with ſundry others, totally to the women—by a continual higgling with cuſtomers of all ranks and ſizes from morning to night, like ſo many rough pebbles ſhook long together in a bag, by amicable colliſions they have worn down their aſperities and ſharp angles, and not only become round and [29] ſmooth, but will receive, ſome of them, a poliſh like a brilliant—Monſieur Le Marli is little better than the ſtone under your foot—

—Surely—ſurely, man! it is not good for thee to ſit alone—thou waſt made for ſocial intercourſe and gentle greetings, and this improve⯑ment of our natures from it, I appeal to, as my evidence.

—And how does it beat, Monſieur? ſaid ſhe.—With all the benignity, ſaid I, looking quietly in her eyes, that I expected—She was going to ſay ſome⯑thing civil in return—but the lad came into the ſhop with the gloves—A propos, ſaid I, I want a couple of pair myſelf.

The beautiful Griſſet roſe up when I ſaid this, and going behind the counter, reached down a parcel and untied it: I advanced to the ſide over againſt her: they were all too large. The beauti⯑ful Griſſet meaſured them one by one acroſs my hand—It would not alter the dimenſions—She begged I would try a ſingle pair, which ſeemed to be the leaſt—She held it open—my hand ſlipped into it at once—It will not do, ſaid I, ſhaking my head a little—No, ſaid ſhe, doing the ſame thing.

[30] There are certain combined looks of ſimple ſubtlety—where whim, and ſenſe, and ſeriouſ⯑neſs, and nonſenſe, are ſo blended, that all the languages of Babel ſet looſe together could not ex⯑preſs them—they are communicated and caught ſo inſtantaneouſly, that you can ſcarce ſay which party is the infector. I leave it to your men of words to ſwell pages about it—it is enough in the preſent to ſay again, the gloves would not do; ſo folding our hands within our arms, we both loll'd upon the counter—it was narrow, and there was juſt room for the parcel to lay between us

The beautiful Griſſet looked ſometimes at the gloves, then ſide-ways to the window, then at the gloves—and then at me. I was not diſpoſed to break ſilence—I followed her example: ſo I looked at the gloves, then to the window, then at the gloves, and then at her—and ſo on alternately.

I found I loſt conſiderably in every attack—ſhe had a quick black eye, and ſhot through two ſuch long and ſilken eye-laſhes with ſuch penetration, that ſhe looked into my very heart and reins—It may ſeem ſtrange, but I could actually feel ſhe did—

[31] It is no matter, ſaid I, taking up a couple of the pairs next me, and putting them into my pocket.

I was ſenſible the beautiful Griſſet had not aſk'd above a ſingle livre above the price—I wiſh'd ſhe had aſk'd a livre more, and was puzzling my brains how to bring the matter about—Do you think, my dear Sir, ſaid ſhe, miſtaking my embarraſſment, that I could aſk a ſous too much of a ſtranger—and of a ſtranger whoſe politeneſs, more than his want of gloves, has done me the honour to lay himſelf at my mercy?—M'en croyez capable?—Faith! not I, ſaid I; and if you were, you are welcome—ſo counting the money into her hand, and with a lower bow than one generally makes to a ſhopkeeper's wife, I went out, and her lad with his parcel followed me.

THE PIE-MAN.

SEEING a man ſtanding with a baſket on the other ſide of a ſtreet, in Verſailles, as if he had ſomething to ſell, I bid La Fleur go up to him and enquire for the Count de B***'s hotel.

La Fleur returned a little pale: and told me it was a Chevalier de St. Louis ſelling patés—It is im⯑poſſible, La Fleur! ſaid I.—La Fleur could no more account for the phenomenon than myſelf; but perſiſted in his ſtory: he had ſeen the croix ſet in gold, with its red ribband, he ſaid, tied to his button-hole—and had looked into his baſket and ſeen the patés which the Chevalier was ſelling; ſo could not be miſtaken in that.

Such a reverſe in a man's life awakens a better principle than curioſity: I could not help looking for ſome time at him as I ſat in the remiſe—the more I looked at him, his croix and his baſket, the ſtronger they wove themſelves into my brain—I got out of the remiſe and went towards him.

[33] He was begirt with a clean linen apron which fell below his knees, and with a ſort of a bib which went half way up his breaſt; upon the top of this, but a little below the hem, hung his croix. His baſket of little patés was covered over with a white damaſk napkin; another of the ſame kind was ſpread at the bottom; and there was a look of propreté and neatneſs throughout; that one might have bought his patés of him, as much from appe⯑tite as ſentiment.

He made an offer of them to neither; but ſtood ſtill with them at the corner of a hotel, for thoſe to buy who choſe it, without ſolicitation.

He was about forty-eight—of a ſedatelook, ſome⯑thing approaching to gravity. I did not wonder.—I went up rather to the baſket than him, and hav⯑ing lifted up the napkin and taken one of his patés into my hand—I begg'd he would explain the ap⯑pearance which affected me.

He told me in a few words, that the beſt part of his life had paſſed in the ſervice, in which, after ſpending a ſmall patrimony, he had obtained a company and the croix with it; but that, at the concluſion of the laſt peace, his regiment being [34] reformed, and the whole corps, with thoſe of ſome other regiments, left without any proviſion,—he found himſelf in a wide world without friends, without a livre—and indeed, ſaid he, without any thing but this—(pointing, as he ſaid it, to his croix)—The poor Chevalier won my pity, and he finiſhed the ſcene with winning my eſteem too.

The king, he ſaid, was the moſt generous of princes, but his generoſity could neither relieve or reward every one, and it was only his misfor⯑tune to be amongſt the number. He had a little wiſe, he ſaid, whom he loved, who did the patiſ⯑ſerie; and added, he felt no diſhonour in defend⯑ing her and himſelf from want in this way—un⯑leſs providence had offered him a better.

It would be wicked to withhold a pleaſure from the good, in paſſing over what happened to this poor Chevalier of St. Louis about nine months after.

It ſeems he uſually took his ſtand near the iron gates which lead up to the palace, and as his croix had caught the eyes of numbers, numbers had made the ſame enquiry which I had done— [35] He had told them the ſame ſtory, and always with ſo much modeſty and good ſenſe, that it had reached at laſt the King's ears—who hearing the Chevalier had been a gallant officer, and re⯑ſpected by the whole regiment as a man of honour and integrity—he broke up his little trade by a penſion of fifteen hundred livres a year.

As I have told this to pleaſe the reader, I beg he will allow me to relate another, out of its order, to pleaſe myſelf—the two ſtories reflect light upon each other—and 'tis a pity they ſhould be parted.

THE SWORD.

RENNES.

WHEN ſtates and empires have their periods of declenſion, and feel in their turns what diſtreſs and poverty is—I ſtop not to tell the cauſes which gradually brought the houſe d'E**** in Britanny into decay. The Marquis d'E**** had fought up againſt his condition with great firm⯑neſs; wiſhing to preſerve, and ſtill ſhew to the world, ſome little fragments of what his anceſtors had been—their indiſcretions had put it out of his power. There was enough left for the little exigencies of obſcurity—But he had two boys who looked up to him for light—he thought they deſerved it. He had tried his ſword—it could not open the way—the mounting was too expen⯑ſive—and ſimple oeconomy was not a match for it—there was no reſource but commerce.

In any other province in France, ſave Britanny, this was ſmiting the root for ever of the little tree his pride and affection wiſhed to ſee re-bloſſom— [37] But in Britanny, there being a proviſion for this, he availed himſelf of it; and taking an occaſion when the ſtates were aſſembled at Rennes, the Marquis, attended with his two ſons, entered the court; and having pleaded the right of an ancient law of the duchy, which, though ſeldom claimed, he ſaid, was no leſs in force; he took his ſword from his ſide—Here, ſaid he, take it; and be truſty guardians of it, till better times put me in condition to reclaim it.

The preſident accepted the Marquis's ſword—he ſtaid a few minutes to ſee it depoſited in the archives of his houſe, and departed.

The Marquis and his whole family embarked the next day for Martinico, and in about nineteen or twenty years of ſucceſsful application to buſi⯑neſs, with ſome unlooked for bequeſts from diſtant branches of his houſe—returned home to reclaim his nobility and to ſupport it.

It was an incident of good fortune which will never happen to any traveller, but a ſentimental one, that I ſhould be at Rennes at the very time of this ſolemn requiſition: I call it ſolemn—it was ſo to me.

[38] The Marquis entered the court with his whole family: he ſupported his lady—his eldeſt ſon ſup⯑ported his ſiſter, and his youngeſt was at the other extreme of the line next his mother—he put his handkerchief to his face twice—

—There was a dead ſilence. When the Marquis had approached within ſix paces of the tribunal, he gave the Marchioneſs to his youngeſt ſon, and advancing three ſteps before his family—he reclaimed his ſword.—His ſword was given him, and the moment he got it into his hand he drew it almoſt out of the ſcabbard—it was the ſhining face of a friend he had once given up—he looked attentively a long it, beginning at the hilt, as if to ſee whether it was the ſame—when obſerving a little ruſt which it had contracted near the point, he brought it near his eye, and bending his head down over it—I think I ſaw a tear fall upon the place: I could not be deceived by what followed.

"I ſhall find, ſaid he, ſome other way, to get it off."

When the Marquis had ſaid this, he return⯑ed his ſword into its ſcabbard, made a bow to [39] the guardians of it—and, with his wife and daughter, and his two ſons following him, walked out.

O how I envied him his feelings!

THE ASS.

I WAS ſtopped at the gate of Lyons by a poor aſs, who had juſt turned in with a couple of large panniers upon his back, to collect eleemoſy⯑nary turnip-tops, and cabbage-leaves; and ſtood dubious, with his two fore-feet on the inſide of the threſhold, and with his two hinder feet towards the ſtreet, as not knowing very well whether he was to go in, or no.

Now, 'tis an animal (be in what hurry I may) I cannot bear to ſtrike—there is a patient endurance of ſufferings, wrote ſo unaffectedly in his looks and carriage, which pleads ſo mightily for him, that it always diſarms me; and to that degree, that I [40] do not like to ſpeak unkindly to him: on the con⯑trary, meet him where I will—whether in town or country—in cart or under panniers—whether in liberty or bondage—I have ever ſomething civil to ſay to him on my part; and as one word begets another (if he has as little to do as I)—I generally fall into converſation with him; and ſurely never is my imagination ſo buſy, as in framing his re⯑ſponſes from the etchings of his countenance—and where thoſe carry me not deep enough—in flying from my own heart into his, and ſeeing what is natural for an aſs to think—as well as a man, upon the occaſion.—In truth, it is the only creature of all the claſſes of beings below me, with whom I can do this:—for parrots, jackdaws, &c. I never exchange a word with them—nor with the apes, &c. for pretty near the ſame reaſon; they act by rote, as the others ſpeak by it, and equally make me ſilent: nay my dog and my cat, though I value them both—(and for my dog he would ſpeak if he could)—yet ſome how or other, they neither of them poſſeſs the talents for converſa⯑tion—I can make nothing of a diſcourſe with them.

—But with an aſs, I can commune for ever. come, Honeſty! ſaid I,—ſeeing it was impracticable [41] to paſs betwixt him and the gate—art thou for coming in, or going out?

The aſs twiſted his head round to look up the ſtreet—

Well—replied I—we'll wait a minute for [...] driver:

—He turned his head thoughtful about, and looked wiſhfully the oppoſite way—

I underſtand thee perfectly, anſwered I—if thou takeſt a wrong ſtep in this affair, he will cudgel thee to death—Well! a minute is but a minute, and if it ſaves a fellow-creature a drubbing, it ſhall not be ſet down as ill-ſpent. He was eating the ſtem of an artichoke as this diſcourſe went on, and in the little peeviſh contentions of nature betwixt hunger and unſavourineſs, had dropt it out of his mouth half a dozen times, and picked it up again—God help thee, Jack! ſaid I, thou haſt a bitter breakfaſt on't—and many a bitter day's labour—and many a bitter blow, I fear for its wages—'tis all—all bitterneſs to thee, whatever life is to others.

[42] And now thy mouth, if one knew the truth of it, is as bitter, I dare ſay, as ſoot—(for he had caſt aſide the ſtem) and thou haſt not a friend per⯑haps in all this world, that will give thee a maca⯑roon.—In ſaying this, I pulled out a paper of them, which I had juſt purchaſed, and gave him one—and at this moment that I am telling it, my heart ſmites me, that there was more of plea⯑ſantry in the conceit, of ſeeing how an aſs would eat a macaroon—than of benevolence in giving him one, which preſided in the act.

When the aſs had eaten his macaroon, I preſ⯑ſed him to come in—the poor beaſt was heavy loaded—his legs ſeemed to tremble under him—he hung rather backwards, and as I pulled at his halter, it broke ſhort in my hand—he looked up penſive in my face—"Don't thraſh me with it—but if you will, you may"—If I do, ſaid I, I'll be d—d. The word was but one half of it pronounced, when a perſon coming in, let fall a thundering baſtinado upon the poor devil's crup⯑per, which put an end to the ceremony. Out upon it! cried I.

THE SERMON.

"TRUST!—Truſt we have a good conſcience!"

[Certainly, Trim, quoth my father, inter⯑rupting him, you give that ſentence a very im⯑proper accent; for you curl up your noſe, man, and read it with ſuch a ſneering tone, as if the Parſon was going to abuſe the Apoſtle.

He is, an' pleaſe your honour, replied Trim.

Pugh! ſaid my father, ſmiling.

Sir, quoth Doctor Slop, Trim is certainly in the right; for the writer (who I perceive is a Pro⯑teſtant) by the ſnappiſh manner in which he takes up the apoſtle, is certainly going to abuſe him; if this treatment of him has not done it already. [44] But from whence, replied my father, have you concluded ſo ſoon, Doctor Slop, that the writer is of our church?—for aught I can ſee yet,—he may be of any church.—Becauſe, anſwered Doctor Slop, if he was of ours,—he durſt no more take ſuch a licence,—than a bear by his beard:—If, in our communion, Sir, a man was to inſult an apoſtle,—a ſaint,—or even the paring of a ſaint's nail,—he would have his eyes ſcratched out.—What, by the ſaint? quoth my uncle Toby. No, replied Doctor Slop, he would have an old houſe over his head. Pray, is the Inquiſition an ancient building, anſwered my uncle Toby, or is it a mo⯑dern one?—I know nothing of architecture, re⯑plied Doctor Slop.—An' pleaſe your honours, quoth Trim, the Inquiſition is the vileſt—Prithee ſpare thy deſcription, Trim, I hate the very name of it, ſaid my father.—No matter for that, anſwered Doctor Slop,—it has its uſes; for though I'm no great advocate for it, yet, in ſuch a caſe as this, he would ſoon be taught better manners; and I can tell him, if he went on at that rate, would be flung into the Inquiſition for his pains. God help him then, quoth my uncle Toby. Amen, added Trim, for heaven above knows I have a poor brother who has been fourteen years a captive in it.—I never heard one word of it before, ſaid my [45] uncle Toby, haſtily:—How came he there, Trim?—O, Sir! the ſtory will make your heart bleed,—as it has made mine a thouſand times;—the ſhort of the ſtory is this:—My brother Tom went over a ſervant to Liſbon,—and married a Jew's widow, who kept a ſmall ſhop, and ſold ſauſages, which ſomehow or other, was the cauſe of his being taken in the middle of the night out of his bed, where he was lying with his wife and two ſmall children, and carried directly to the Inquiſition, where, God help him, continued Trim, fetching a ſigh from the bottom of his heart,—the poor honeſt lad lies confined at this hour; he was as honeſt a ſoul, added Trim, (pulling out his handkerchief) as ever blood warmed.—

—The tears trickled down Trim's cheeks faſter than he could well wipe them away.—A dead ſilence in the room enſued for ſome minutes.—Certain proof of pity! Come, Trim, quoth my father, after he ſaw the poor fellow's grief had got a little vent,—read on,—and put this me⯑lancholy ſtory out of thy head:—I grieve that I interrupted thee; but prithee begin the Sermon again;—for if the firſt ſentence in it is matter of abuſe, as thou ſayeſt, I have a great deſire to know what kind of provocation the apoſtle has given.

[46] Corporal Trim wiped his face, and returned his handkerchief into his pocket, and, making a bow as he did it,—he began again.]

THE SERMON.

"—TRUST! truſt we have a good conſcience! Surely if there is any thing in this life which a man may depend upon, and to the knowledge of which he is capable of arriving upon the moſt in⯑diſputable evidence, it muſt be this very thing,—whether he has a good conſcience or no."

[I am poſitive I am right, quoth Dr. Stop.]

"If a man thinks at all, he cannot well be a ſtranger to the true ſtate of this account;—he muſt be privy to his own thoughts and deſires;—he muſt remember his paſt purſuits, and know certainly the true ſprings and motives, which, in general, have governed the actions of his life."

[I defy him, without an aſſiſtant, quoth Dr. Slop.]

"In other matters we may be deceived by falſe appearances; and, as the wiſe man complains, hardly do we gueſs aright at the things that are upon the earth, and with labour do we find the things that are before us. But here the mind has all the evidence and facts within herſelf;—is conſcious of the web ſhe has wove;—knows its texture and fineneſs, and the exact ſhare which every paſſion has had in working upon the ſeveral deſigns which virtue or vice has planned before her."

[The language is good, and I declare Trim reads very well, quoth my father.]

"Now,—as conſcience is nothing elſe but the knowledge which the mind has within herſelf of this; and the judgment, either of approbation or cenſure, which it unavoidably makes upon the ſucceſſive actions of our lives; 'tis plain you will ſay, from the very terms of the propoſition,—whenever this inward teſtimony goes againſt a man, and he ſtands ſelf accuſed,—that he muſt neceſſarily be a guilty man.—And, on the con⯑trary, when the report is favourable on his ſide, [48] and his heart condemns him not;—that it is not a matter of truſt, as the apoſtle intimates, but a matter of certainty and fact, that the con⯑ſcience is good, and that the man muſt be good alſo."

[Then the apoſtle is altogether in the wrong, I ſuppoſe, quoth Dr. Slop, and the Proteſtant divine is in the right. Sir, have patience, replied my father, for I think it will preſently appear that Saint Paul and the Proteſtant divine are both of an opinion.—As nearly ſo, quoth Dr. Slop, as eaſt is to weſt;—but this, continued he, lifting both hands, comes from the liberty of the preſs.

It is no more, at the worſt, replied my uncle Toby, than the liberty of the pulpit, for it does not appear that the ſermon is printed, or ever likely to be.

Go on, Trim, quoth my father.]

"At firſt ſight this may ſeem to be a true ſtate of the caſe; and I make no doubt but the know⯑ledge of right and wrong is ſo truly impreſſed upon the mind of man,—that did no ſuch thing ever happen, as that the conſcience of a man, by [49] long habits of ſin, might (as the ſcripture aſſures it may) inſenſibly become hard;—and, like ſome tender parts of his body, by much ſtreſs and con⯑tinual hard uſage, loſe by degrees that nice ſenſe and perception with which God and nature endowed it:—Did this never happen;—or was it certain that ſelf-love could never hang the leaſt bias upon the judgment;—or that the little intereſts below could riſe up and perplex the faculties of our upper regions, and encompaſs them about with clouds and thick darkneſs:—Could no ſuch thing as favour and affection en⯑ter this ſacred COURT:—Did WIT diſdain to take a bribe in it;—or was aſhamed to ſhew its face as an advocate for an unwarrantable enjoy⯑ment: Or, laſtly, were we aſſured that INTEREST ſtood always unconcerned whilſt the cauſe was hearing,—and that Paſſion never got into the judgment-ſeat, and pronounced ſentence in the ſtead of Reaſon, which is ſuppoſed always to preſide and determine upon the caſe:—Was this truly ſo, as the objection muſt ſuppoſe;—no doubt then the religious and moral ſtate of a man would be exactly what he himſelf eſteem⯑ed it;—and the guilt or innocence of every man's life could be known, in general, by no [50] better meaſure, than the degrees of his own approbation and cenſure."

"I own, in one caſe, whenever a man's con⯑ſcience does accuſe him (as it ſeldom errs on that ſide) that he is guilty; and unleſs in melancholy and hypocondriac caſes, we may ſafely pronounce upon it, that there is always ſufficient grounds for the accuſation."

"But the converſe of the propoſition will not hold true;—namely, that whenever there is guilt, the conſcience muſt accuſe; and if it does not, that a man is therefore innocent.—This is not fact—So that the common conſolation which ſome good chriſtian or other is hourly admini⯑ſtering to himſelf,—that he thanks God his mind does not miſgive him; and that, conſequently, he has a good conſcience, becauſe he hath a quiet one,—is fallacious;—and as current as the in⯑ference is, and as infallible as the rule appears at firſt ſight, yet when you look nearer to it, and try the truth of this rule upon plain facts,—you ſee it liable to ſo much error from a falſe ap⯑plication;—the principal upon which it goes ſo often perverted;—the whole force of it loſt, and ſometimes ſo vilely caſt away, that it is painful to [51] produce the common examples from human life which confirm the account."

"A man ſhall be vicious and utterly debauched in his principles;—exceptionable in his conduct to the world; ſhall live ſhameleſs in the open commiſſion of a ſin, which no reaſon or pretence can juſtify,—a ſin by which, contrary to all the workings of humanity, he ſhall ruin for ever the deluded partner of his guilt;—rob her of her beſt dowry; and not only cover her own head with diſhonour;—but involve a whole virtuous family in ſhame and ſorrow for her ſake. Surely, you will think conſcience muſt lead ſuch a man a trou⯑bleſome life;—he can have no reſt night or day from its reproaches."

"Alas! CONSCIENCE had ſomething elſe to do all this time, than break in upon him; as Elijah reproached the god Baal,—this domeſtic god was either talking or purſuing, or was in a jour⯑ney, or peradventure he ſlept and could not be awoke. Perhaps HE was gone out into company with HONOR to fight a duel; to pay off ſome debt at play;—or dirty annuity, the bargain of his luſt; Perhaps CONSCIENCE all this time was engaged at home, talking aloud againſt petty [52] larceny, and executing vengeance upon ſome ſuch puny crimes as his fortune and rank of life ſe⯑cured him againſt all temptation of committing; ſo that he lives as merrily."—[If he was of our church, though, quoth Dr. Slop, he could not] "—ſleeps as ſoundly in his bed;—and at laſt meets death as unconcernedly;—perhaps much more ſo, than a much better man."

[All this is impoſſible with us, quoth Dr. Slop, turning to my father,—the caſe could not happen in our church.—It happens in ours, however, replied my father, but too often.—I own, quoth Dr. Slop, (ſtruck a little with my father's frank ac⯑knowledgment)—that a man in the Romiſh church may live as badly;—but then he cannot eaſily die ſo.—'Tis little matter, replied my father, with an air of indifference,—how a raſcal dies.—I mean, anſwered Dr. Slop, he would be denied the benefits of the laſt ſacraments.—Pray how many have you in all, ſaid my uncle Toby,—for I always forget?—Seven, anſwered Dr. Slop.—Humph!—ſaid my uncle Toby; though not accented as a note of acquieſcence,—but as an interjection of that par⯑ticular ſpecies of ſurpriſe, when a man in looking into a drawer, finds more of a thing than he ex⯑pected.—Humph! replied my uncle Toby. Dr. [53] Slop, who had an ear, underſtood my uncle Toby as well as if he had wrote a whole volume againſt the ſeven ſacraments.—Humph! replied Dr. Slop, (ſtating my uncle Toby's argument over again to him)—Why, Sir, are there not ſeven cardinal virtues?—Seven mortal ſins?—Seven golden can⯑dleſticks?—Seven heavens?—'Tis more than I know, replied my uncle Toby.—Are there not Seven wonders of the world?—Seven days of the creation?—Seven planets?—Seven plagues?—That there are, quoth my father, with a moſt af⯑fected gravity. But prithee, continued he, go on with the reſt of thy characters, Trim.]

"Another is ſordid, unmerciful," (here Trim waved his right hand) "a ſtrait-hearted, ſelfiſh wretch, incapable either of private friendſhip or public ſpirit. Take notice how he paſſes by the widow and orphan in their diſtreſs, and ſees all the miſeries incident to human life without a ſigh or a prayer." [An' pleaſe your honours, cried Trim, I think this a viler man than the other.]

"Shall not conſcience riſe up and ſting him on ſuch occaſions?—No; thank God there is no occaſion, I pay every man his own;—I have no fornication to anſwer to my conſcience;—no faith⯑leſs [54] vows or promiſes to make up;—I have de⯑bauched no man's wife or child; thank God, I am not as other men, adulterers, unjuſt, or even as this libertine, who ſtands before me. A third is crafty and deſigning in his nature. View his whole life,—'tis nothing but a cunning con⯑texture of dark arts and unequitable ſubterfuges, baſely to defeat the true intent of all laws,—plain-dealing, and the ſafe enjoyment of our ſeveral properties.—you will ſee ſuch a one working out a frame of little deſigns upon the ignorance and perplexities of the poor and needy man;—ſhall raiſe a fortune upon the inexperi⯑ence of a youth, or the unſuſpecting temper of his friend, who would have truſted him with his life. When old age comes on, and repen⯑tance calls him to look back upon this black ac⯑count, and ſtate it over again with his con⯑ſcience—CONSCIENCE looks into the STATUTES at LARGE;—finds no expreſs law broken by what he has done;—perceives no penalty or forſeiture of goods and chattels incurred;—ſees no ſcourge waving over his head, or priſon opening his gates upon him:—What is there to affright his conſcience?—Conſcience has got ſafely entrenched behind the Letter of the Law; ſits there invulnerable, fortified with Caſes and [55] Reports ſo ſtrongly on all ſides;—that it is not preaching can diſpoſſeſs it of its hold."

[The character of this laſt man, ſaid Dr. Slop, interrupting Trim, is more deteſtable than all the reſt;—and ſeems to have been taken from ſome pettifogging lawyer amongſt you:—amongſt us, a man's conſcience could not poſſibly continue ſo long blinded,—three times in a year, at leaſt, he muſt go to confeſ⯑ſion. Will that reſtore it to ſight? quoth my uncle Toby.—Go on, Trim, quoth my father. 'Tis very ſhort, replied Trim.—I wiſh it was longer, quoth my uncle Toby, for I like it hugely.—Trim went on.]

"A fourth man ſhall want even this refuge; ſhall break through all their ceremony of ſlow chicane;—ſcorns the doubtful workings of ſecret plots and cautious trains to bring a⯑bout his purpoſe:—See the bare-faced vil⯑lain, how he cheats, lies, perjures, robs, mur⯑ders!—Horrid!—But indeed much better was not to be expected, in the preſent caſe—the poor man was in the dark!—his Prieſt had got the keeping of his conſcience;—and all he would let him know of it, was, That [56] he muſt believe in the Pope;—go to Maſs;—croſs himſelf;—tell his beads;—be a good Catholic, and that this, in all conſcience, was enough to carry him to heaven. What;—if he perjures!—Why;—he had a mental re⯑ſervation in it.—But if he is ſo wicked and abandoned a wretch as you repreſent him;—if he robs,—if he ſtabs, will not conſcience, on every ſuch act, receive a wound itſelf?—Aye,—but the man has carried it to con⯑feſſion;—the wound digeſts there, and will do well enough, and in a ſhort time be quite healed up by abſolution. O Popery! what haſt thou to anſwer for?—when, not content with the too many natural and fatal ways, thro' which the heart of man is every day thus treacherous to itſelf above all things;—thou haſt wilfully ſet open the wide gate of deceit before the face of this unwary tra⯑veller, too apt, God knows, to go aſtray of himſelf; and confidently ſpeak peace to him⯑ſelf, when there is no peace."

"Of this the common inſtances which I have drawn out of life, are too notorious to re⯑quire much evidence. If any man doubts the [57] reality of them, or thinks it impoſſible for a man to be ſuch a bubble to himſelf,—I muſt refer him a moment to his own reflections, and will then venture to truſt my appeal with his own heart."

"Let him conſider in how different a degree of deteſtation, numbers of wicked actions ſtand there, tho' equally bad and vicious in their own natures;—he will ſoon find, that ſuch of them as ſtrong inclination and cuſtom have prompted him to commit, are generally dreſſed out and painted with all the falſe beauties, which a ſoft and a flattering hand can give them;—and that the others, to which he feels no propenſity, appear, at once, naked and deformed, ſurrounded with all the true circumſtances of folly and diſho⯑nour."

"When David ſurpriſed Saul ſleeping in the cave, and cut off the ſkirt of his robe—we read his heart ſmote him for what he had done:—But in the matter of Uriah, where a faithful and gallant ſervant, whom he ought to have loved and honoured, fell to make way for his luſt,—where conſcience had ſo [58] much greater reaſon to take the alarm, his heart ſmote him not. A whole year had al⯑moſt paſſed from the firſt commiſſion of that crime, to the time Nathan was ſent to re⯑prove him; and we read not once of the leaſt ſorrow or compunction of heart which he teſtified, during all that time, for what he had done."

"Thus conſcience, this once able monitor,—placed on high as a judge within us, and intended by our Maker as a juſt and equitable one too,—by an unhappy train of cauſes and impediments, takes often ſuch imperfect cog⯑nizance of what paſſes,—does its office ſo negligently,—ſometimes ſo corruptly,—that it is not to be truſted alone; and therefore we find there is a neceſſity, an abſolute ne⯑ceſſity, of joining another principle with it, to aid, if not govern, its determinations."

"So that if you would form a juſt judgment of what is of infinite importance to you not to be miſled in,—namely, in what degree of real merit you ſtand either as an honeſt man, an uſeful citizen, a faithful ſubject to your king, or a good ſervant to your God, [59] —call in religion and morality.—Look, what is written in the law of God?—How readeſt thou?—Conſult calm reaſon and the unchangeable obligations of juſtice and truth;—what ſay they?"

"Let CONSCIENCE determine the matter upon theſe reports;—and then if thy heart condemns thee not, which is the caſe the apoſtle ſuppoſes,—the rule will be infallible,"—[Here Dr. Slop fell aſleep]—"thou wilt have confidence towards God;—that is, have juſt grounds to believe the judgment thou haſt paſt upon thyſelf, is the judgment of God; and nothing elſe but an anticipation of that righteous ſentence, which will be pro⯑nounced upon thee hereafter by that Being, to whom thou art finally to give an account of thy actions."

"Bleſſed is the man, indeed, then, as the author of the book of Eccleſiaſticus expreſſes it, who is not pricked with the multitude of his ſins: Bleſſed is the man whoſe heart hath not condemned him; whether he be rich, or whether he be poor, if he have a good heart, (a heart thus guided and informed) he ſhall [60] at all times rejoice in a cheerful countenance; his mind ſhall tell him more than ſeven watch⯑men that ſit above upon a tower on high."

"—In the darkeſt doubts it ſhall conduct him ſafer than a thouſand caſuiſts, and give the ſtate he lives in, a better ſecurity for his behaviour than all the cauſes and re⯑ſtrictions put together, which law-makers are forced to multiply:—Forced, as I ſay, as things ſtand; human laws not being a mat⯑ter of original choice, but of pure neceſſity, brought in to fence againſt the miſchievous effects of thoſe conſciences which are no law unto themſelves; well intending, by the many proviſions made,—that in all ſuch cor⯑rupt and miſguided caſes, where principles and the checks of conſcience will not make us upright,—to ſupply their force, and, by the terrors of gaols and halters, oblige us to it."

[I ſee plainly, ſaid my father, that this ſer⯑mon has been compoſed to be preached at the Temple,—or at ſome Aſſize.—I like the reaſon⯑ing, and am ſorry that Dr. Slop has fallen aſleep before the time of his conviction:—for [61] it is now clear, that the Parſon, as I thought at firſt, never inſulted St. Paul in the leaſt;—nor has there been, brother, the leaſt difference between them:—A great matter, if they had differed, replied my uncle Toby,—the beſt friends in the world may differ ſometimes.—True,—brother Toby, quoth my father, ſhaking hands with him,—we'll fill our pipes, brother, and then Trim ſhall go on.—

He read on as follows.]

"To have the fear of God before our eyes, and, in our mutual dealings with each other, to govern our actions by the eternal mea⯑ſures of right and wrong:—The firſt of theſe will comprehend the duties of religion;—the ſecond, thoſe of morality, which are ſo inſe⯑perably connected together, that you cannot divide theſe two tables, even in imagination, (though the attempt is often made in prac⯑tice) without breaking and mutually deſtroy⯑ing them both."

"I ſaid the attempt is often made; and ſo it is;—there being nothing more common than to ſee a man who has no ſenſe at all of [62] religion, and indeed has ſo much honeſty as to pretend to none, who would take it as the bittereſt affront, ſhould you but hint at a ſuſpicion of his moral character,—or imagine he was not conſcientiouſly juſt and ſcrupulous" to the uttermoſt mite."

"When there is ſome appearance that it is ſo,—tho' one is unwilling even to ſuſpect the appearance of ſo amiable a virtue as moral honeſty, yet were we to look into the grounds of it, in the preſent caſe, I am per⯑ſuaded we ſhould find little reaſon to envy ſuch a one the honour of his motive."

"Let him declaim as pompouſly as he chooſes upon the ſubject, it will be found to reſt upon no better foundation than either his intereſt, his pride, his eaſe, or ſome ſuch little and changeable paſſion as will give us but ſmall dependance upon his actions in matters of great diſtreſs."

"I will illuſtrate this by an example.

"I know the banker I deal with, or the phy⯑ſician I uſually call in,"—

[63] [There is no need, cried Dr. Slop, (waking) to call in any phyſician in this caſe]

"—To be neither of them men of much re⯑ligion: I hear them make a jeſt of it every day, and treat all its ſanctions with ſo much ſcorn, as to put the matter paſt doubt. Well;—notwithſtanding this, I put my for⯑tune into the hands of the one;—and what is dearer ſtill to me, I truſt my life to the honeſt ſkill of the other."

"Now let me examine what is my reaſon for this great confidence. Why, in the firſt place, I believe there is no probability that either of them will employ the power I put into their hands to my diſadvantage;—I con⯑ſider that honeſty ſerves the purpoſes of this life:—I know their ſucceſs in the world de⯑pends upon the fairneſs of their characters.—In a word, I'm perſuaded that they cannot hurt me without hurting themſelves more."

"But put it otherwiſe, namely, that intereſtlay, for once, on the other ſide; that a caſe ſhould happen wherein the one, without ſtain to his reputation, could ſecrete my fortune, and [64] leave me naked in the world;—or that the other could ſend me out of it, and enjoy an eſtate by my death, without diſhonour to himſelf or his art:—In this caſe, what hold have I of either of them?—Religion, the ſtrongeſt of all motives, is out of the queſ⯑tion;—Intereſt, the next moſt powerful mo⯑tive in the world, is ſtrongly againſt me:—What have I leſt to caſt into the oppoſite ſcale to balance this temptation?—Alas! I have nothing,—nothing but what is lighter than a bubble—I muſt lye at the mercy of HONOUR, or ſome ſuch capricious principle Strait ſecurity for two of the moſt valuable bleſſings!—my property and myſelf."

"As, therefore, we can have no dependence upon morality without religion;—ſo, on the other hand, there is nothing better to be ex⯑pected from religion without morality; ne⯑vertheleſs, 'tis no prodigy to ſee a man whoſe real moral character ſtands very low, who yet entertains the higheſt notion of him⯑ſelf, in the light of a religious man."

"He ſhall not only be covetous, revengeful, implacable,—but even wanting in points of [65] common honeſty; yet inaſmuch as he talks aloud againſt the infidelity of the age,—is zealous for ſome points of religion,—goes twice a day to church,—attends the ſacra⯑ments,—and amuſes himſelf with a few in⯑ſtrumental parts of religion,—ſhall cheat his conſcience into a judgment, that, for this, he is a religious man, and has diſcharged truly his duty to God: And you will find that ſuch a man, through force of this delu⯑ſion, generally looks down with ſpiritual pride upon every other man who has leſs affectation of piety,—though, perhaps, ten times more real honeſty than himſelf."

"This likewiſe is a ſore evil under the ſun: and, I believe, there is no one miſtaken principle, which, for its time, has wrought more ſerious miſchiefs."

"—For a general proof of this,—exa⯑mine the hiſtory of the Romiſh church;"—

[Well what can you make of that? cried Dr. Slop.]—"ſee what ſcenes of cruelty, murder, rapine, bloodſhed,"—[They may thank their own obſtinacy, cried Dr. Slop]—"have all [66] been ſanctified by a religion not ſtrictly go⯑verned by morality."

"In how many kingdoms of the world has the cruſading ſword of this miſguided ſaint⯑errant, ſpared neither age or merit, or ſex, or condition?—and, as he fought under the banners of a religion which ſet him looſe from juſtice and humanity, he ſhewed none; mercileſsly trampled upon both,—heard nei⯑ther the cries of the unfortunate, nor pitied their diſtreſſes."

[I have been in many a battle, an' pleaſe your honour, quoth Trim, ſighing, but never in ſo melancholy a one as this.—I would not have drawn a tricker in it againſt theſe poor ſouls,—to have been made a general officer.—Why? what do you underſtand of the affair? ſaid Dr. Slop, looking towards Trim, with ſomething more of contempt than the Corporal's honeſt heart deſerved.—What do you know, friend, about this battle you talk of?—I know, replied Trim, that I never refuſed quarter in my life to any man who cried out for it;—but to a woman, or a child, continued Trim, be⯑fore I would level my muſket at them, I would [67] loſe my life a thouſand times.—Here's a crown for thee, Trim, to drink with Obadiah to-night, quoth my uncle Toby,—God bleſs your honour, replied Trim,—I had rather theſe poor women and children had it.—Thou art an honeſt fel⯑low, quoth my uncle Toby.—My father nodded his head,—as much as to ſay,—and ſo he is.—

But prithee, Trim, ſaid my father, make an end,—for I ſee thou haſt but a leaf or two left.

Corporal Trim read on.]

"If the teſtimony of paſt centuries in this matter is not ſufficient,—conſider at this inſtant, how the votaries of that religion are every day thinking to do ſervice and honour to God, by actions which are a diſhonour and ſcandal to themſelves."

"To be convinced of this, go with me for a moment into the priſons of the Inquiſition."—[God help my poor brother Tom]—"Be⯑hold Religion, with Mercy and Juſtice chained down under her feet,—there ſitting ghaſtly upon a black tribunal, propped up with racks and inſtruments of torment. Hark!—hark! [68] what a piteous groan!"—[Here Trim's face turned as pale as aſhes]—"See the melancholy wretch who uttered it"—[Here the tears began to trickle down.]—"juſt brought forth to undergo the anguiſh of a mock trial, and endure the utmoſt pains that a ſtudied ſyſtem of cruelty has been able to invent."—[D—n them all, quoth Trim, his colour returning into his face as red as blood.]—"Behold this helpleſs victim delivered up to his tormentors,—his body ſo waſted with ſorrow and confine⯑ment."—[Oh! 'tis my brother, cried poor Trim in a moſt paſſionate exclamation, dropping the ſermon upon the ground, and clapping his hands together—I fear 'tis poor Tom. My fa⯑ther's and my uncle Toby's heart yearned with ſympathy for the poor fellow's diſtreſs; even Slop himſelf acknowledged pity for him.—Why, Trim, ſaid my father, this is not a hiſtory,—'tis a ſermon thou art reading; prithee begin the ſentence again.]—"Behold this helpleſs victim delivered up to his tormentors,—his body ſo waſted with ſorrow and confinement, you will ſee every nerve and muſcle as it ſuffers."

"Obſerve the laſt movement of that horrid engine!"—[I would rather face a cannon, [69] quoth Trim, ſtamping.]—"See what convul⯑ſions it has thrown him into!—Conſider the nature of the poſture in which he now lies ſtretched,—what exquiſite tortures he en⯑dures by it!—'tis all nature can bear! Good God! ſee how it keeps his weary ſoul hanging upon his trembling lips!" [I would not read another line of it, quoth Trim, for all this world;—I fear, an' pleaſe your honours, all this is in Portugal, where my poor brother Tom is. I tell thee, Trim, again, quoth my father, 'tis not an hiſtorical account,—'tis a deſcription.—'Tis only a deſcription, honeſt man, quoth Slop, there's not a word of truth in it.—That's another ſtory, replied my father.—However, as Trim reads it with ſo much con⯑cern,—'tis cruelty to force him to go on with it.—Give me hold of the ſermon, Trim,—I'll finiſh it for thee, and thou may'ſt go. I muſt ſtay and hear it too, replied Trim, if your ho⯑nour will allow me;—though I would not read it myſelf for a Colonel's pay.—Poor Trim! quoth my uncle Toby.—My father went on.—

"Coſider the nature of the poſture in which he now lies ſtretched,—what exquiſite tor⯑ture he endures by it!—'Tis all nature can [70] bear! Good God! See how it keeps his weary ſoul hanging upon his trembling lips,—wil⯑ling to take its leave,—but not ſuffered to depart!—Behold the unhappy wretch led back to his cell!"

—[Then, thank God, however, quoth Trim, they have not killed him.]—

"See him dragged out of it again to meet the flames, and the inſults in his laſt agonies, which this principle,—this principle, that there can be religion without mercy, has prepared for him. The ſureſt way to try the merit of any diſputed notion is, to trace down the conſequences ſuch a notion has produced, and compare them with the ſpirit of chriſtianity;—'tis the ſhort and deciſive rule which our Saviour hath left us, for theſe and ſuch like caſes, and it is worth a thouſand arguments—By their fruits ye ſhall know them."

"I will add no farther to the length of this ſermon, than by two or three ſhort and in⯑dependent rules deducible from it."

[71] "Firſt, Whenever a man talks [...]dly againſt religion, always ſuſpect that it is not his reaſon, but his paſſions, which have got the better of his CREED. A bad life and a good belief are diſagreeable and troubleſome neigh⯑bours, and where they ſeparate, depend upon it, 'tis for no other cauſe but quietneſs ſake."

"Secondly, When a man, thus repreſented, tells you in any particular inſtance,—That ſuch a thing goes againſt his conſcience,—always believe he means exactly the ſame thing, as when he tells you ſuch a thing goes againſt his ſtomach;—a preſent want of appetite being generally the true cauſe of both."

"In a word,—truſt that man in nothing, who has not a CONSCIENCE in every thing."

"And, in your own caſe, remember this plain diſtinction, a miſtake in which has ruined thouſands,—that your conſcience is not a law:—No, God and reaſon made the law, and have placed conſcience within you to determine;—not like an Aſiatic Cadi, accord⯑ing [72] to the ebbs and flows of his own paſſions,—but like a Britiſh judge in this land of liberty and good ſenſe, who makes no new law, but faithfully declares that law which he knows already written."

END OF THE SERMON.

REMAINDER OF THE STORY OF TRIM'S BROTHER.

AS Tom's place an' pleaſe your honour, was eaſy—and the weather warm—it put him upon thinking ſeriouſly of ſettling himſelf in the world; and as it fell out about that time, that a Jew who kept a ſaugage ſhop in the ſame ſtreet, had the ill luck to die of a ſtrangury, and leave his widow in poſſeſſion of a rouſing trade—Tom thought (as every body in Liſbon was doing the beſt he could diviſe for himſelf) there could be no harm in offering her his ſervice to carry it on: ſo without any introduction to the widow, except that of buying a pound of ſauſages at her ſhop—Tom ſet out—counting the matter thus within himſelf, as he walked along; that let the worſt come of it that could, he ſhould at leaſt get a pound of ſauſages for their worth—but, if things went well, he ſhould be ſet up; inaſmuch as he ſhould get not only a pound of ſauſages—but a wife—and a ſauſage ſhop, an' pleaſe your honour, into the bargain.

[74] Every ſervant in the family, from high to low, wiſhed Tom ſucceſs, and I can fancy, an' pleaſe your honour, I ſee him this moment with his white dimity waiſtcoat and breeches, and hat a little o'one ſide, paſſing jollily along the ſtreet, ſwinging his ſtick, with a ſmile and a cheerful word for every body he met.

But alas! Tom! thou ſmileſt no more, cried the Corporal, looking on one ſide of him upon the ground, as if he apoſtrophiſed him in his dungeon.

Poor fellow! ſaid my uncle Toby, feelingly.

He was an honeſt, light-hearted lad, an' pleaſe your honour, as ever blood warm'd—

Then he reſembled thee, Trim, ſaid my uncle Toby, rapidly.

The Corporal bluſh'd down to his fingers ends—a tear of ſentimental baſhfulneſs—another of gratitude to my uncle. Toby—and a tear of ſorrow for his brother's misfortunes, ſtarted into his eye, and ran ſweetly down his cheek together; my uncle Toby's kindled as one lamp does at [75] another; and taking hold of the breaſt of Trim's coat (which had been that of Le Fever's), as if to eaſe his lame leg, but in reality to gratify a finer feeling—he ſtood ſilent for a minute and a half; at the end of which he took his hand away, and the Corporal making a bow, went on with his ſtory of his brother and the Jew's widow.

When Tom, an' pleaſe your honour, got to the ſhop, there was nobody in it, but a poor negro girl, with a bunch of white feathers ſlight⯑ly tied to the end of a long cane, flapping away flies—not killing them.—

'Tis a pretty picture! ſaid my uncle Toby,—ſhe had ſuffered perſecution, Trim, and had learnt mercy—

—She was good, an' pleaſe your honour, from nature, as well as from hardſhips; and there are circumſtances in the ſtory of that poor friendleſs ſlut, that would melt a heart of ſtone, ſaid Trim; and ſome diſmal winter's evening when your honour is in the humour, they ſhall be told you with the reſt of Tom's ſtory, for it makes a part of it

[76] Then do not forget, Trim, ſaid my uncle Toby.

A negro has a ſoul? an' pleaſe your honour, ſaid the Corporal, (doubtingly).

I am not much verſed, Corporal, quoth my uncle Toby, in things of that kind; but I ſup⯑poſe, God would not leave him without one, any more than thee or me.

It would be putting one ſadly over the head of another, quoth the Corporal.

It would ſo, ſaid my uncle Toby.

Why then, an' pleaſe your honour, is a black wench to be uſed worſe than a white one?

I can give no reaſon, ſaid my uncle Toby.—

—Only, cried the Corporal, ſhaking his head, becauſe ſhe has no one to ſtand up for her—

'Tis that very thing, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby,—which recommends her to protection—and her brethren with her; 'tis the fortune of war which has put the whip into our hands [77] now—where it may be hereafter, heaven knows!—but be it where it will, the brave, Trim, will not uſe it unkindly.

—God forbid, ſaid the Corporal.

Amen, reſponded my uncle Toby, laying his hand upon his heart.

The Corporal returned to his ſtory, and went on—but with an embarraſſment in doing it, which here and there a reader in this world will not be able to comprehend; for by the many ſudden tranſitions all along, from one kind and cordial paſſion to another, in getting thus far on his way, he had loſt the ſportable key of his voice, which gave ſenſe and ſpirit to his tale: he attempted twice to reſume it, but could not pleaſe himſelf; ſo giving a ſtout hem! to rally back the retreating ſpirits, and aiding nature at the ſame time with his left arm a-kimbo on one ſide, and with his right a little extended, ſup⯑ported her on the other—the Corporal got as near the note as he could; and in that attitude, continued his ſtory.

As Tom, an' pleaſe your honour, had no buſi⯑neſs at that time with the Mooriſh girl, he paſſed [78] on into the room beyond, to talk to the Jew's widow about love—and being, as I have told your honour, an open, cheary hearted lad, with his character wrote in his looks and carriage, he took a chair, and without much apology, but with great civility at the ſame time, placed it cloſe to her at the table, and ſat down.

Now a widow, an' pleaſe your honour, al⯑ways chooſes a ſecond huſband as unlike the firſt as ſhe can: ſo the affair was ſettled in her mind before Tom mentioned it.

She ſigned the capitulation—and Tom ſealed it; and there was an end of the matter.

THE BEGUINE.

SO, thou waſt once in love, Trim! ſaid my uncle Toby, ſmiling—

Souſe! replied the Corporal—over head and ears! an' pleaſe your honour. Prithee when? where?—and how came it to paſs?—I never heard one word of it before, quoth my uncle Toby:—I dare ſay, anſwered Trim, that every drummer and ſerjeant's ſon in the regiment knew of it—It's high time I ſhould—ſaid my uncle Toby.

Your honour remembers with concern, ſaid the Corporal, the total rout and confuſion of our camp, and the army, at the affair of Landen; every one was left to ſhift for himſelf; and if it had not been for the regiments of Wyndham, Lumley, and Galway, which covered the retreat over the bridge of Neerſpeeken, the King him⯑ſelf could ſcarce have gained it—he was preſſed hard, as your honour knows, on every ſide of him—

[80] Gallant mortal! cried my uncle Toby, caught up with enthuſiaſm—this moment, now that all is loſt, I ſee him galloping acroſs me, Corporal, to the left, to bring up the remains of the Engliſh horſe along with him to ſupport the right, and tear the laurel from Luxembourg's brows, if yet 'tis poſſible—I ſee him with the knot of his ſcarf juſt ſhot off, infuſing freſh ſpirits into poor Galway's regiment—riding along the line—then wheeling about, and charging Conti at the head of it—Brave! brave, by heaven! cried my uncle Toby, he deſerves a crown—as richly, as a thief a halter; ſhouted Trim.

My uncle Toby knew the Corporal's loyalty;—otherwiſe the compariſon was not at all to his mind—it did not altogether ſtrike the Corporal's fancy when he had made it—but it could not be recalled—ſo he had nothing to do, but proceed.

As the number of wounded was prodigious, and no one had time to think of any thing, but his own ſafety—Though Talmaſh, ſaid my uncle Toby, brought off the foot with great prudence—but I was left upon the field, ſaid the Corporal. Thou waſt ſo; poor fellow! replied my uncle Toby—ſo that it was noon the next day, con⯑tinued the Corporal, before I was exchanged, [81] and put into a cart with thirteen or four⯑teen more, in order to be conveyed to our hoſpital.—The anguiſh of my knee, continued the Corporal, was exceſſive in itſelf; and the un⯑eaſineſs of the cart, with the roughneſs of the roads which were terribly cut up—making bad ſtill worſe—every ſtep was death to me: ſo that with the loſs of blood, and the want of care taking of me, and a fever I felt coming on be⯑ſides—(Poor ſoul! ſaid my uncle Toby) all to⯑gether, an' pleaſe your honour, was more than I could ſuſtain.

I was telling my ſufferings to a young woman at a peaſant's houſe, where our cart, which was the laſt of the line, had halted, they had helped me in, and the young woman had taken a cordial out of her pocket and dropp'd it upon ſome ſugar, and ſeeing it had cheer'd me, ſhe had given it me a ſecond and a third time—So I was telling her, an' pleaſe your honour, the anguiſh I was in, and was ſaying it was ſo in⯑tolerable to me, that I had much rather lie down upon the bed, turning my face towards one which was in the corner of the room—and die, than go on—when, upon her attempting to lead me to it, I fainted away in her arms. She was [82] a good ſoul! as your honour, ſaid the Coporal, wiping his eyes, will hear.

I thought love had been a joyous thing, quoth my uncle Toby.

'Tis the moſt ſerious thing, an' pleaſe your honour (ſometimes), that is in the world.

By the perſuaſion of the young woman, con⯑tinued the Corporal, the cart with the wounded men ſet off without me: ſhe had aſſured them I ſhould expire immediately if I was put into the cart. So when I came to myſelf—I found my⯑ſelf in a ſtill quiet cottage, with no one but the young woman, and the peaſant and his wife. I was laid acroſs the bed in the corner of the room, with my wounded leg upon a chair, and the young woman beſide me, holding the corner of her handkerchief dipp'd in vinegar to my noſe with one hand, and rubbing my temples with the other.

I took her at firſt for the daughter of the peaſant; (for it was no inn)—ſo had offered her a little purſe with eighteen florins, which my poor brother Tom (here Trim wip'd his eyes) [83] had ſent me as a token, by a recruit, juſt before he ſet out for Liſbon.—

The young woman called the old man and his wife into the room, to ſhew them the money, in order to gain me credit for a bed and what little neceſſaries I ſhould want, till I ſhould be in a condition to be got to the hoſpital—Come then! ſaid ſhe, tying up the little purſe,—I'll be your banker—but as that office alone will not keep me employ'd, I'll be your nurſe too.

I thought by her manner of ſpeaking this, as well as by her dreſs, which I then began to con⯑ſider more attentively—that the young woman could not be the daughter of the peaſant. She was in black down to her toes, with her hair concealed under a cambrick border, laid cloſe to her forehead: ſhe was one of thoſe kind of Nuns, an' pleaſe your honour, of which your honour knows, there are a good many in Flanders, which they let go looſe—By thy deſ⯑cription, Trim, ſaid my uncle Toby, I dare ſay ſhe was a young Beguine, of which there are none to be found any where but in the Spaniſh Nether⯑lands—except at Amſterdam—they differ from Nuns in this, that they can quit their cloiſter if [84] they chooſe to marry; they viſit and take care of the ſick by profeſſion—I had rather, for my own part, they did it out of good-nature.

The young Beguine, continued the Corporal, had ſcarce given herſelf time to tell me "ſhe would be my nurſe," when ſhe haſtily turned about to begin the office of one, and prepare ſomething for me—and in a ſhort time—though I thought it a long one—ſhe came back with flannels, &c. &c. and having fomented my knee ſoundly for a couple of hours, and made me a thin baſon of gruel for my ſupper—ſhe wiſh'd me reſt, and promiſed to be with me early in the morning.—She wiſh'd me, an' pleaſe your honour, what was not to be had. My fever ran very high that night—her figure made ſad diſ⯑turbance within me—I was every moment cut⯑ting the world in two—to give her half of it—and every moment was I crying, that I had nothing but a knapſack and eighteen florins to ſhare with her—The whole night long was the fair Beguine, like an angel, cloſe by my bed ſide, holding back my curtain and offering me cordials—and I was only awakened from my dream by her coming there at the hour promiſed and giving them in reality. In truth, ſhe was [85] ſcarce ever from me, and ſo accuſtomed was I to receive life from her hands, that my heart ſickened, and I loſt colour when ſhe left the room.—Love, an' pleaſe your honour, is ex⯑actly like war, in this; that a ſoldier, though he has eſcaped three weeks complete o' Saturday⯑night—may nevertheleſs be ſhot through his heart on Sunday morning—it happened ſo here, an' pleaſe your honour, with this difference only—that it was on Sunday in the afternoon, when I fell in love all at once with a ſiſſerara—it burſt upon me, an' pleaſe your honour, like a bomb—ſcarce giving me time to ſay, "God bleſs me."

I thought Trim, ſaid my uncle Toby, a man never fell in love ſo very ſuddenly,

Yes an' pleaſe your honour, if he is in the way of it—replied Trim.

I prithee, quoth my uncle Toby, inform me how this matter happened.

—With all pleaſure, ſaid the Corporal, making a bow. I had eſcaped, continued the Corporal, all that time from falling in love, and [86] had gone on to the end of the chapter, had it not been predeſtined otherwiſe—there is no re⯑ſiſting our fate. It was on a Sunday, in the afternoon, as I told your honour. The old man and his wife had walked out—Every thing was ſtill and huſh as midnight about the houſe—

There was not ſo much as a duck or a duck⯑ling about the yard; when the fair Beguine came in to ſee me.

My wound was then in a fair way of doing well—the inflammation had been gone off for ſome time, but it was ſucceeded with an itching both above and below my knee, ſo inſufferable, that I had not ſhut my eyes the whole night for it. Let me ſee it, ſaid ſhe, kneeling down upon the ground parallel to my knee, and laying her hand upon the part below it—it only wants rub⯑bing a little, ſaid the Beguine; ſo covering it with the bed cloaths, ſhe began with the fore-finger of her right-hand to rub under my knee, guiding her fore-finger backwards and forwards by the edge of the flannel, which kept on the dreſſing.

In five or ſix minutes I felt ſlightly the end of her ſecond finger—and preſently it was laid [87] flat with the other, and ſhe continued rubbing in that way round and round for a good while; it then came into my head, that I ſhould fall in love—I bluſhed when I ſaw how white a hand ſhe had—I ſhall never, an' pleaſe your honour, behold another hand ſo white whilſt I live.—

The young Beguine, continued the Corporal, perceiving it was of great ſervice to me—from rubbing, for ſome time, with two fingers—proceeded to rub at length with three—till by little and little ſhe brought down the fourth, and then rubbed with her whole hand: I will never ſay another word, an' pleaſe your honour, upon hands again—but is was ſofter than ſatin.—

Prithee, Trim, commend it as much as thou wilt, ſaid my uncle Toby; I ſhall hear thy ſtory with the more delight—The Corporal thanked his maſter moſt unfeignedly; but having nothing to ſay upon the Beguine's hand but the ſame over again—he proceeded to the effects of it.

The fair Beguine, ſaid the Corporal, con⯑tinued rubbing with her whole hand under my knee,—till I feared her zeal would weary her—"I would do a thouſand times more," ſaid ſhe, [88] "for the love of Chriſt." As ſhe continued rubbing—I felt it ſpread from under her hand, an' pleaſe your honour, to every part of my frame.—

The more ſhe rubbed, and the longer ſtrokes ſhe took—the more the fire kindled in my veins—till at length, by two or three ſtrokes longer than the reſt—my paſſion roſe to the higheſt pitch—I ſeized her hand—And then thou clap⯑ped'ſt it to thy lips, Trim, ſaid my uncle Toby,—and madeſt a ſpeech.

Whether the Corporal's amour terminated preciſely in the way my uncle Toby deſcribed it, is not material; it is enough that it contained in it the eſſence of all the love-romances which ever have been wrote ſince the beginning of the world.

MARIA.

—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 a line betwixt us), is ſitting upon a bank playing her veſpers upon her pipe, with her little goat beſide her.

The young fellow utter'd this with an accent and a look ſo perfectly in tune to a feeling heart, that I inſtantly made a vow, I would give him a four-and-twenty ſous piece, when I got to Moulines.

And who is poor Maria? ſaid I.

The love and pity of all the villages around us; ſaid the poſtillion—it is but three years ago, that the ſun did not ſhine upon ſo fair, ſo quick⯑witted and amiable a maid; and better fate [90] did Maria deſerve, than to have her Banns for⯑bid by the intrigues of the curate of the pariſh who publiſhed them—

He was going on, when Maria, who had made a ſhort pauſe, put the pipe to her mouth, and began the air again—they were the ſame notes;—yet were ten times ſweeter: It is the evening ſervice to the Virgin, ſaid the young man—but who has taught her to play it—or how ſhe came by her pipe, no one knows; we think that heaven has aſſiſted her in both; for ever ſince ſhe has been unſettled in her mind, it ſeems her only conſolation—ſhe has never once had the pipe out of her hand, but plays that ſervice upon it almoſt night and day.

The poſtillion delivered this with ſo much diſ⯑cretion and natural eloquence, that I could not help decyphering ſomething in his face above his condition, and ſhould have ſifted out his hiſtory, had not poor Maria's taken ſuch 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 [91] 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 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 look'd wiſtfully for ſome time at me, and then at her goat—and then at me—and then at her goat again, and ſo on, alternately—

—Well, Maria, ſaid I, ſoftly—What reſem⯑blance do you find?

[92] I do entreat the candid reader to believe me, that it was from the humbleſt conviction of what a Beaſt man is,—that I aſk'd the queſtion; and that I would not have let fallen an unſeaſonable pleaſantry in the venerable preſence of Miſery, to be entitled to all the wit that ever Rabelais ſcat⯑tered—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 my days—and never—never attempt 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 hear thy ſor⯑rows 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 walk'd ſoftly to my chaiſe.

MARIA.

MOULINES.

I NEVER felt what the diſtreſs of plenty was in any one ſhape till now—to travel it through the Bourbonnois, the ſweeteſt part of France—in the hey-day of the vintage, when Nature is pouring her abundance into every one's lap, and every eye is lifted up—a journey through each ſtep of which muſic beats time to Labour, and all her children are rejoicing as they carry in their cluſters—to paſs through this with my affections flying out, and kindling at every group before me—and every one of them was pregnant with adventures.

Juſt heaven!—it would fill up twenty volumes—and alas! I have but a few ſmall pages left of this to crowd it into—and half of theſe muſt be taken up with the poor Maria my friend Mr. Shandy met with near Moulines.

The ſtory he had told of that diſordered maid affected me not a little in the reading; but when [94] I got within the neighbourhood where ſhe lived, it returned ſo ſtrong into my mind, that I could not reſiſt an impulſe which prompted me to go half a league out of the road, to the village where her parents dwelt, to enquire after her.

'Tis going, I own, like the knight of the Woe⯑ful Countenance, in queſt of melancholy adven⯑tures—but I know not how it is, but I am never ſo perfectly conſcious of the exiſtence of a ſoul within me, as when I am entangled in them.

The old mother came to the door, her looks told me the ſtory before ſhe opened her mouth—She had loſt her huſband: he had died, ſhe ſaid, of anguiſh, for the loſs of Maria's ſenſes, about a month before—She had feared at firſt, ſhe added, that it would have plundered 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 ſomewhere about the road—

—Why does my pulſe beat languid as I write this? and what made La Fleur, whoſe heart [95] ſeemed only to be tun'd to joy, to paſs the back of his hand twice acroſs 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 Moulines, at a little opening in the road leading to a thicket, I diſcovered poor Maria ſitting un⯑der 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 Moulines—and La Fleur to beſpeak my ſupper—and that I would walk after him.

She was dreſſed in white, and much as my friend deſcribed her, except that her hair hung looſe, which before was twiſted within a ſilk-net.—She had, ſuperadded likewiſe to her jacket, a pale green riband, which fell acroſs her ſhoulder to the waiſt; at the end of which hung her pipe.—Her goat had been as faithleſs as her lover; and ſhe had got a little dog in lieu of him, which ſhe had kept tied by a ſtring to her girdle; as I looked at her dog, ſhe drew him to⯑wards [96] her with the ſtring—"Thou ſhalt not leave me, Sylvio," ſaid ſhe. I looked in Maria's eyes, and ſaw ſhe was thinking more of her father than of her lover or 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 handker⯑chief.—I then ſteep'd it in my own—and then in hers—and then in mine—and then I wip'd hers again—and as I did it, I ſelt ſuch undeſcribable emotions within me, as I am ſure could not be accounted for from any combinations of matter and motion.

I am poſitive I have a ſoul; nor can all the books with which materialiſts have peſtered the world ever convince me to the contrary.

When Maria had come a little to herſelf, I aſked her if ſhe remembered a pale thin perſon of a man who had ſat down betwixt her and her goat about two years before? She ſaid, ſhe was unſettled much at that time, but remem⯑bered it upon two accounts—that ill as ſhe was, ſhe ſaw the perſon pitied her; and next, that [97] her goat had ſtolen his handkerchief, and ſhe had beat him for the theft—ſhe had waſh'd 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 mark'd in one of the corners.

She had ſince that, ſhe told me, ſtray'd as far as Rome, and walk'd round St. Peter's once—and return'd back—that ſhe found her way alone acroſs the Apennines—had travell'd over all Lombardy without money—and through the flinty roads of Savoy without ſhoes—how ſhe had borne it, and how ſhe had got ſupported, ſhe could not tell—but God tempers the wind, ſaid Maria, to the ſhorn lamb.

Shorn indeed! and to the quick, ſaid I; and waſt thou in my own land, where I have a cot⯑tage, I would take thee to it and ſhelter thee: thou ſhouldſt eat of my own bread, and drink of my own cup—I would be kind to thy Sylvio—in all thy weakneſſes and wanderings I [98] would ſeek after thee and bring thee back—when the ſun went down I would ſay my prayers; and when I had done thou ſhouldſt play thy even⯑ing ſong upon thy pipe, nor would the incenſe of my ſacrifice be worſe accepted for entering heaven along with that of a broken heart.

Nature melted within me, as I utter'd this; and Maria obſerving, as I took out my handker⯑chief, that it was ſteep'd 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—'twill do me good.

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

I touch'd upon the ſtring on which hung all her ſorrows—ſhe look'd with wiſtful diſorder for ſometime in my face; and then, without ſaying any thing, took her pipe, and play'd her ſervice to the Virgin—The ſtring I had touch'd ceaſed to vibrate—in a moment or two Maria returned to herſelf—let her pipe fall—and roſe up.

And where are you going, Maria? ſaid I.—She ſaid, to Moulines.—Let us go, ſaid I, toge⯑ther.—Maria [99] put her arm within mine, and lengthening the ſtring, to let the dog follow—in that order we entered Moulines.

Though I hate ſalutations and greetings in the market-place, yet when we got into the middle of this, I ſtopp'd 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 touch'd 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 woman, that could the traces be ever worn out of her brain, and thoſe of Eliza's out of mine, ſhe ſhould not only eat of my bread and drink of my own cup, but Maria ſhould lie in my boſom, and be unto me as a daughter.

Adieu, poor luckleſs maiden!—imbibe the oil and wine which the compaſſion of a ſtranger, as he journeyeth on his way, now pours into thy wounds—the Being who has twice bruiſed thee can only bind them up for ever.

SENSIBILITY.

—DEAR Senſibility! ſource inexhauſted of all that's precious in our joys, or coſtly in our ſorrows! thou chaineſt thy martyr down upon his bed of ſtraw—and 'tis thou who lifts him up to HEAVEN—eternal fountain of our feelings! 'tis here I trace thee—and this is thy "divinity which ſtirs within me"—not, that in ſome ſad and ſickening moments, "my ſoul ſhrinks back upon herſelf, and ſtartles at deſtruction"—mere pomp of words!—but that I feel ſome generous joys and generous cares beyond myſelf—all comes from thee, great—great SENSORIUM of the world! which vibrates, if a hair of our heads but falls upon the ground, in the remoteſt deſert of thy crea⯑tion.—Touch'd with thee, Eugenius draws my curtain when I languiſh—hears my tale of ſymptoms, and blames the weather for the diſ⯑order of his nerves. Thou giv'ſt a portion of it ſometimes to the rougheſt peaſant who tra⯑verſes the bleakeſt mountains—he finds the la⯑cerated lamb of another's flock—This moment [101] I beheld him leaning with his head againſt his crook, with piteous inclination looking down upon it!—Oh! had I come one moment ſooner!—it bleeds to death—his gentle heart bleeds with it—

Peace to thee, generous ſwain!—I ſee thou walkeſt off with anguiſh—but thy joys ſhall ba⯑lance it—for happy is thy cottage—and happy is the ſharer of it—and happy are the lambs which ſport about you.

THE SUPPER.

A SHOE coming looſe from the fore-foot of the thill-horſe, at the beginning of the aſcent of mount Taurira, the poſtillion diſ⯑mounted, twiſted the ſhoe off, and put it in his pocket; as the aſcent was of five or ſix miles, and that horſe our main dependence, I made a point of having the ſhoe faſten'd on again, as well as we could; but the poſtillion had thrown away the nails, and the hammer in the chaiſe⯑box, [102] being of no great uſe without them, I ſub⯑mitted to go on.

He had not mounted half a mile higher, when coming to a flinty piece of road, the poor devil loſt a ſecond ſhoe, and from off his other fore-foot; I then got out of the chaiſe in good ear⯑neſt; and ſeeing a houſe about a quarter of a mile to the left-hand, with a great deal to do, I prevailed upon the poſtillion to turn up to it. The look of the houſe, and of every thing about it, as we drew nearer, ſoon reconciled me to the diſaſter.—It was a little farm-houſe ſurround⯑ed with about twenty acres of vineyard, about as much corn—and cloſe to the houſe, on one ſide, was a potagerie of an acre and a half full of every thing which could make plenty in a French peaſant's houſe—and on the other ſide was a little wood which furniſhed wherewithal to dreſs it. It was about eight in the evening when I got to the houſe—ſo I left the poſtillion to manage his point as he could—and for mine, I walk'd directly into the houſe.

The family conſiſted of an old grey-headed man and his wife, with five or ſix ſons and ſons-in-law and their ſeveral wives, and a joyous ge⯑nealogy out of them.

[103] They were all ſitting down together to their lentil-ſoup; a large wheaten loaf was in the middle of the table; and a flaggon of wine at each end of it promiſed joy thro' the ſtages of the repaſt—'twas a feaſt of love.

The old man roſe up to meet me, and with a reſpectful cordiality would have me ſit down at the table; my heart was ſet down the moment I entered the room; ſo I ſat down at once like a ſon of the family; and to inveſt myſelf in the character as ſpeedily as I could, I inſtantly bor⯑rowed the old man's knife, and taking up the loaf, cut myſelf a hearty luncheon; and as I did it, I ſaw a teſtimony in every eye, not only of an honeſt welcome, but of a welcome mix'd with thanks that I had not ſeem'd to doubt it.

Was it this; or tell me, Nature, what elſe it was that made this morſel ſo ſweet—and to what magic I owe it, that the draught I took of their flaggon was ſo delicious with it, that they remain upon my palate to this hour?

If the ſupper was to my taſte—the grace which followed it was much more ſo.

THE GRACE.

WHEN ſupper was over, the old man gave a knock upon the table with the haft of his knife, to bid them prepare for the dance: the moment the ſignal was given, the women and girls ran all together into the back apartment to tie up their hair—and the young men to the door to waſh their faces, and change their ſabots; and in three minutes every ſoul was ready upon a little eſplanade before the houſe to begin—The old man and his wife came out laſt, and placing me betwixt them, ſat down upon a ſopha of turf by the door.

The old man had ſome fifty years ago been no mean performer upon the vielle—and, at the age he was then of, touched it well enough for the purpoſe. His wife ſung now-and-then a little to the tune—then intermitted—and joined her old man again, as their children and grand-chil⯑dren danced before them.

It was not till the middle of the ſecond dance, when for ſome pauſes in the movement where⯑in [105] they all ſeem'd to look up, I fancied I could diſtinguiſh an elevation of ſpirit different from that which is the cauſe or the effect of ſimple jollity.—In a word, I thought I beheld Religion mixing in the dance—but as I had never ſeen her ſo engaged, I ſhould have look'd upon it now as one of the illuſions of an imagination which is eternally miſleading me, had not the old man, as ſoon as the dance ended, ſaid, that this was their conſtant way; and that all his life long he made it a rule, after ſupper was over, to call out his family to dance and rejoice; believing, he ſaid, that a cheerful and contented mind was the beſt ſort of thanks to heaven that an illiterate peaſant could pay—

—Or a learned prelate either, ſaid I.

COTTAGE HAPPINESS.

NATURE! in the midſt of thy diſorders, thou art ſtill friendly to the ſcantineſs thou haſt created—with all thy great works about thee, little haſt thou left to give, either to the ſcythe or to the ſickle—but to that little thou granteſt ſafety and protection; and ſweet are the dwellings which ſtand ſo ſhelter'd.

ILLUSION.

SWEET pliability of man's ſpirit, that can at once ſurrender itſelf to illuſions, which cheat expectation and ſorrow of their weary moments!—Long—long ſince had ye num⯑ber'd out my days, had I not trod ſo great a part of them upon this enchanted ground; when my way is too rough for my feet, or too ſteep for my ſtrength, I get off it, to ſome ſmooth [107] velvet path which fancy has ſcattered over with roſe-buds of delights; and having taken a few turns in it, come back ſtrengthen'd and refreſh'd—When evils preſs ſore upon me, and there is no retreat from them in this world, then I take a new courſe—I leave it—and as I have a clearer idea of the Elyſian fields than I have of heaven, I force myſelf, like Aeneas, into them—I ſee him meet the penſive ſhade of his for⯑ſaken Dido—and wiſh to recognize it—I ſee the injured ſpirit wave her head, and turn off ſilent from the author of her miſeries and diſhonours—I loſe the feelings for myſelf in her's—and in thoſe affections which were wont to make me mourn for her when I was at ſchool.

Surely this is not walking in a vain ſhadow—nor does man diſquiet himſelf in vain by it—he oftener does ſo in truſting the iſſue of his com⯑motions to reaſon only—I can ſafely ſay for myſelf, I was never able to conquer any one ſingle bad ſenſation in my heart ſo deciſively, as by beating up as faſt as I could for ſome kindly and gentle ſenſation to fight it upon its own ground.

LE DIMANCHE.

IT was Sunday; and when La Fleur came in the morning, with my coffee and roll and butter, he had got himſelf ſo gallantly ar⯑ray'd, I ſcarce knew him.

I had covenanted at Montriul to give him a new hat with a ſilver button and loop, and four Louis d'ors pour s'adoniſer, when we got to Paris; and the poor fellow, to do him juſtice, had done wonders with it.

He had bought a bright, clean, good ſcarlet coat, and a pair of breeches of the ſame—They were not a crown worſe, he ſaid, for the wearing—I wiſh'd him hang'd for telling me—They look'd ſo freſh, that though I knew the thing could not be done, yet I would rather have impoſed upon my fancy with thinking I had bought them new for the fellow, than that they had come out of the Rue de Friperie.

This is a nicety which makes not the heart ſore at Paris.

[109] He had purchaſed moreover a handſome blue ſattin waiſtcoat, fancifully enough embroidered—this was indeed ſomething the worſe for the ſervice it had done, but 't was clean ſcour'd—the gold had been touch'd up, and upon the whole was rather ſhowy than otherwiſe—and as the blue was not violent, it ſuited with the coat and breeches very well: he had ſqueez'd out of the money, moreover, a new bag and a ſolitaire; and had inſiſted with the Fripier, upon a gold pair of garters to his breeches knees—He had purchaſed muſlin ruffles, bien brodées, with four livres of his own money,—and a pair of white ſilk ſtockings for five more—and, to top all, nature had given him a hand⯑ſome figure, without coſting him a ſous.

He entered the room thus ſet off, with his hair dreſt in the firſt ſtile, and with a hand⯑ſome bouquet in his breaſt—in a word, there was that look of feſtivity in every thing about him, which at once put me in mind it was Sun⯑day—and by combining both together, it inſtantly ſtruck me, that the favour he wiſh'd to aſk of me the night before, was to ſpend the day as every body in Paris ſpent it beſides. I had ſcarce made the conjecture, when La [110] Fleur, with infinite humility, but with a look of truſt, as if I ſhould not refuſe him, begg'd I would grant him the day, pour faire le galant vis-à-vis de ſa maitreſſe.

Now it was the very thing I intended to do myſelf vis-à-vis Madame de R****—I had retained the remiſe on purpoſe for it, and it would not have mortified my vanity to have had a ſervant ſo well dreſſ'd as La Fleur was, to have got up behind it: I never could have worſe ſpared him.

But we muſt feel, not argue in theſe embar⯑raſſments—the ſons and daughters of ſervice part with liberty, but not with Nature, in their contracts; they are fleſh and blood, and have their little vanities and wiſhes in the midſt of the houſe of bondage, as well as their taſk maſ⯑ters—no doubt, they have ſet their ſelf-de⯑nials at a price—and their expectations are ſo unreaſonable, that I would often diſappoint them, but that their condition puts it ſo much in my power to do it.

Behold!—Behold, I am thy ſervant—diſarms me at once of the powers of a maſter.—

[111] —Thou ſhalt go, La Fleur! ſaid I.

—And what miſtreſs, La Fleur, ſaid I, canſt thou have pick'd up in ſo little a time at Paris? La Fleur laid his hand upon his breaſt, and ſaid 'twas a petite Demoiſelle at Monſieur Le Count de B****'s—La Fleur had a heart made for ſociety; and, to ſpeak the truth of him, let as few occaſions ſlip him as his maſter—ſo that ſome how or other;—but how—heaven knows—he had connected himſelf with the demoiſelle upon the landing of the ſtair-caſe, during the time I was taken up with my paſſport; and as there was time enough for me to win the Count to my intereſt, La Fleur had contrived to make it do to win the maid to his.—The family, it ſeems, was to be at Paris that day, and he had made a party with her, and two or three more of the Count's houſehold, upon the boulevards.

Happy people! that once a week at leaſt are ſure to lay down all your cares together, and dance and ſing, and ſport away the weights of grievance, which bow down the ſpirit of other nations to the earth.

THE MONK.

CALAIS.

A POOR monk of the order of St. Francis came into the room to beg ſomething for his Convent. No man cares to have his virtues the ſport of contingencies—or one man may be generous as another man is puiſſant—ſed non, quo ad hanc—or be it as it may—for there is no regular reaſoning upon the ebbs and flows of our humours; they may depend upon the ſame cauſes, for aught I know, which influence the tides themſelves—'twould oft be no diſcredit to us, to ſuppoſe it was ſo: I'm ſure at leaſt for myſelf, that in many a caſe I ſhould be more highly ſatisfied, to have it ſaid by the world, "I had had an affair with the moon, in which there was neither ſin nor ſhame," than have it paſs altogether as my own act and deed, where⯑in there was ſo much of both.

—But be this as it may: The moment I caſt my eyes upon him, I was predetermined not to [113] give him a ſingle ſous, and accordingly I put my purſe into my pocket—button'd it up—ſet my⯑ſelf a little more upon my centre, and advanced up gravely to him: there was ſomething, I fear, forbidding in my look: I have his figure this moment before my eyes, and think there was that in it which deſerved better.

The monk, as I judged from the break in his tonſure, a few ſcatter'd white hairs upon his temples, being all that remained of it, might be about ſeventy—but from his eyes, and that ſort of fire that was in them, which ſeemed more temper'd by courteſy than years, could be no more than ſixty—Truth might lie be⯑tween—He was certainly ſixty-five; and the general air of his countenance, notwithſtanding ſomething ſeemed to have been planting wrinkles in it before their time, agreed to the account.

It was one of thoſe heads, which Guido has often painted—mild, pale—penetrating, free from all common-place ideas of fat contented ig⯑norance looking downwards upon the earth—it look'd forwards; but look'd, as if it look'd at ſomething beyond this world. How one of his order came by it, heaven above, who let it fall [114] upon a monk's ſhoulders, beſt knows: but it would have ſuited a Bramin, and had I met it upon the plains of Indoſtan, I had reverenced it.

The reſt of his outline may be given in a few ſtrokes; one might put it into the hands of any one to deſign, for 'twas neither elegant or other⯑wiſe, but as character and expreſſion made it ſo: it was a thin, ſpare form, ſomething above the common ſize, if it loſt not the diſtinction by a bend forward in the figure—but it was the atti⯑tude of Intreaty; and as it now ſtands preſent to my imagination, it gain'd more than it loſt by it.

When he had entered the room three paces, he ſtood ſtill; and laying his left hand upon his breaſt, (a ſlender white ſtaff with which he jour⯑ney'd being in his right)—when I had got cloſe up to him, he introduced himſelf with the little ſtory of the wants of his convent, and the pover⯑ty of his order—and did it with ſo ſim⯑ple a grace—and ſuch an air of deprecation was there in the whole caſt of his look and figure—I was bewitch'd not to have been ſtruck with it.

—A better reaſon was, I had predetermined not to give him a ſingle ſous.

[115] —'Tis very true, ſaid I, replying to a caſt up⯑wards with his eyes, with which he had con⯑cluded his addreſs—'tis very true—and heaven be their reſource who have no other but the charity of the world, the ſtock of which, I fear, is no way ſufficient for the many great claims which are hourly made upon it.

As I pronounced the words great claims, he gave a ſlight glance with his eye downwards upon the ſleeve of his tunick—I felt the full force of the appeal—I acknowledge it, ſaid I,—a coarſe habit, and that but once in three years with meagre diet—are no great matters: and the true point of pity is, as they can be earn'd in the world with ſo little induſtry, that your order ſhould wiſh to procure them by preſſing upon a fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged, and the infirm—the captive who lies down counting over and over again the days of his afflictions, languiſhes alſo for his ſhare of it; and had you been of the order of Mercy, inſtead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am, continued I, pointing at my portman⯑teau, full cheerfully ſhould it have been open'd to you, for the ranſom of the unfortunate—The monk made me a bow—but of all others, reſumed I, the unfortunate of our own country, ſurely, [116] have the firſt rights; and I have left thouſands in diſtreſs upon our own ſhore—The monk gave a cordial wave with his head—as much as to ſay, No doubt, there is miſery enough in every cor⯑ner of the world, as well as within our convent—But we diſtinguiſh, ſaid I, laying my hand upon the ſleeve of his tunick, in return for his appeal—we diſtinguiſh, my good father! betwixt thoſe who wiſh only to eat the bread of their own labour—and thoſe who eat the bread of other people's, and have no other plan in life, but to get through it in ſloth and ignorance, for the love of God.

The poor Franciſcan made no reply: a hectic of a moment paſs'd acroſs his cheek, but could not tarry—Nature ſeemed to have had done with her reſentments in him; he ſhewed none—but letting his ſtaff fall within his arm, he preſs'd both his hands with reſignation upon his breaſt, and retired.

My heart ſmote me the moment he ſhut the door—Pſha! ſaid I, with an air of careleſſneſs, three ſeveral times—but it would not do: every ungracious ſyllable I had utter'd, crouded back into my imagination: I reflected, I had no right over the poor Franciſcan, but to deny him; and [117] that the puniſhment of that was enough to the diſſappointed, without the addition of unkind language—I conſider'd his grey hairs—his courteous figure ſeem'd to re-enter and gently aſk me what injury he had done me?—and why I could uſe him thus?—I would have given twenty livres for an advocate—I have behaved very ill, ſaid I within myſelf; but I have only juſt ſet out upon my travels; and ſhall learn better manners as I get along.

THE MONK.

THE good old monk was within ſix paces of us, as the idea of him croſs'd my mind; and was advancing towards us a little out of the line, as if uncertain whether he ſhould break in upon us or no.—He ſtopp'd, however, as ſoon as he came up to us, with a world of frankneſs; and having a horn ſnuff-box in his hand, he preſented it open to me—You ſhall taſte mine—ſaid I, pulling out my box (which was a ſmall tortoiſe one) and putting it into his hand—'Tis moſt ex⯑cellent, ſaid the monk: Then do me the favour, I replied, to accept of the box and all, and when you take a pinch out of it, ſometimes recollect [118] it was the peace-offering of a man who once uſed you unkindly, but not from his heart.

The poor monk bluſh'd as red as ſcarlet. Mon Dieu! ſaid he, preſſing his hands together—you never uſed me unkindly.—I ſhould think, ſaid the lady, he is not likely. I bluſh'd in my turn; but from what movements, I leave to the few who feel to analyſe—Excuſe me, Madame, replied I—I treated him moſt unkindly; and from no provocations. 'Tis impoſſible ſaid the lady.—My God! cried the monk, with a warmth of aſſeveration which ſeem'd not to belong to him—the fault was in me, and in the indiſcretion of my zeal—the lady oppoſed it, and I joined with her in maintaining it was impoſſible, that a ſpirit ſo regulated as his, could give offence to any.

I knew not that contention could be rendered ſo ſweet and pleaſurable a thing to the nerves as I then felt it.—We remained ſilent, without any ſenſation of that fooliſh pain which takes place, when in ſuch a circle you look for ten minutes in one another's faces without ſaying a word. Whilſt this laſted, the monk rubb'd his horn-box upon the ſleeve of his tunick; and as ſoon as it had acquired a little air of brightneſs by the [119] friction—he made a low bow, and ſaid 'twas too late to ſay whether it was the weakneſs or goodneſs of our tempers which had involved us in this conteſt—but be it as it would—he begg'd we might exchange boxes—In ſaying this he preſented his to me with one hand, as he took mine from me in the other: and having kiſs'd it—with a ſtream of good-nature in his eyes, he put it into his boſom—and took his leave.

I guard this box as I would the inſtrumental parts of my religion, to help my mind on to ſomething better: in truth, I ſeldom go abroad without it; and oft and many a time have I called up by it the courteous ſpirit of its owner to regulate my own, in the juſtlings of the world; they had found full employment for his, as I learnt from his ſtory, till about the forty-fifth year of his age, when upon ſome military ſervices ill requited, and meeting at the ſame time with a diſappointment in the tendereſt of paſſions, he abandoned the ſword and the ſex to⯑gether, and took ſanctuary, not ſo much in his convent as in himſelf.

I feel a damp upon my ſpirits, as I am going to add, that in my laſt return through Calais, [120] upon inquiring after Father Lorenzo, I heard he had been dead near three months, and was buried, not in his convent, but, according to his deſire, in a little cemetery belonging to it, about two leagues off: I had a ſtrong deſire to ſee where they had laid him—when upon pulling out his little horn box, as I ſat by his grave, and plucking up a nettle or two at the head of it, which had no buſineſs to grow there, they all ſtruck together ſo forcibly upon my affections, that I burſt into a flood of tears—but I am as weak as a woman; and I beg the world not to ſmile, but pity me.

FELLOW-FEELING.

THERE is ſomething in our nature which engages us to take part in every accident to which man is ſubject, from what cauſe ſoever it may have happened; but in ſuch calamities as a man has fallen into through mere misfortune, to be charged upon no fault or indiſcretion of himſelf, there is ſomething then ſo truly intereſt⯑ing, that at the firſt ſight we generally make them our own, not altogether from a reflection [121] that they might have been or may be ſo, but oftener from a certain generoſity and tenderneſs of nature which diſpoſes us for compaſſion, ab⯑ſtracted from all conſiderations of ſelf: ſo that without any obſervable act of the will, we ſuffer with the unfortunate, and feel a weight upon our ſpirits we know not why, on ſeeing the moſt common inſtances of their diſtreſs. But where the ſpectacle is uncommonly tragical, and com⯑plicated with many circumſtances of miſery, the mind is then taken captive at once, and were it inclined to it, has no power to make reſiſtance, but ſurrenders itſelf to all the tender emotions of pity and deep concern. So that when one con⯑ſiders this friendly part of our nature without looking farther, one would think it impoſſible for man to look upon miſery without finding himſelf in ſome meaſure attached to the intereſt of him who ſuffers it—I ſay, one would think it impoſſible—for there are ſome tempers—how ſhall I deſcribe them?—formed either of ſuch impenetrable matter, or wrought up by habitual ſelfiſhneſs to ſuch an utter inſenſibility of what becomes of the fortunes of their fellow creatures, as if they were not partakers of the ſame nature, or had no lot or connection at all with the ſpe⯑cies.

THE UNMERCIFUL MAN.

LOOK into the world—how often do you behold a ſordid wretch, whoſe ſtrait heart is open to no man's affliction, taking ſhelter behind an appearance of piety, and putting on the garb of religion, which none but the merciful and compaſſionate have a title to wear. Take no⯑tice with what ſanctity he goes to the end of his days, in the ſame ſelfiſh track in which he at firſt ſet out—turning neither to the right hand nor to the left—but plods on—pores all his life long upon the ground, as if afraid to look up, leſt peradventure he ſhould ſee aught which might turn him one moment out of that ſtrait line where intereſt is carrying him;—or if, by chance, he ſtumbles upon a hapleſs object of diſtreſs, which threatens ſuch a diſaſter to him—devou [...] paſſing by on the other ſide, as if unwilling to [...] himſelf to the impreſſions of nature, or [...] the inconveniences which pity might lead him into upon the occaſion.

PITY.

IN benevolent natures the impulſe to pity is ſo ſudden, that like inſtruments of muſic which obey the touch—the objects which are fit⯑ted to excite ſuch impreſſions work ſo inſtanta⯑neous an effect, that you would think the will was ſcarce concerned, and that the mind was al⯑together paſſive in the ſympathy which her own goodneſs has excited. The truth is—the ſoul is generally in ſuch caſes ſo buſily taken up and wholly engroſſed by the object of pity, that ſhe does not attend to her own operations, or take leiſure to examine the principles upon which ſhe acts.

COMPASSION.

IN generous ſpirits, compaſſion is ſometimes more than a balance for ſelf preſervation. God certainly interwove that friendly ſoftneſs in our nature to be a check upon too great a pro⯑penſity towards ſelf-love.

SLANDER.

OF the many revengeful, covetous, falſe, and ill-natured perſons which we complain of in the world, though we all join in the cry againſt them, what man amongſt us ſingles out himſelf as a criminal, or ever once takes it into his head that he adds to the number?—or where is there a man ſo bad, who would not think it the hardeſt and moſt unfair imputation, to have any of thoſe particular vices laid to his charge?

If he has the ſymptoms never ſo ſtrong upon him, which he would pronounce infallible in another, they are indications of no ſuch malady in himſelf—he ſees what no one elſe ſees, ſome ſecret and flattering circumſtances in his favour, which no doubt make a wide difference betwixt his caſe, and the parties which he condemns.

What other man ſpeaks ſo often and vehe⯑mently againſt the vice of pride, ſets the weak⯑neſs of it in a more odious light, or is more hurt with it in another, than the proud man himſelf? [125] It is the ſame with the paſſionate, the deſigning, the ambitious, and ſome other common charac⯑ters in life; and being a conſequence of the nature of ſuch vices, and almoſt inſeperable from them, the effects of it are generally ſo groſs and abſurd, that where pity does not for⯑bid, it is pleaſant to obſerve and trace the cheat through the ſeveral turnings and windings of the heart, and detect it through all the ſhapes and appearances which it puts on.

HOUSE OF MOURNING.

LET us go into the houſe of mourning, made ſo by ſuch afflictions as have been brought in, merely by the common croſs accidents and diſaſters to which our condition is expoſed,—where, perhaps, the aged parents ſit broken⯑hearted, pierced to their ſouls with the folly and indiſcretion of a thankleſs child—the child of their prayers, in whom all their hopes and expectations centered:—perhaps a more affect⯑ing ſcene—a virtuous family lying pinched with want, where the unfortunate ſupport of it [126] having long ſtruggled with a train of misfor⯑tunes, and bravely fought up againſt them,—is now piteouſly borne down at the laſt—over-whelmed with a cruel blow which no forecaſt or frugality could have prevented.—O God! look upon his afflictions—behold him diſtracted with many ſorrows, ſurrounded with the tender pledges of his love, and the partner of his cares—without bread to give them, unable, from the remembrance of better days, to dig;—to beg, aſhamed.

When we enter into the houſe of mourning ſuch as this—it is impoſſible to inſult the unfor⯑tunate even with an improper look—under whatever levity and diſſipation of heart, ſuch objects catch our eyes,—they catch likewiſe our attentions, collect and call home our ſcat⯑tered thoughts, and exerciſe them with wiſdom. A tranſient ſcene of diſtreſs, ſuch as is here ſketched, how ſoon does it furniſh materials to ſet the mind at work? how neceſſarily does it engage it to the conſideration of the miſeries and misfortunes, the dangers and calamities to which the life of man is ſubject? By holding up ſuch a glaſs before it, it forces the mind to ſee and reflect upon the vanity,—the periſhing [127] condition and uncertain tenure of every thing in this world. From reflections of this ſerious caſt, how inſenſibly do the thoughts carry us farther?—and from conſidering what we are—what kind of world we live in, and what evils befal us in it, how naturally do they ſet us to look forwards at what poſſibly we ſhall be?—for what kind of world we are intended—what evils may befal us there—and what pro⯑viſion we ſhould make againſt them here, whilſt we have time and opportunity. If theſe leſſons are ſo inſeparable from the houſe of mourning here ſuppoſed—we ſhall find it a ſtill more in⯑ſtructive ſchool of wiſdom when we take a view of the place in that more affecting light in which the wiſe man ſeems to confine it in the text, in which, by the houſe of mourning, I believe, he means that particular ſcene of ſorrow, where there is lamentation and mourning for the dead. Turn in hither, I beſeech you, for a moment. Behold a dead man ready to be car⯑ried out, the only ſon of his mother, and ſhe a widow. Perhaps a more affecting ſpectacle a kind and indulgent father of a numerous fa⯑mily, lies breathleſs—ſnatched away in the ſtrength of his age—torn in an evil hour from his children and the boſom of a diſconſolate [128] wife. Behold much people of the city gathered together to mix their tears, with ſettled ſorrow in their looks, going heavily along to the houſe of mourning, to perform that laſt melancholy office, which, when the debt of nature is paid, we are called upon to pay to each other. If this ſad occaſion which leads him there, has not done it already, take notice, to what a ſerious and devout frame of mind every man is re⯑duced, the moment he enters this gate of afflic⯑tion. The buſy and fluttering ſpirits, which in the houſe of mirth were wont to tranſport him from one diverting object to another—ſee how they are fallen! how peaceably they are laid! In this gloomy manſion full of ſhades and uncomfortable damps to ſieze the ſoul—ſee, the light and eaſy heart, which never knew what it was to think before, how penſive it is now, how ſoft, how ſuſceptible, how full of religious impreſſions, how deeply it is ſmitten with ſenſe and with a love of virtue. Could we, in this criſis, whilſt this empire of reaſon and religion laſts, and the heart is thus exerciſed with wiſ⯑dom and buſied with heavenly contemplations—could we ſee it naked as it is—ſtripped of its paſſions, unſpotted by the world, and regard⯑leſs of its pleaſures—we might then ſafely reſt [129] our cauſe upon this ſingle evidence, and appeal to the moſt ſenſual whether Solomon has not made a juſt determination here, in favour of the houſe of mourning? not for its own ſake, but as it is fruitful in virtue, and becomes the oc⯑caſion of ſo much good. Without this end, ſorrow I own has no uſe but to ſhorten a man's days—nor can gravity, with all its ſtudied ſo⯑lemnity of look and carriage, ſerve any end but to make one half of the world merry, and impoſe upon the other.

FRAILTY.

THE beſt of men appear ſometimes to be ſtrange compounds of contradictory quali⯑ties: and, were the accidental overſights and folly of the wiſeſt man,—the failings and im⯑perfections of a religious man,—the haſty acts and paſſionate words of a meek man;—were they to riſe up in judgment againſt them,—and an ill-natured judge be ſuffered to mark in this manner what has been done amiſs—what cha⯑racter ſo unexceptionable as to be able to ſtand before him?

INSENSIBILITY.

IT is the fate of mankind, too often, to ſeem inſenſible of what they may enjoy at the eaſieſt rate.

UNCERTAINTY.

THERE is no condition in life ſo fixed and per⯑manent as to be out of danger, or the rea [...] of change:—and we all may depend upon it, that we ſhall take our turns of wanting and deſiring. By how many unforeſeen cauſes may riches take wing!—The crowns of princes may be ſhaken, and the greateſt that ever awed the world have experienced what the turn of the wheel can do.—That which hath happened to one man, may befal another; and, therefore, that excellent rule of our Saviour's ought to govern us in all our actions,—Whatſoever ye would that men ſhould do to you, do you alſo to them likewiſe.—Time [131] and chance happens to all;—and the moſt affluent may be ſtript of all, and find his worldly com⯑forts like ſo many withered leaves dropping from him.

THE DEAD ASS.

AND this, ſaid he, putting the remains of a cruſt into his wallet—and this ſhould have been thy portion, ſaid he, hadſt thou been alive to have ſhared it with me. I thought by the accent, it had been an apoſtrophe to his child; but 'twas to his aſs, and to the very aſs we had ſeen dead in the road, which had occaſioned La Fleur's miſadventure. The man ſeemed to lament it much; and it inſtantly brought into my mind Sancho's lamentation for his; but he did it with more true touches of nature.

The mourner was ſitting upon a ſtone-bench at the door, with the aſs's pannel and its bridle on one ſide, which he took up from time to time—then laid them down—look'd at them— [132] and ſhook his head. He then took his cruſt of bread out of his wallet again, as if to eat it? held it ſome time in his hand—then laid it upon the bit of his aſs's bridle—look'd wiſtfully at the little arrangement he had made—and then gave a ſigh.

The ſimplicity of his grief drew numbers a⯑bout him, and La Fleur amongſt the reſt, whilſt the horſes were getting ready; as I continued ſitting in the poſt-chaiſe, I could ſee and hear over their heads.

—He ſaid he had come laſt from Spain, where he had been from the furtheſt borders of Fran⯑conia; and had got ſo far on his return home, when his aſs died. Every one ſeem'd deſi⯑rous to know what buſineſs could have taken ſo old and poor a man ſo far a journey from his own home.

It had pleaſed heaven, he ſaid, to bleſs him with three ſons, the fineſt lads in all Germany; but having in one week loſt two of them by the ſmall-pox, and the youngeſt falling ill of the ſame diſtemper, he was afraid of being bereſt of them all; and made a vow, if heaven would not take [133] him from him alſo, he would go in gratitude to St. Jago in Spain,

When the mourner got thus far on his ſtory, he ſtopp'd to pay nature her tribute—and wept bitterly.

He ſaid heaven had accepted the conditions, and that he had ſet out from his cottage with this poor creature, who had been a patient part⯑ner of his journey—that it had eat the ſame bread with him all the way, and was unto him as a friend.

Every body who ſtood about heard the poor fellow with concern—La Fleur offered him money—The mourner ſaid he did not want it—it was not the value of the aſs—but the loſs of him.—The aſs, he ſaid, he was aſſured, loved him—and upon this told them a long ſtory of a miſchance upon their paſſage over the Pyre⯑nean mountains which had ſeparated them from each other three days; during which time the aſs had ſought him as much as he had ſought the aſs, and that they had neither ſcarce eat or drank till they met.

[134] Thou haſt one comfort, friend, ſaid I, at leaſt in the loſs of thy poor beaſt; I'm ſure thou haſt been a merciful maſter to him,—Alas! ſaid the mourner, I thought ſo, when he was alive—but now he is dead I think otherwiſe.—I fear the weight of myſelf and my afflictions together have been too much for him—they have ſhorten⯑ed the poor creature's days, and I fear I have them to anſwer for.—Shame on the world! ſaid I to myſelf—Did we love each other as this poor ſoul but lov'd his aſs—'twould be ſome⯑thing.

HUMOURING IMMORAL APPETITES.

THE humouring of certain appetites, where morality is not concerned, ſeems to be the means by which the Author of nature intended to ſweeten this journey of life,—and bear us up under the many ſhocks and hard joſtlings, which we are ſure to meet with in our way.—And a man might, with as much reaſon, muſfle up him⯑ſelf againſt ſunſhine and fair weather,—and at othertimes expoſe himſelf naked to the incle⯑mencies [135] of cold and rain, as debar himſelf of the innocent delights of his nature, for affected re⯑ſerve and melancholy.

It is true, on the other hand, our paſſions are apt to grow upon us by indulgence, and become exorbitant, if they are not kept under exact diſ⯑cipline, that by way of caution and prevention 'twere better, at certain times, to affect ſome degree of needleſs reſerve, than hazard any ill conſequences from the other extreme.

UNITY.

LOOK into private life,—behold how good and pleaſant a thing it is to live together in unity;—it is like the precious ointment poured upon the head of Aaron, that run down to his ſkirts;—importing that this balm of life is felt and enjoyed, not only by governors of kingdoms, but is derived down to the loweſt rank of life, and taſted in the moſt private receſſes;—all, from the king to the peaſant, are refreſhed with its bleſſings, without which we can find no com⯑fort [136] in any thing this world can give.—It is this bleſſing gives every one to ſit quietly under his vine, and reap the fruits of his labour and induſtry:—in one word, which beſpeaks who is the beſtower of it—it is that only which keeps up the harmony and order of the world, and preſerves every thing in it from ruin and confuſion.

OPPOSITION.

THERE are ſecret workings in human affairs, which over-rule all human contrivance, and counterplot the wiſeſt of our councils, in ſo ſtrange and unexpected a manner, as to caſt a damp upon our beſt ſchemes and warmeſt endeavours.

Captain Shandy's Juſtification of his own Princi⯑ples and Conduct, in wiſhing to continue the War. Written to his Brother.

I AM not inſenſible, brother Shandy, that when a man, whoſe profeſſion is arms, wiſhes, as I have done, for war—it has an ill aſpect to the world;—and that, how juſt and right ſoever his motives and intentions may be,—he ſtands in an uneaſy poſture in vindicating himſelf from private views in doing it.

For this cauſe, if a ſoldier is a prudent man, which he may be, without being a jot the leſs brave, he will be ſure not to utter his wiſh in the hearing of an enemy; for ſay what he will, an enemy will not believe him.—He will be cau⯑tious of doing it even to a friend,—leſt he may ſuffer in his eſteem:—But if his heart is over⯑charged, and a ſecret ſigh for arms muſt have its vent, he will reſerve it for the ear of a bro⯑ther, who knows his character to the bottom, and what his true notions, diſpoſitions, and principles of honour are: What, I hope, I have [138] been in all theſe, brother Shandy, would be un⯑becoming in me to ſay:—much worſe, I know, have I been than I ought,—and ſomething worſe, perhaps, than I think: But ſuch as I am, you, my dear brother Shandy, who have ſucked the ſame breaſts with me,—and with whom I have been brought up from my cradle,—and from whoſe knowledge, from the firſt hours of of our boyiſh paſtimes, down to this, I have concealed no one action of my life, and ſcarce a thought in it—Such as I am, brother, you muſt by this time know me, with all my vices, and with all my weakneſſes too, whether of my age, my temper, my paſſions, or my under⯑ſtanding.

Tell me then, my dear brother Shandy, upon which of them it is, that when I condemned the peace of Utrecht, and grieved the war was not carried on with vigour a little longer, you ſhould think your brother did it upon unworthy views; or that in wiſhing for war, he ſhould be bad enough to wiſh more of his fellow-crea⯑tures ſlain,—more ſlaves made, and more fami⯑lies driven from their peaceful habitations, mere⯑ly for his own pleaſure:—Tell me, brother Shandy, upon what one deed of mine do you ground it?

[139] If when I was a ſchool-boy, I could not hear a drum beat, but my heart beat with it—was it my fault? Did I plant the propenſity there? Did I ſound the alarm within? or Na⯑ture?

When Guy, Earl of Warwick, and Pariſmus and Pariſmenus, and Valentine and Orſon, and the Seven Champions of England were handed a⯑round the ſchool,—were they not all purchaſed with my own pocket money? Was that ſelfiſh, brother Shandy? When we read over the ſiege of Troy, which laſted ten years and eight months,—though with ſuch a train of artillery as we had at Namur, the town might have been car⯑ried in a week—was I not as much concerned for the Greeks and Trojans as any boy of the whole ſchool? Had I not three ſtrokes of a fe⯑rula given me, two on my right hand and one on my left, for calling Helena a bitch for it? Did any one of you ſhed more tears for Hector? And when king Priam came to the camp to beg his body, and returned weeping back to Troy without it,—you know, brother, I could not eat my dinner.

—Did that beſpeak me cruel? Or becauſe, brother Shandy, my blood flew out into the [140] camp, and my heart panted for war,—was it a proof it could not ache for the diſtreſſes of war too?

O brother! 'tis one thing for a ſoldier to ga⯑ther laurels,—and 'tis another to ſcatter cypreſs.

—'Tis one thing, brother Shandy, for a ſol⯑dier to hazard his own life—to leap firſt down into the trench, where he is ſure to be cut in pieces:—'Tis one thing from public ſpirit and a thirſt of glory, to enter the breach the firſt man,—to ſtand in the foremoſt rank, and march bravely on with drums and trumpets, and co⯑lours flying about his ears:—'Tis one thing, I ſay, brother Shandy, to do this,—and 'tis ano⯑ther thing to reflect on the miſeries of war;—to view the deſolations of whole countries, and conſider the intolerable fatigues and hardſhips which the ſoldier himſelf, the inſtrument who works them, is forced (for ſix-pence a day, if he can get it) to undergo.

Need I be told, dear Yorick, as I was by you, in Le Fever's funeral ſermon, That ſo ſoft and gentle a creature, born to love, to mercy, and kindneſs, as man is, was not ſhaped for this? But [141] why did you not add, Yorick,—if not by NA⯑TURE—that he is ſo by NECESSITY?—For what is war? what is it, Yorick, when fought as ours has been, upon principles of liberty, and upon principles of honour—what is it, but the getting together of quiet and harmleſs people, with their ſwords in their hands, to keep the ambi⯑tious and the turbulent within bounds? And hea⯑ven is my witneſs, brother Shandy, that the plea⯑ſure I have taken in theſe things,—and that in⯑finite delight, in particular, which has attended my ſieges in my bowling green, has aroſe with⯑in me, and I hope in the Corporal too, from the conſciouſneſs we both had, that in carrying them on, we were anſwering the great ends of our creation.

MERCY.

MY uncle Toby was a man patient of inju⯑ries;—not from want of courage,—where juſt occaſions preſented, or called it forth,—I know no man under whoſe arm I would ſooner have taken ſhelter;—nor did this ariſe from any [142] inſenſibility or obtuſeneſs of his intellectual parts;—he was of a peaceful, placid nature,—no jarring element in it,—all was mixed up ſo kindly within him; my uncle Toby had ſcarce a hear to retaliate upon a fly:—Go,—ſays he one day at dinner, to an overgrown one which had buzzed about his noſe, and tormented him cruelly all dinner-time,—and which, after infi⯑nite attempts, he had caught at laſt—as it flew by him;—I'll not hurt thee, ſays my uncle Toby, riſing from his chair, and going acroſs the room, with the fly in his hand,—I'll not hurt a hair of thy head:—Go, ſays he, lifting up the ſaſh, and opening his hand as he ſpoke, to let it eſcape;—go, poor devil,—get thee gone, why ſhould I hurt thee?—This world ſurely is wide enough to hold both thee and me.

⁂ This is to ſerve for parents and gover⯑nors inſtead of a whole volume upon the ſubject.

INDOLENCE.

INCONSISTENT ſoul that man is!—lan⯑guiſhing under wounds which he has the power to heal!—his whole life a contradiction to his knowledge!—his reaſon, that precious gift of God to him—(inſtead of pouring in oil) ſerving but to ſharpen his ſenſibilities,—to multiply his pains and render him more melan⯑choly and uneaſy under them!—Poor unhappy creature, that he ſhould do ſo!—are not the neceſſary cauſes of miſery in this life enow, but he muſt add voluntary ones to his ſtock of ſor⯑row;—ſtruggle againſt evils which cannot be avoided, and ſubmit to others, which a tenth part of the trouble they create him, would re⯑move from his heart for ever?

CONSOLATION.

BEFORE an affliction is digeſted,—conſola⯑tion ever comes too ſoon;—and after it is digeſted—it comes too late:—there is but a mark between theſe two, as fine almoſt as a hair, for a comforter to take aim at.

THE STARLING.

—BESHREW the ſombre pencil! ſaid I vauntingly—for I envy not its powers, which paints the evils of life with ſo hard and deadly a colouring. The mind ſits terrified at the objects ſhe has magnified herſelf, and blackened: reduce them to their proper ſize and hue ſhe overlooks them—'Tis true, ſaid I, correcting the propoſition—the Baſtile is not an evil to be deſpiſed—but ſtrip it of its towers—fill up the foſse—unbarricade the [145] doors—call it ſimply a confinement, and ſup⯑poſe 'tis ſome tyrant of a diſtemper—and not of a man which holds you in it—the evil vaniſhes, and you bear the other half without complaint.

I was interrupted in the hey-day of this ſoli⯑loquy, with a voice which I took to be of a child, which complained "it could not get out."—I looked up and down the paſſage, and ſeeing neither man, woman, or child, I went out with⯑out further attention.

In my return back through the paſſage, I heard the ſame words repeated twice over; and look⯑ing up, I ſaw it was a ſtarling hung in a little cage—"I can't get out—I can't get out," ſaid the ſtarling.

I ſtood looking at the bird: and to every perſon who came through the paſſage it ran fluttering to the ſide towards which they ap⯑proached it, with the ſame lamentations of its captivity—"I can't get out," ſaid the ſtar⯑ling—God help thee! ſaid I, but I will let thee out, coſt what it will; ſo I turned about the cage to get the door; it was twiſted and [146] double twiſted ſo faſt with wire, there was no getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces—I took both hands to it.

The bird flew to the place where I was at⯑tempting his deliverance, and thruſting his head through the trellis, preſſed his breaſt againſt it, as if impatient—I fear, poor creature! ſaid I, I cannot ſet thee at liberty—"No, ſaid the ſtarling—"I can't get out—I can't get out," ſaid the ſtarling.

I vow I never had my affections more ten⯑derly awakened; nor do I remember an inci⯑dent in my life, where the diſſipated ſpirits, to which my reaſon had been a bubble, were ſo ſuddenly called home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet ſo true in tune to nature were they chanted, that in one moment they overthrew all my ſyſtematic reaſonings upon the Baſtile; and I heavily walked up ſtairs, unſaying every word I had ſaid in going down them.

Diſguiſe thyſelf as thou wilt, ſtill, ſlavery! ſaid I—ſtill thou art a bitter draught! and though thouſands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no leſs bitter on that ac⯑count.—'Tis [147] thou thrice ſweet and gracious goddeſs, addreſſing myſelf to LIBERTY, whom all in public or in private worſhip, whoſe taſte grateful, and ever will be ſo, till NATURE her⯑ſelf 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 as he eats his cruſt, the ſwain is happier than his monarch, from whoſe court thou art exiled—Gracious heaven! cried I, kneeling down upon the laſt ſtep but one in my aſcent—Grant me but health, thou great Beſtower of it, and give me but this fair goddeſs as my companion—and ſhower down thy mitres, if it ſeems good unto thy divine providence, upon thoſe heads which are aching for them.

THE CAPTIVE.

THE bird in his cage purſued me into my room; I ſat down cloſe by my table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myſelf the miſeries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and ſo I gave full ſcope to my imagination.

[148] I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures, born to no inheritance but ſlavery: but finding, however affecting the pic⯑ture 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 expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of ſickneſs of the heart it was which ariſes from hope deferr'd. Upon looking nearer I ſaw him pale and feveriſh: in thirty years the weſtern breeze had not once fann'd his blood—he had ſeen no ſun, no moon, in all that time—nor had the voice of friend or kinſman breathed through his 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 furtheſt corner of his dungeon, [149] which was alternately his chair and bed: a little calendar of ſmall ſticks were laid at the head, notch'd all over with the diſmal days and nights he had paſſed there—he had one of theſe little ſticks in his hand, and with a ruſty nail he was etching another day of miſery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeleſs eye towards the door, then caſt it down—ſhook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he 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.

THE DWARF.

I WAS walking down that which leads from the Carouſal to the Palais Royal, and ob⯑ſerving a little boy in ſome diſtreſs at the ſide of the gutter, which ran down the middle of it, I took hold of his hand, and help'd him over. Upon turning up his face to look at him [150] after, I perceived he was about forty—Never mind, ſaid I; ſome good body will do as much for me, when I am ninety.

I feel ſome little principles within me, which incline me to be merciful towards this poor blighted part of my ſpecies, who have neither ſize or ſtrength to get on in the world—I cannot bear to ſee one of them trod upon; and had ſcarce got ſeated beſide an old French offi⯑cer at the Opera Comique, ere the diſguſt was exerciſed, by ſeeing the very thing happen under the box we ſat in.

At the end of the orcheſtra, and betwixt that and the firſt ſide-box, there is a ſmall eſplenade left, where, when the houſe is full, numbers of all ranks take ſanctuary. Though you ſtand, as in the parterre, you pay the ſame price as in the orcheſtra. A poor defenceleſs being of this order had got thruſt ſomehow or other into this luck⯑leſs place—the night was hot, and he was ſurrounded by beings two feet and a half higher than himſelf. The dwarf ſuffered inexpreſſibly on all ſides; but the thing which incommoded him moſt was a tall corpulent German, near ſeven feet high, who ſtood directly betwixt him [151] and all poſſibility of ſeeing either the ſtage or the actors. The poor dwarf did all he could to get a peep at what was going forwards, by ſeek⯑ing for ſome little opening betwixt the German's arm and his body, trying firſt one ſide, then the other; but the German ſtood ſquare in the moſt unaccommodating poſture that can be imagined——the dwarf might as well have been placed at the bottom of the deepeſt draw-well in Paris; ſo he civilly reach'd up his hand to the German's ſleeve, and told him his diſtreſs——The German turn'd his head back, look'd down upon him as Goliah did upon David—and unfeelingly reſumed his poſture.

I was juſt then taking a pinch of ſnuff out of my monk's little horn box—And how would thy meek and courteous ſpirit, my dear monk! ſo temper'd to bear and forbear!—how ſweetly would it have lent an ear to this poor ſoul's complaint!

The old French officer ſeeing me lift up my eyes with an emotion, as I made the apoſtrophe, took the liberty to aſk me what was the matter—I told him the ſtory in three words; and added, how inhuman it was.

[152] By this time the dwarf was driven to ex⯑tremes, and in his firſt tranſports, which are ge⯑nerally unreaſonable, had told the German he would cut off his long queue with his knife—The German look'd back coolly, and told him he was welcome, if he could reach it.

An injury ſharpened by an inſult, be it to who it will, makes every man of ſentiment a party: I could have leaped out of the box to have re⯑dreſſed it.—The old French officer did it with much leſs confuſion; for leaning a little over, and modding to a centinel, and pointing at the ſame time with his finger to the diſtreſs—the centinel made his way up to it.—There was no occaſion to tell the grievance—the thing told itſelf; ſo thruſting back the German inſtantly with his muſket—he took the poor dwarf by the hand, and placed him before him—This is noble! ſaid I, clapping my hands together—And yet you would not permit this, ſaid the old offi⯑cer, in England.

—In England, dear Sir, ſaid I, we ſit all at our eaſe.

The old French officer would have ſet me at unity with myſelf, in caſe I had been at variance, [153] —by ſaying it was a bon mot—and as a bon mot is always worth ſomething at Paris, he offered me a pinch of ſnuff.

CHARITY.

WHEN all is ready, and every article is diſputed and paid for in the inn, unleſs you are a little ſour'd by the adventure, there is always a matter to compound at the door, before you can get into your chaiſe, and that is with the ſons and daughters of poverty, who ſurround you. Let no man ſay, "Let them go to the devil"—'tis a cruel journey to ſend a few miſerables, and they have had ſufferings enow without it: I always think it better to take a few ſous out in my hand; and I would counſel every gentle traveller to do ſo likewiſe; he need not be ſo exact in ſetting down his motives for giving them—they will be regiſter'd elſewhere.

For my own part, there is no man gives ſo little as I do; for few that I know have ſo little to give: but as this was the firſt public act of [154] my charity in France, I took the more notice of it.

A well-a-way! ſaid I. I have but eight ſous in the world, ſhewing them in my hand, and there are eight poor men and eight poor women for 'em.

A poor tatter'd ſoul without a ſhirt on, inſtant⯑ly withdrew his claim, by retiring two ſteps out of the circle, and making a diſqualifying bow on his part. Had the whole parterre cried out Place aux dames, with one voice, it would not have conveyed the ſentiment of a deference for the ſex with half the effect.

Juſt heaven! for what wiſe reaſons haſt thou order'd it that beggary and urbanity, which are at ſuch variance in other countries, ſhould find a way to be at unity in this?

—I inſiſted upon preſenting him with a ſingle ſous, merely for his politeſſe.

A poor little dwarfiſh, briſk fellow, who ſtood over-againſt me in the circle, putting ſomething firſt under his arm, which had once been a hat, [155] took his ſnuff-box out of his pocket, and gene⯑rouſly offered a pinch on both ſides of him: it was a gift of conſequence and modeſtly declined—The poor little fellow preſs'd it upon them with a nod of welcomeneſs—Prenez en—Pre⯑nez, ſaid he, looking another way; ſo they each took a pinch—Pity thy box ſhould ever want one! ſaid I to myſelf; ſo I put a couple of ſous into it—taking a ſmall pinch out of his box, to enhance their value, as I did it—He felt the weight of the ſecond obligation more than that of the firſt—'twas doing him an honour—the other was only doing him a charity—and he made me a bow down to the ground for it.

—Here! ſaid I, to an old ſoldier with one hand, who had been compaign'd and worn out to death in the ſervice—here's a couple of ſous for thee, Vive le Roi! ſaid the old ſoldier.

I had then but three ſous left; ſo I gave one, ſimply pour l'amour de Dieu, which was the foot⯑ing on which it was begg'd—The poor woman had a diſlocated hip: ſo it could not be well, upon any other motive.

Mon cher et tres charitable Monſieur—There's no oppoſing this, ſaid I.

[156] My Lord Anglois—the very ſound was worth the money—ſo I gave my laſt ſous for it. But in the eagerneſs of giving, I had overlook'd a pauvre honteux, who had no one to aſk a ſous for him, and who, I believed, would have pe⯑riſh'd, ere he could have aſk'd one for himſelf: he ſtood by the chaiſe a little without the circle, and wiped a tear from a face which I thought had ſeen better days—Good God! ſaid I—and I have not one ſingle ſous left to give him—But you have a thouſand! cried all the powers of nature ſtirring within me—ſo I gave him—no matter what—I am aſhamed to ſay how much, now—and was aſhamed to think how little, then: ſo if the reader can form any con⯑jecture of my diſpoſition, as theſe two fixed points are given him, he may judge within a livre or two what was the preciſe ſum.

I could afford nothing for the reſt, but Dieu vous beniſſe—Et le bon Dieu vous beniſſe encore—ſaid the old ſoldier, the dwarf, &c. The pauvre honteux could ſay nothing—he pull'd out a little handkerchief, and wiped his face as he turned away—and I thought he thank'd me more than them all.

REFLECTIONS ON DEATH.

THE Corporal—

—Tread lightly on his aſhes, ye men of genius,—for he was your kinſman:

Weed his grave clean ye men goodneſs,—for he was your brother.—Oh Corporal! had I thee but now,—now, that I am able to give thee a dinner and protection,—how would I cheriſh thee! thou ſhould'ſt wear thy Montero⯑cap every hour of the day, and every day of the week,—and when it was worn out, I would purchaſe thee a couple like it:—but alas! alas! alas! now that I can do this, in ſpite of their reverences—the occaſion is loſt—for thou art gone;—thy genius fled up to the ſtars from whence it came;—and that warm heart of thine with all its generous and open veſſels, compreſ⯑ſed into a clod of the valley!

—But what is this—what is this, to that future and dreadful page, where I look towards the velvet pall, decorated with the military en⯑ſigns [158] of thy maſter—the firſt—the foremoſt of created beings; where, I ſhall ſee thee, faithful ſervant! laying his ſword and ſcabbard with a trembling hand acroſs his coffin, and then return⯑ing pale as aſhes to the door, to take his mourn⯑ing horſe by the bridle, to follow his hearſe, as he directed thee;—where—all my father's ſyſtems ſhall be baffled by his ſorrows; and, in ſpite of his philoſophy, I ſhall behold him, as he inſpects the lackered plate, twice taking his ſpectacles from off his noſe, to wipe away the dew which nature has ſhed upon them—When I ſee him caſt in the roſemary with an air of diſ⯑conſolation, which cries through my ears,—O Toby! in what corner of the world ſhall I ſeek thy fellow?

—Gracious powers! which erſt have opened the lips of the dumb in his diſtreſs, and made the tongue of the ſtammerer ſpeak plain—when I ſhall arrive at this dreaded page, deal not with me, then, with a ſtinted hand.

PLEASURES OF OBSERVATION AND STUDY.

—WHAT a large volume of adventures may be graſped within this little ſpan of life, by him who intereſts his heart in every thing, and who, having eyes to ſee what tinſe and chance are perpetually holding out to him as he journeyeth on his way, miſſes nothing he can fairly lay his hands on.—

—If this wont turn out ſomething—another will—no matter—'tis an eſſay upon human nature—I get my labour for my pains—'tis enough—the pleaſure of the experiment has kept my ſenſes, and the beſt part of my blood awake, and laid the groſs to ſleep.

I pity the man who can travel from Dan to Beerſheba, and cry, 'Tis all barren—and ſo it is; and ſo is all the world to him who will not cul⯑tivate the fruits it offers. I declare, ſaid I, clap⯑ping my hands cheerily together, that was I in [160] a deſert, I would find out wherewith in it to call forth my affections—If I could do no better, I would faſten them upon ſome ſweet myrtle, or ſeek ſome melancholy cypreſs to connect my⯑ſelf to—I would court their ſhade, and greet them kindly for their protection—I would cut my name upon them, and ſwear they were the lovelieſt trees throughout the deſert: if their leaves wither'd, I would teach myſelf to mourn, and when they rejoiced, I would rejoice along with them.

FEELING AND BENEFICENCE.

WAS it Mackay's regiment, quoth my uncle Toby, where the poor grenadier was ſo unmercifully whipp'd at Bruges about the ducats?—O Chriſt! he was innocent! cried Trim, with a deep ſigh,—And he was whipp'd, may it pleaſe your honour, almoſt to death's door.—They had better have ſhot him outright, as he begged, and he had gone directly to heaven, for he was as innocent as your honour.—I thank thee, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby. [161] I never think of his, continued Trim, and my poor brother Tom's misfortunes, for we were all three ſchool-fellows, but I cry like a coward.—Tears are no proof of cowardice, Trim, I drop them oft times myſelf, cried my uncle Toby—I know your honour does, replied Trim, and ſo am not aſhamed of it myſelf.—But to think, may it pleaſe your honour, continued Trim, a tear ſtealing into the corner of his eye as he ſpoke—to think of two virtuous lads, with hearts as warm in their bodies, and as honeſt as God could make them—The children of honeſt people, going forth with gallant ſpirits to ſeek their fortunes in the world—and fall into ſuch evils! poor Tom! to be tortured upon a rack for no⯑thing—but marrying a Jew's widow who ſold ſauſages—honeſt Dick Johnſon's ſoul to be ſcourged out of his body, for the ducats another man put into his knapſack!—O!—theſe are miſ⯑fortunes, cried Trim, pulling out his handker⯑chief,—theſe are misfortunes, may it pleaſe your honour, worth laying down and crying over.

—'Twould be a pity, Trim, quoth my uncle Toby, thou ſhould'ſt ever feel ſorrow of thy own—thou feeleſt it ſo tenderly for others.—Alack-o-day, [162] replied the Corporal, brightening up his face—your honour knows I have neither wife or child—I can have no ſorrows in this world. As few as any man, Trim, replied my uncle Toby; nor can I ſee how a fellow of thy light heart can ſuffer, but from the diſtreſs of poverty in thy old age—when thou art paſſed all ſervices, Trim,—and haſt outliv'd thy friends.—An' pleaſe your honour, never fear, replied Trim, cheerily—But I would have thee never fear, Trim, re⯑plied my uncle Toby, and therefore, continued my uncle Toby, throwing down his crutch, and get⯑ting upon his legs as he uttered the word there⯑fore—in recompence, Trim, of thy long fidelity to me, and that goodneſs of thy heart I have had ſuch proofs of—whilſt thy maſter is worth a ſhilling—thou ſhalt never aſk elſewhere, Trim, for a penny. Trim attempted to thank my uncle Toby,—but had not power—tears trickled down his cheeks faſter than he could wipe them off—he laid his hands upon his breaſt—made a bow to the ground, and ſhut the door.

SLAVERY.

CONSIDER ſlavery,—what it is,—how bitter a draught, and how many millions have been made to drink of it;—which if it can poiſon all earthly happineſs when exerciſed barely upon our bodies, what muſt it be, when it comprehends both the ſlavery of body and mind?—to conceive this, look into the hiſtory of the Romiſh church and her tyrants (or rather executioners), who ſeem to have taken pleaſure in the pangs and convulſions of their fellow-creatures.—Examine the Inquiſition, hear the melancholy notes ſounded in every cell.—Conſider the anguiſh of mock trials, and the ex⯑quiſite tortures conſequent thereupon mercileſsly inflicted upon the unfortunate, where the racked and weary ſoul has ſo often wiſhed to take its leave,—but cruelly not ſuffered to depart.—Conſider how many of theſe helpleſs wretches have been haled from thence in all periods of this tyrannic uſurpation, to undergo the maſſa⯑cres and flames to which a falſe and a bloody religion has condemned them.

[164] —Let us behold him in another light.—

If we conſider man as a creature full of wants and neceſſities (whether real or imaginary), which he is not able to ſupply of himſelf, what a train of diſappointments, vexations and depen⯑dencies are to be ſeen, iſſuing from thence to perplex and make his being uneaſy!—How many juſtlings and hard ſtruggles do we undergo in making our way in the world!—How bar⯑barouſly held back!—How often and baſely overthrown, in aiming only at getting bread!—How many of us never attain it—at leaſt not comfortably,—but from various unknown cauſes—eat it all our lives long in bitterneſs!

OPPRESSION VANQUISHED.

I HAVE not been a furlong from Shandy-hall, ſince I wrote to you laſt—but why is my pen ſo perverſe? I have been to *****, and my errand was of ſo peculiar a nature, that I muſt give you an account of it.—You will ſcarce believe me, when I tell you, it was to out⯑juggle [165] a juggling attorney; to put craft, and all its power, to defiance; and to obtain juſtice from one—who has a heart foul enough to take ad⯑vantage of the miſtakes of honeſt ſimplicity, and who has raiſed a conſiderable fortune by arti⯑fice and injuſtice. However, I gained my point!—it was a ſtar and garter to me!—the matter was as follows.—

"A poor man, the father of my Veſtal, having by the ſweat of his brow, during a courſe of many laborious years, ſaved a ſmall ſum of money, applied to this ſcribe to put it out to uſe for him: this was done and a bond given for the money.—The honeſt man, having no place in his cottage which he thought ſufficiently ſecure, put it in a hole in the thatch, which had ſerved inſtead of a ſtrong box, to keep his money.—In this ſituation the bond remained till the time of receiving his intereſt drew nigh.—But alas!—the rain which had done no miſchief to his gold, had found out his paper-ſecurity, and had rotted it to pieces!"—It would be a difficult matter to paint the diſtreſs of the old countryman upon this diſcovery;—Le came to me weeping, and begged my advice and aſſiſtance!—it cut me to the heart!

[166] Frame to yourſelf the picture of a man up⯑wards of ſixty years of age—who having with much penury and more toil, with the addition of a ſmall legacy, ſcraped together about four⯑ſcore pounds to ſupport him in the infirmities of old age, and to be a little portion for his child when he ſhould be dead and gone—loſt his little hoard ot once; and to aggravate his misfortune, by his own neglect and incaution.—"If I was young, Sir, (ſaid he) my affliction would have been light—and I might have obtained it again!—but I have loſt my comfort when I moſt wanted it!—my ſtaff is taken from me when I cannot go alone; and I have nothing to expect in future life, but the unwilling charity of a Pariſh-Officer."—Never in my whole life, did I wiſh to be rich, with ſo good a grace, as at this time!—What a luxury would it have been to have ſaid to this afflict⯑ed fellow creature,—"There is thy money—go thy ways—and be at peace."—But, alas! the Shandy family were never much encumbered with money; and I (the pooreſt of them all) could only aſſiſt him with good council:—but I did not ſtop here.—I went myſelf with him to ****, where by perſuaſion, threats, and ſome art, which (by the bye) in ſuch a cauſe, and [167] with ſuch an opponent, was very juſtifiable—I ſent my poor client back to his home, with his comfort and his bond reſtored to him.—Bravo!—bravo!

If a man has a right to be proud of any thing,—it is of a good action, done as it ought to be, without any baſe intereſt lurking at the bottom of it.

A SUBJECT FOR COMPASSION.

IF there is a caſe under heaven which calls out aloud for the more immediate exerciſe of compaſſion, and which may be looked upon as the compendium of all charity, ſurely it is this: and I am perſuaded there would want nothing more to convince the greateſt enemy to theſe kind of charities that it is ſo, but a bare oppor⯑tunity of taking a nearer view of ſome of the more diſtreſsful objects of it.

Let him go into the dwellings of the unfor⯑tunate, into ſome mournful cottage, where [168] poverty and affliction reign together. There let him behold the diſconſolate widow—ſitting—ſteeped in tears;—thus ſorrowing over the in⯑fant ſhe knows not how to ſuccour.—"O my child, thou art now left expoſed to a wide and a vicious world, too full of ſnares and temptations for thy tender and unpractiſed age. Perhaps a parent's love may magnify thoſe dangers—but when I conſider thou art driven out naked into the midſt of them without friends, without fortune, without in⯑ſtruction, my heart bleeds beforehand for the evils which may come upon thee. God, in whom we truſted, is witneſs, ſo low had his providence placed us, that we never indulged one wiſh to have made thee rich,—virtu⯑ous we would have made thee;—for thy fa⯑ther, my huſband, was a good man, and feared the Lord,—and though all the fruits of his care and induſtry were little enough for our ſupport, yet he honeſtly had determined to have ſpared ſome portion of it, ſcanty as it was, to have placed thee ſafely in the way of knowledge and inſtruction—But alas! he is gone from us, never to return more, and with him are fled the means of doing it:—For, Behold the creditor is come upon us, to [169] take all that we have." Grief is eloquent, and will not eaſily be imitated.—But let the man who is the leaſt friend to diſtreſſes of this nature, conceive ſome diſconſolate widow uttering her complaint even in this manner, and then let him conſider, if there is any ſorrow like THIS ſorrow, wherewith the Lord has afflicted her? or whether there can be any charity like that, of taking the child out of the mother's boſom, and reſcuing her from theſe apprehenſions? Should a hea⯑then, a ſtranger to our holy religion and the love it teached, ſhould he, as he journeyed, come to the place where SHE LAY, when he ſaw, would he not have compaſſion on her? God forbid a Chriſtian ſhould this day want it! or at any time look upon ſuch a diſtreſs, and paſs by on the other ſide. Rather let him do, as his Saviour taught him, bind up the wounds, and pour comfort into the heart of one, whom the hand of God has ſo bruiſed. Let him practiſe what it is, with Eli⯑jah's tranſport, to ſay to the afflicted widow,—See, thy Son liveth! liveth by my charity, and the bounty of this hour, to all the purpoſes which make life deſirable,—to be made a good man, and a profitable ſubject: on one hand, to be trained up to ſuch a ſenſe of his duty, as may ſecure him an intereſt in the world to come; [170] and with regard to this world, to be ſo brought up in it to a love of honeſt labour and induſtry, as all his life long to earn and eat his bread with joy and thankfulneſs.

COMPASSION.

I CANNOT conceive but that the very me⯑chanical motions which maintain life, muſt be performed with more equal vigour and free⯑dom in that man whom a great and good ſoul perpetually inclines to ſhew mercy to the miſe⯑rable, than they can be in a poor, ſordid, ſelfiſh wretch, whoſe little contracted heart melts at no man's affliction; but ſits brooding ſo intently over its own plots and concerns, as to ſee and feel nothing; and in truth, enjoy nothing be⯑yond himſelf: and of whom one may ſay what that great maſter of nature has, ſpeaking of a natural ſenſe of harmony, which I think with more juſtice may be ſaid of compaſſion, that the man who had it not,— [171] —Was fit for treaſons, ſtratagems and ſpoils: The MOTIONS of his ſpirits are dull as night; And his affections dark as EREBUS:—Let no ſuch man be truſted:—

HAPPINESS.

THE great purſuit of man is after happineſs: it is the firſt and ſtrongeſt deſire of his na⯑ture;—in every ſtage of his life, he ſearches for it as for hid treaſure;—courts it under a thou⯑ſand different ſhapes,—and though perpetually diſappointed,—ſtill perſiſts,—runs after and en⯑quires for it afreſh—aſks every paſſenger who comes in his way, Who will ſhew him any good? who will aſſiſt him in the attainment of it or di⯑rect him to the diſcovery of this great end of all his wiſhes?

He is told by one to ſearch for it among the more gay and youthful pleaſures of life, in ſcenes of mirth and ſprightlineſs, where happineſs ever preſides, and is ever to be known by the joy and laughter which he will ſee at once painted in her looks. A ſecond, with a graver aſpect, points [172] out to the coſtly dwellings which pride and ex⯑travagance have erected:—tells the enquirer that the object he is in ſearch of inhabits there,—that happineſs lives only in company with the great, in the midſt of much pomp and outward ſtate. That he will eaſily find her out by the coat of many colours ſhe has on, and the great luxury and expenſe of equipage and furniture with which ſhe always ſits ſurrounded.

The Miſer bleſſes God!—wonders how any one would miſlead and wilfully put him upon ſo wrong a ſcent—convinces him that happineſs and extravagance never inhabited under the ſame roof;—that if he would not be diſappoint⯑ed in his ſearch, he muſt look into the plain and thrifty dwelling of the prudent man, who knows and underſtands the worth of money, and cau⯑tiouſly lays it up againſt an evil hour: that it is not the proſtitution of wealth upon the paſſions, or the parting with it at all that conſtitutes hap⯑pineſs—but that it is the keeping it together, and the having and holding it faſt to him and his heirs for ever, which are the chief attri⯑butes that form this great idol of human wor⯑ſhip, to which ſo much incenſe is offered up every day.

[173] The Epicure, though he eaſily rectifies ſo groſs a miſtake, yet at the ſame time he plunges him, if poſſible, into a greater; for hearing the object of his purſuit to be happineſs, and know⯑ing of no other happineſs than what is ſeated immediately in his ſenſes—he ſends the enquirer there;—tells him 'tis in vain to ſearch elſewhere for it, than where nature herſelf has placed it—in the indulgence and gratification of the appe⯑tites, which are given us for that end: and in a word—if he will not take his opinion in the matter—he may truſt the word of a much wiſer man, who has aſſured us—that there is nothing better in this world, than that a man ſhould eat and drink and rejoice in his works, and make his ſoul enjoy good in his labour—for that is his portion.

To reſcue him from this brutal experiment—ambition takes him by the hand and carries him into the world,—ſhews him all the king⯑doms of the earth and the glory of them,—points out the many ways of advancing his for⯑tune and raiſing himſelf to honour,—lays before his eyes all the charms and bewitching tempta⯑tions of power, and aſks if there can be any happineſs in this world like that of being ca⯑reſſed, courted, flattered, and followed?

[174] To cloſe all, the philoſopher meets him buſtling in the full career of this purſuit—ſtops him—tells him, if he is in ſearch of happineſs, he is far gone out of his way. That this deity has long been baniſhed from noiſe and tumults, where there was no reſt found for her, and was fled into folitude far from all commerce of the world; and, in a word, if he would find her, he muſt leave this buſy and intriguing ſcene, and go back to that peaceful ſcene of retirement and books, from which he firſt ſet out.

In this circle too often does a man run, tries all experiments, and generally ſits down wearied and diſſatisfied with them all at laſt—in utter deſpair of ever accompliſhing what he wants—nor knowing what to truſt to after ſo many diſappointments; or where to lay the fault, whether in the incapacity of his own nature, or in the inſufficiency of the enjoyments them⯑ſelves.

TRIBUTE OF AFFECTION.

MY heart ſtops me to pay to thee, my dear uncle Toby, once for all, the tribute I owe thy goodneſs;—here let me thruſt my chair aſide, and kneel down upon the ground, whilſt I am pouring forth the warmeſt ſentiments of love for thee, and veneration for the excellency of thy character, that ever virtue and nature kindled in a nephew's boſom.—Peace and comfort reſt for evermore upon thy head!—Thou enviedſt no man's comforts,—inſultedſt no man's opinions.—Thou blackenedſt no man's character,—devouredſt no man's bread: gently, with faithful Trim behind thee, didſt thou amble round the little circle of thy pleaſures, joſtling no creature in thy way:—for each one's ſer⯑vice thou hadſt a tear,—for each man's need, thou hadſt a ſhilling. Whilſt I am worth one, to pay a weeder,—thy path from thy door to thy bowling green ſhall never be grown up.—Whilſt there is a rood and a half of land in the Shandy family, thy fortifications, my dear uncle Toby, ſhall never be demoliſh'd.

POWER OF SLIGHT INCIDENTS.

IT is curious to obſerve the triumph of ſlight in⯑cidents over the mind;—What incredible weight they have in forming and governing our opinions, both of men and things—that trifles light as air, ſhall waft a belief into the ſoul, and plant it ſo immoveable within it,—that Euclid's demonſtrations, could they be brought to batter it in breach, ſhould not all have power to overthrow it.

CROSSES IN LIFE.

MANY, many are the ups and downs of life, and fortune muſt be uncommonly gracious to that mortal who does not experience a great variety of them:—though perhaps to theſe may be owing as much of our pleaſures as our pains: there are ſcenes of delight in the vale as well as the mountain; and the inequalities of na⯑ture [177] may not be leſs neceſſary to pleaſe the eye—than the varieties of life to improve the heart. At beſt we are but a ſhort-ſighted race of beings, with juſt light enough to diſcern our way—to do that is our duty, and ſhould be our care; when a man has done this, he is ſafe, the reſt is of little conſequence—

THE CONTRAST.

THINGS are carried on in this world, ſome⯑times ſo contrary to all our reaſonings, and the ſeeming probabilities of ſucceſs,—that even the race is not to the ſwift, nor the battle to the ſtrong;—nay, what is ſtranger ſtill—nor yet bread to the wiſe, who ſhould laſt ſtand in want of it,—nor yet riches to the men of un⯑derſtanding, who you would think beſt qualified to acquire them,—nor yet favour to men of ſkill, whoſe merit and pretences bid the faireſt for it,—but that there are ſome ſecret and unſeen workings [178] in human affairs, which baffle all our endeavours, and turn aſide the courſe of things in ſuch a man⯑ner,—that the moſt likely cauſes diſappoint and fail of producing for us the effect which we wiſhed, and naturally expected from them.

You will ſee a man, of whom was you to form a conjecture from the appearances of things in his favour,—you would ſay was ſet⯑ting out in the world, with the faireſt proſpect of making his fortune in it;—with all the ad⯑vantages of birth to recommend him,—of perſonal merit to ſpeak for him,—and of friends to puſh him forwards: you will behold him, notwithſtanding this, diſappointed in every effect you might naturally have looked for, from them; every ſtep he takes towards his advancement, ſomething inviſible ſhall pull him back, ſome unforeſeen obſtacle ſhall riſe up perpetually in his way, and keep there.—In eve⯑ry application he makes—ſome untoward cir⯑cumſtance ſhall blaſt it.—He ſhall riſe early,—late take reſt,—and eat the bread of carefulneſs,—yet ſome happier man ſhall ſtill riſe up, and ever ſtep in before him, and leave him ſtruggling to the end of his life, in the very ſame place in which he firſt began it.

[179] The hiſtory of a ſecond, ſhall in all reſpects be the contraſt to this. He ſhall come into the world with the moſt unpromiſing appearance,—ſhall ſet forwards without fortune, without friends,—without talents to procure him either the one or the other. Nevertheleſs, you will ſee this clouded proſpect brighten up inſenſibly, unaccountably before him; every thing preſent⯑ed in his way ſhall turn out beyond his expecta⯑tions, in ſpite of that chain of unſurmountable difficulties which firſt threatened him,—time and chance ſhall open him a way,—a ſeries of ſucceſsful occurrences ſhall lead him by the hand to the ſummit of honour and fortune, and, in a word, without giving him the pains of thinking, or the credit of projecting, it ſhall place him in a ſafe poſſeſſion of all that ambition could wiſh for.

SELFISHNESS AND MEANNESS.

THAT there is ſelfiſhneſs and meanneſs enough in the ſouls of one part of the world, to hurt the credit of the other part of it, is what I ſhall not diſpute againſt; but to judge of the whole from this bad ſample, and becauſe one man is plotting and artful in his nature;—or, a ſecond openly makes his pleaſure or his profit the whole center of all his deſigns;—or becauſe a third ſtrait-hearted wretch ſits con⯑fined within himſelf,—feels no misfortunes, but thoſe which touch himſelf; to involve the whole race without mercy under ſuch deteſted charac⯑ters, is a concluſion as falſe as it is pernicious; and was it in general to gain credit, could ſerve no end, but the rooting out of our nature all that is generous, and planting in the ſtead of it ſuch an averſion to each other, as muſt untie the bands of ſociety, and rob us of one of the great⯑eſt pleaſures of it, the mutual communications of kind offices; and by poiſoning the fountain, rendering every thing ſuſpected that flows through it.

VICE NOT WITHOUT USE.

THE lives of bad men are not without uſe,—and whenever ſuch a one is drawn, not with a corrupt view to be admired,—but on purpoſe to be deteſted—it muſt excite ſuch a horror againſt vice, as will ſtrike indirectly the ſame good impreſſion. And though it is painful to the laſt degree to paint a man in the ſhades which his vices have caſt upon him, yet when it ſerves this end, it carries its own excuſe with it.

EFFECTS OF MISFORTUNE.

WHAT by ſucceſſive misfortunes; by fail⯑ings and croſs accidents in trade; by miſ⯑carriage of projects:—what by unſuitable ex⯑pences of parents, extravagances of children, and the many other ſecret ways whereby riches make themſelves wings and fly away; ſo many ſurpriſing revolutions do every day happen in [182] families, that it may not ſeem ſtrange to ſay, that the poſterity of ſome of the moſt liberal con⯑tributors here, in the changes which one century may produce, may poſſibly find ſhelter under this very plant which now they ſo kindly water. Nay, ſo quickly ſometimes has the wheel turn⯑ed round, that many a man has lived to enjoy the benefit of that charity which his own piety projected.

YORICK'S OPINION OF GRAVITY.

SOMETIMES, in his wild way of talking, he would ſay that gravity was an errant ſcoundrel; and he would add, of the moſt dan⯑gerous kind too,—becauſe a ſly one; and that he verily believed, more honeſt, well-meaning people were bubbled out of their goods and mo⯑ney by it in one twelvemonth, than by pocket-picking and ſhop-lifting in ſeven. In the naked temper which a merry heart diſcovered, he would ſay, there was no danger,—but to itſelf:—whereas the very eſſence of gravity was de⯑ſign, and conſequently deceit;—'twas a taught [183] trick to gain credit of the world for more ſenſe and knowledge than a man was worth; and that, with all its pretenſions,—it was no better, but often worſe than what a French wit had long ago defined it, viz.—A myſterious car⯑riage of the body to cover the defects of the mind.

REFLECTION UPON MAN.

WHEN I reflect upon man; and take a view of that dark ſide of him which repreſents his life as open to ſo many cauſes of trouble—when I conſider how oft we eat the bread of af⯑fliction, and that we are born to it, as to the portion of our inheritance—when one runs over the catalogue of all the croſs reckonings and ſor⯑rowful items with which the heart of man is over-charged, 'tis wonderful by what hidden reſources the mind is enabled to ſtand it out, and bear itſelf up, as it does againſt the impoſitions laid upon our nature.

REVENGE.

REVENGE from ſome baneful corner ſhall level a tale of diſhonour at thee, which no innocence of heart or integrity of conduct ſhall ſet right.

—The fortunes of thy houſe ſhall totter,—thy character, which led the way to them, ſhall bleed on every ſide of it,—thy faith queſtioned,—thy works belied,—thy wit forgotten,—thy learning trampled on. To wind up the laſt ſcene of thy tragedy, CRUELTY and COWARDICE, twin ruffians, hired and ſet on by MALICE in the dark, ſhall ſtrike together at all thy infirmities and miſtakes: the beſt of us, lie open there,—and truſt me,—truſt me,—when, to gratify a private appetite, it is once reſolved upon, that an inno⯑cent and an helpleſs creature ſhall be ſacrificed, 'tis an eaſy matter to pick up ſticks enow from any thicket where it has ſtrayed, to make a fire to offer it up with.

EJACULATION.

TIME waſtes too faſt: every letter I trace tells me with what rapidity life follows my pen; the days and hours of it, more precious, my dear Jenny! than the rubies about thy neck, are flying over our heads like light clouds of a windy day, never to return more—every thing preſſes on—whilſt thou art twiſting that lock,—ſee! it grows grey; and every time I kiſs thy hand to bid adieu, and every abſence which fol⯑lows it, are preludes to that eternal ſeparation which we are ſhortly to make.

FATALITY.

THERE is a fatality attends the actions of ſome men: order them as they will, they paſs through a certain medium which ſo twiſts and refracts them from their true directions—that, with all the titles to praiſe which a recti⯑tude of heart can give, the doers of them are nevertheleſs forced to live and die without it.

CONJUGAL HAPPINESS.

IT muſt have been obſerved by many a peri⯑pateric philoſopher, that nature has ſet up by her own unqueſtionable authority certain boundaries and fences to circumſcribe the diſcon⯑tent of man: ſhe has effected her purpoſe in the quieteſt and eaſieſt manner by laying him under almoſt inſuperable obligations to work out his eaſe, and to ſuſtain his ſufferings at home. It is there only that ſhe has provided him with the moſt ſuitable objects to partake of his happineſs, and bear a part of that burden which, in all countries and ages, has ever been too heavy for one pair of ſhoulders. 'Tis true we are endued with an imperfect power of ſpreading our hap⯑pineſs ſometimes beyond her limits, but 'tis ſo ordered, that from the want of languages, con⯑nections, and dependencies, and from the diffe⯑rence in education, cuſtoms and habits, we lie under ſo many impediments in communicating our ſenſations out of our own ſphere, as often amount to a total impoſſibility.

LIFE.

WHAT is the life of man! is it not to ſhift from ſide to ſide!—from ſorrow to ſorrow?—to button up one cauſe of vexation;—and unbutton another!

TRIM'S EXPLANATION OF THE FIFTH COMMANDMENT.

—PR'YTHEE, Trim, quoth my father,—What do'ſt thou mean, by "honour⯑ing thy father and mother?"

Allowing them, an' pleaſe your honour, three halfpence a-day out of my pay, when they grow old.—And didſt thou do that, Trim? ſaid Yorick.—He did indeed, replied my uncle Toby.— [188] Then, Trim, ſaid Yorick, ſpringing out of his chair, and taking the Corporal by the hand, thou art the beſt commentator upon that part of the Decalogue; and I honour thee more for it, Corporal Trim, than if thou hadſt had a hand in the Talmud itſelf.

HEALTH.

O Bleſſed health! thou art above all gold and treaſure; 'tis thou who enlargeſt the ſoul,—and openeſt all it's powers to receive inſtruc⯑tion, and to reliſh virtue.—He that has thee has little more to wiſh for! and he that is ſo wretch⯑ed as to want thee,—wants every thing with thee.

LOVE.

'TIS ſweet to feel by what fine-ſpun threads our affections are drawn together.

SOLITUDE.

CROWDED towns, and buſy ſocieties, may delight the unthinking, and the gay—but ſolitude is the beſt nurſe of wiſdom.

TRIBULATION.

THE way to Fame is like the way to Heaven—through much tribulation.

FRIENDSHIP.

FRIENDSHIP is the balm and cordial of life, and without it, 'tis a heavy load not worth ſuſtaining.

SOLITUDE.

IN ſolitude the mind gains ſtrength, and learns to lean upon herſelf:—in the world it ſeeks or accepts of a few treacherous ſupports—the feigned compaſſion of one—the flattery of a ſecond—the civilities of a third—the friend⯑ſhip of a fourth—they all deceive, and bring the mind back to retirement, reflection, and books.

FLATTERY.

DELICIOUS eſſence! how refreſhing art thou to nature! how ſtrongly are all its powers and all its weakneſſes on thy ſide! how ſweetly doſt thou mix with the blood, and help it through the moſt difficult and tortuous paſ⯑ſages to the heart.

PERFECTION.

MAN has a certain compaſs, as well as an in⯑ſtrument; and the ſocial and other calls have occaſion by turns for every key in him; ſo that if you begin a note too high or too low, there muſt be a want either in the upper or un⯑der part, to fill up the ſyſtem of harmony.—A poliſhed nation makes every one its debtor; and beſides, urbanity itſelf, like the fair ſex, has ſo many charms, it goes againſt the heart to ſay it can do ill; and yet, I believe, there is but a certain line of perfection, that man, take him al⯑together, is empowered to arrive at—if he gets beyond, he rather exchanges qualities, than gets them. I muſt not preſume to ſay, how far this has affected the French—But ſhould it ever be the caſe of the Engliſh, in the progreſs of their reſentments, to arrive at the ſame poliſh which diſtinguiſhes the French, if we did not loſe the politeſſe de caeur, which inclines men more to humane actions, than courteous ones—we ſhould at leaſt loſe that diſtinct variety and originality of character, which diſtinguiſhes [192] them, not only from each other, but from all the world beſides.

FORGIVENESS.

THE brave only know how to forgive;—it is the moſt refined and generous pitch of virtue human nature can arrive at.—Cowards have done good and kind actions^*,—cowards have even fought—nay ſometimes even conquered; but a coward never forgave.—It is not in his nature;—the power of doing it flows only from a ſtrength and greatneſs of ſoul, conſcious of its own force and ſecurity, and above the little temptations of reſenting every fruitleſs attempt to interrupt its happineſs.

FAVOURS.

IN returning favours, we act differently from what we do in conferring them: in the one caſe we ſimply conſider what is beſt,—in the other what is moſt acceptable. The reaſon is, that we have a right to act according to our own ideas of what will do the party moſt good, in the caſe where we beſtow a favour;—but where we return one, we loſe this right, and act according to his conceptions, who has obliged us, and endeavour to repay in ſuch a manner as we think it moſt likely to be accept⯑ed in diſcharge of the obligation.

RUSTIC FELICITY.

MANY are the ſilent pleaſures of the honeſt peaſant; who riſes cheerfully to his la⯑bour:—look into his dwelling,—where the ſcene of every man's happineſs chiefly lies;— [194] he has the ſame domeſtic endearments,—as much joy and comfort in his children,—and as flattering hopes of their doing well,—to en⯑liven his hours and glad his heart, as you could conceive in the moſt affluent ſtation.—And I make no doubt, in general, but if the true ac⯑count of his joys and ſufferings were to be bal⯑lanced with thoſe of his betters,—that the up⯑ſhot would prove to be little more than this,—that the rich man had the more meat,—but the poor man the better ſtomach;—the one had more luxury,—more able phyſicians to attend and ſet him to rights;—the other, more health and ſoundneſs in his bones, and leſs occaſion for their help;—that, after theſe two articles betwixt them were balanced,—in all other things they ſtood upon a level:—that the ſun ſhines as warm,—the air blows as freſh, and the earth breathes as fragrant upon the one as the other; and that they have an equal ſhare in all the beauties and real benefits of nature.

DIFFERENCE IN MEN.

POVERTY, exile, loſs of fame or friends, the death of children, the deareſt of all pledges of a man's happineſs, make not equal impreſſions upon everytemper.—You will ſee one man under⯑go, with ſcarce the expence of a ſigh,—what another, in the bitterneſs of his ſoul, would go mourning for all his life long:—nay, a haſty word, or an unkind look, to a ſoft and tender nature, will ſtrike deeper than a ſword to the hardened and ſenſeleſs.—If theſe reflections hold true with regard to misfortunes,—they are the ſame with regard to enjoyments:—we are form⯑ed differently,—have different taſtes and percep⯑tions of things;—by the force of habit, educa⯑tion, or a particular caſt of mind,—it happens that neither the uſe or poſſeſſion of the ſame en⯑joyments and advantages, produce the ſame hap⯑pineſs and contentment;—but that it differs in every man almoſt according to his temper and complexion: ſo that the ſelf-ſame happy acci⯑dents in life, which ſhall give raptures to the choleric or ſanguine man, ſhall be received with [196] indifference by the cold and phlegmatic;—and ſo oddly perplexed are the accounts of both hu⯑man happineſs and miſery in this world,—that trifles, light as air, ſhall be able to make the hearts of ſome men ſing for joy;—at the ſame time that others, with real bleſſings and advan⯑tages, without the power of uſing them, have their hearts heavy and diſcontented.

Alas! if the principles of contentment are not within us,—the height of ſtation and worldly grandeur will as ſoon add a cubit to a man's ſtature as to his happineſs.

AGAINST HASTY OPINION.

THERE are numbers of circumſtances which attend every action of a man's life, which can never come to the knowledge of the world,—yet ought to be known, and well weighed, before ſentence with any juſtice can be paſſed upon him.—A man may have different views and a different ſenſe of things from what his judges have; and what he underſtands and [197] feels and what paſſes within him, may be a ſecret treaſured up deeply there for ever—A man, through bodily infirmity, or ſome complectional defect, which perhaps is not in his power to correct, may be ſubject to inadvertencies,—to ſtarts—and unhappy turns of temper; he may lay open to ſnares he is not always aware of; or, through ignorance and want of information and proper helps, he may labour in the dark:—in all which caſes, he may do many things which are wrong in themſelves, and yet be innocent;—at leaſt an object rather to be pitied than cen⯑ſured with ſeverity and ill will.—Theſe are difficulties which ſtand in every one's way in the forming a judgment of the characters of others.

VANITY.

VANITY bids all her ſons to be generous and brave,—and her daughters to be chaſte and courteous.—But why do we want her inſtruc⯑tions?—Aſk the comedian who is taught a part he feels not.—

AFFECTED HONESTY.

LOOK out of your door,—take notice of that man: ſee what diſquieting, intriguing, and ſhifting, he is content to go through, merely to be thought a man of plain-dealing:—three grains of honeſty would ſave him all this trouble—alas! he has them not.—

AFFECTED PIETY.

BEHOLD a ſecond, under a ſhow of piety hiding the impunities of a debauched life:—he is juſt entering the houſe of God:—would he was more pure—or leſs pious:—but then he could not gain his point.

AFFECTED SANCTITY.

ABSERVE a third going on almoſt in the ſame track, with what an inflexible ſanc⯑tity of deportment he ſuſtains himſelf as he ad⯑vances:—every line in his face writes abſtinence;—every ſtride looks like a check upon his de⯑ſires: ſee, I beſeech you, how he is cloak'd up with ſermons, prayers, and ſacraments; and ſo bemuffled with the externals of religion, that he has not a hand to ſpare for a worldly purpoſe;—he has armour at leaſt—Why does he put it on? Is there no ſerving God without all this? Muſt the garb of religion be extended ſo wide to the danger of its rending?—Yes truly, or it will not hide the ſecret—and, what is that?—That the ſaint has no religion at all.

OSTENTATIOUS GENEROSITY.

—BUT here comes GENEROSITY; giving—not to a decayed artiſt—but to the arts and ſciences themſelves.—See,—he builds not a chamber in the wall apart for the prophet; but whole ſchools and colleges for thoſe who come after. Lord! how they will magnify his name!—'tis in capitals already; the firſt—the higheſt, in the gilded rent-roll of every hoſpital and aſylum.—

—One honeſt tear ſhed in private over the unfortunate, is worth it all.

OPINION.

WE are perpetually in ſuch engagements and ſituations, that 'tis our duties to ſpeak what our opinions are—but God forbid that this ever ſhould be done but from its beſt [201] motive—The ſenſe of what is due to virtue, governed by diſcretion and the utmoſt fellow⯑feeling: were we to go on otherwiſe, beginning with the great broad cloak of hypocriſy, and ſo down through all its little trimmings and fa⯑cings, tearing away without mercy all that look'd ſeemly,—we ſhould leave but a tatter'd world of it.

DEFAMATION,

DOES humanity clothe and aducate the unknown orphan?—Poverty thou haſt no genealogies:—See! is he not the father of the child? Thus do we rob heroes of the beſt part of their glory—their virtue. Take away the motive of the act, you take away all that is worth having in it;—wreſt it to ungenerous ends, you load the virtuous man who did it with infamy:—undo it all—I beſeech you: give him back his honour,—reſtore the jewel you have taken from him—replace him in the eye of the world—

It is too late.

TYRANNY.

IT is the mild and quiet half of the world, who are generally outraged and borne down by the other half of it: but in this they have the advantage; whatever be the ſenſe of their wrongs, that pride ſtands not ſo watchful a cen⯑tinel over their forgiveneſs, as it does in the breaſts of the fierce and froward; we ſhould all of us, I believe, be more forgiving than we are, would the world but give us leave; but it is apt to interpoſe its ill-offices in remiſſions, eſpecially of this kind: the truth is, it has its laws, to which the heart is not always a party; and acts ſo like an unfeeling engine in all caſes without diſtinction, that it requires all the firmneſs of the moſt ſettled humanity to bear up againſt it.

RELIGION.

THERE are no principles but thoſe of reli⯑gion to be depended on in caſes of real diſ⯑treſs, and that theſe are able to encounter the worſt emergencies; and to bear us up under all the changes and chances to which our life is ſubject.

ELOQUENCE.

GREAT is the power of eloquence; but never is it ſo great as when it pleads along with nature, and the culprit is a child ſtrayed from his duty, and returned to it again with tears.

GENEROSITY.

GENEROSITY ſorrows as much for the overmatched, as Pity herſelf does.

SOCIETY.

NOTWITHSTANDING all we meet with in books, in many of which, no doubt, there are a good many handſome things ſaid upon the ſweets of retirement, &c. . . . yet ſtill "it is not [204] good for man to be alone:" nor can all which the cold-hearted pedant ſtuns our ears with upon the ſubject, ever give one anſwer of ſatisfaction to the mind; in the midſt of the loudeſt vaunt⯑ings of philoſophy, Nature will have her yearn⯑ings for ſociety and friendſhip;—a good heart wants ſome object to be kind to—and the beſt parts of our blood, and the pureſt of our ſpirits, ſuffer moſt under the deſtitution.

Let the torpid monk ſeek heaven comfortleſs and alone.—God ſpeed him! For my own part, I fear, I ſhould never ſo find the way: let me be wiſe and religious—but let me be Man: wherever thy Providence places me, or whatever be the road I take to get to thee—give me ſome companion in my journey, be it only to remark to, How our ſhadows lengthen as the ſun goes down;—to whom I may ſay, How freſh is the face of Nature! How ſweet the flowers of the field! How delicious are theſe fruits!

DISSATISFACTION.

I PITY the men whoſe natural pleaſures are burdens, and who fly from joy (as theſe ſple⯑netic and moroſe ſouls do), as if it was really an evil in itſelf.

SORROW AND HEAVINESS OF HEART.

IF there is an evil in this world, 'tis ſorrow and heavineſs of heart.—The loſs of goods,—of health,—of coronets and mitres, are only evil, as they occaſion ſorrow;—take that out—the reſt is fancy, and dwelleth only in the head of man.

Poor unfortunate creature that he is! as if the cauſes of anguiſh in the heart were not enow—but he muſt fill up the meaſure with thoſe of caprice; and not only walk in a vain ſhadow,—but diſquiet himſelf in vain too.

We are a reſtleſs ſet of beings; and as we are likely to continue ſo to the end of the world,— [206] the beſt we can do in it, is to make the ſame uſe of this part of our character, which wiſe men do of other bad propenſities—when they find they cannot conquer them,—they endeavour, at leaſt, to divert them into good channels.

If therefore we muſt be a ſolicitous race of ſelf-tormentors,—let us drop the common ob⯑jects which make us ſo,—and for God's ſake be ſolicitous only to live well.

ROOTED OPINION NOT EASILY ERADICATED.

HOW difficult you will find it to convince a miſerly heart, that any thing is good which is not profitable? or a libertine one, that any thing is bad, which is pleaſant?

DEATH.

THERE are many inſtances of men, who have received the news of death with the greateſt eaſe of mind, and even entertained the [207] thoughts of it with ſmiles upon their counte⯑nances,—and this, either from ſtrength of ſpirits and the natural cheerfulneſs of their temper,—or that they knew the world, and cared not for it—or expected a better—yet thouſands of good men, with all the helps of philoſophy, and againſt all the aſſurances of a well-ſpent life, that the change muſt be to their account,—upon the ap⯑proach of death have ſtill lean'd towards this world, and wanted ſpirits and reſolution to bear the ſhock of a ſeparation from it for ever.

SORROW.

SWEET is the look of ſorrow for an offence, in a heart determined never to commit it more!—upon that alter only could I offer up my wrongs.

SIMPLICITY.

SIMPLICITY is the great friend to Nature, and if I would be proud of any thing in this ſilly world, it ſhould be of this honeſt alliance.

COVETOUSNESS.

TO know truly what it is, we muſt know what maſters it ſerves;—they are many, and of various caſts and humours,—and each one lends it ſomething of its own complexional tint and character.

This, I ſuppoſe, may be the cauſe that there is a greater and more whimſical myſtery in the love of money, than in the darkeſt and moſt nonſenſical problem that ever was pored on.

Even at the beſt, and when the paſſion ſeems to ſeek ſomething more than its own amuſement, [209] —there is little—very little, I fear, to be ſaid for its humanity.—It may be a ſport to the Miſer,—but conſider,—it muſt be death and deſtruction to others.—The moment this ſor⯑did humour begins to govern—farewell all honeſt and natural affection! farewell, all he owes to parents, to children, to friends!—how faſt the obligations vaniſh! ſee—he is now ſtrip⯑ped of all feelings whatever:—the ſhrill cry of juſtice—and the low lamentation of humble diſtreſs, are notes equally beyond his compaſs.—Eternal God! ſee!—he paſſes by one whom thou haſt juſt bruiſed, without one penſive reflec⯑tion:—he enters the cabin of the widow whoſe huſband and child thou haſt taken to thyſelf,—exacts his bond, without a ſigh!—Heaven! if I am to be be tempted,—let it be by glory,—by ambition,—by ſome generous and manly vice:—if I muſt fall, let it be by ſome paſſion which thou haſt planted in my nature, which ſhall not harden my heart, but leave me room at laſt to retreat and come back to thee!

HUMILITY.

HE that is little in his own eyes, is little too in his deſires, and conſequently moderate in his purſuit of them: like another man he may fail in his attempts and loſe the point he aimed at,—but that is all,—he loſes not himſelf,—he loſes not his happineſs and peace of mind with it,—even the contentions of the humble man are mild and placid.—Bleſſed character! when ſuch a one is thruſt back, who does not pity him?—when he falls, who would not ſtretch out a hand to raiſe him up?

PATIENCE AND CONTENTMENT.

PATIENCE and Contentment,—which like the treaſure hid in the field for which a man ſold all he had to purchaſe—is of that price that it cannot be had at too great a purchaſe, ſince without it, the beſt condition in life cannot make [211] us happy,—and with it, it is impoſſible we ſhould be miſerable even in the worſt.

HUMILITY CONTRASTED WITH PRIDE.

WHEN we reflect upon the character of Humility,—we are apt to think it ſtands the moſt naked and defenceleſs of all virtues whatever,—the leaſt able to ſupport its claims againſt the inſolent antagoniſt who ſeems ready to bear him down, and all oppoſition which ſuch a temper can make.

Now, if we conſider him as ſtanding alone,—no doubt, in ſuch a caſe he will be overpowered and trampled upon by his oppoſer;—but if we conſider the meek and lowly man, as he is—fen⯑ced and guarded by the love, the friendſhip and wiſhes of all mankind,—that the other ſtands alone, hated, diſcountenanced, without one true friend or hearty well-wiſher on his ſide;—when this is balanced, we ſhall have reaſon to change our opinion, and be convinced that the humble man, ſtrengthened with ſuch an alliance, is far [212] from being ſo overmatched as at firſt ſight he may appear;—nay I believe one might venture to go further and engage for it, that in all ſuch caſes, where real fortitude and true perſonal courage were wanted, he is much more likely to give proof of it, and I would ſooner look for it in ſuch a temper than in that of his adverſary. Pride may make a man violent,—but Humility will make him firm:—and which of the two, do you think, likely to come off with honour?—he who acts from the changeable impulſe of heated blood, and follows the uncertain motions of his pride and fury,—or the man who ſtands cool and collected in himſelf; who governs his re⯑ſentiments, inſtead of being governed by them, and on every occaſion acts upon the ſteady mo⯑tives of principle and duty.

WITH regard to the provocations and of⯑fences which are unavoidably happening to a man in his commerce with the world,—take it as a rule,—as a man's pride is,—ſo is always his diſpleaſure; as the opinion of himſelf riſes,—ſo does the injury,—ſo does his reſentment: 'tis this which gives edge and force to the inſtru⯑ment which has ſtruck him,—and excites that heat in the wound which renders it incurable.

[213] See how different the caſe is with the humble man: one half of theſe painful conflicts he actu⯑ally eſcapes; the other part fall lightly on him:—he provokes no man by contempt; thruſts himſelf forward as the mark of no man's envy; ſo that he cuts off the firſt fretful occaſions of the greateſt part of theſe evils; and for thoſe in which the paſſions of others would involve him, like the humble ſhrub in the valley, gently gives way, and ſcarce feels the injury of thoſe ſtormy encounters which rend the proud cedar, and tear it up by its roots.

PRIDE.

THE proud man,—ſee!—he is ſore all over; touch him—you put him to pain: and though of all others, he acts as if every mortal was void of all ſenſe and feeling, yet is poſſeſſed with ſo nice and exquiſite a one himſelf, that the ſlights, the little neglects and inſtances of diſeſteem, which would be ſcarce felt by ano⯑ther man, are perpetually wounding him, and oft-times piercing him to his very heart.

[214] Pride is a vice which grows up in ſociety ſo inſenſibly;—ſteals in unobſerved upon the heart upon ſo many occaſions;—forms itſelf upon ſuch ſtrange pretenſions, and when it has done, veils itſelf under ſuch a variety of unſuſ⯑pected appearances,—ſometimes even under that of Humility itſelf;—in all which caſes, Self-love, like a falſe friend, inſtead of checking, moſt treacherouſly feeds this humour,—points out ſome excellence in every ſoul to make him vain, and think more highly of himſelf than he ought to think;—that, upon the whole, there is no one weakneſs into which the heart of man is more eaſily betray'd—or which requires greater helps of good ſenſe and good principles to guard againſt.

BEAUTY.

BEAUTY has ſo many charms, one knows not how to ſpeak againſt it; and when it hap⯑pens that a graceful figure is the habitation of a virtuous ſoul, when the beauty of the face ſpeaks out the modeſty and humility of the mind, and [215] the juſtneſs of the proportion raiſes our thoughts up to the art and wiſdom of the great Creator, ſomething may be allowed it,—and ſomething to the embelliſhments which ſet it off;—and yet, when the whole apology is read,—it will be found at laſt, that Beauty, like Truth, never is ſo glorious as when it goes the plaineſt.

WISDOM.

LESSONS of wiſdom have never ſuch power over us, as when they are wrought into the heart, through the ground—work of a ſtory which engages the paſſions: Is it that we are like iron, and muſt firſt be heated before we can wrought upon? or, Is the heart ſo in love with deceit, that where a true report will not reach it, we muſt cheat it with a fable, in order to come at truth?

HUNGER.

OF all the terrors of nature, that of one day or other dying by hunger, is the greateſt, and it is wiſely wove into our frame to awaken man to induſtry, and call forth his talents; and though we ſeem to go on careleſsly, ſporting with it as we do with other terrors,—yet, he that ſees this enemy fairly, and in his moſt frightful ſhape, will need no long remonſtrance to make him turn out of the way to avoid him.

DISTRESS.

NOTHING ſo powerfully calls home the mind as diſtreſs: the tenſe fibre then relaxes,—the ſoul retires to itſelf,—ſits penſive and ſuſceptible of right impreſſions: if we have a friend, 'tis then we think of him; if a bene⯑factor, at that moment all his kindneſſes preſs upon our mind.

IMPOSTURE.

IMPOSTURE is all diſſonance, let what maſter ſoever of it undertake the part; let him harmoniſe and modulate it as he may, one tone will contradict another; and whilſt we have ears to hear, we ſhall diſtinguiſh it: 'tis truth only which is conſiſtent and ever in harmony with itſelf: it ſits upon our lips, like the natural notes of ſome melodies, ready to drop out, whether we will or no;—it racks no inven⯑tion to let ourſelves alone, and needs fear no critic, to have the ſame excellency in the heart, which appears in the action.

CONTENTMENT.

THERE is ſcarce any lot ſo low, but there is ſomething in it to ſatisfy the man whom it has befallen; providence having ſo ordered things, that in every man's cup, how bitter [218] ſoever, there are ſome cordial drops—ſome good circumſtances, which, if wiſely extracted, are ſufficient for the purpoſe he wants them,—that is, to make him contented, and if not happy, at leaſt reſigned.

EVILS.

UNWILLINGLY does the mind digeſt the evils prepared for it by others;—for thoſe we prepare ourſelves,—we eat but the fruit which we have planted and watered:—a ſhattered fortune—a ſhattered frame, ſo we have but the ſatiſ⯑faction of ſhattering them ourſelves, paſs natu⯑rally enough into the habit, and by the eaſe with which they are both done, they ſave the ſpectator a world of pity: but for thoſe, like Jacob's, brought upon him by the hands from which he look'd for all his comforts,—the avarice of a parent—the unkindneſs of a rela⯑tion,—the ingratitude of a child,—they are evils which leave a ſcar;—beſides, as they hang over the heads of all, and therefore may fall upon any;—every looker-on has an intereſt in [219] the tragedy;—but then we are apt to intereſt ourſelves no otherwiſe, than merely as the inci⯑dents themſelves ſtrike our paſſions, without car⯑rying the leſſon further:—In a word—we realize nothing:—we ſigh—we wipe away the tear,—and there ends the ſtory of miſery, and the moral with it.

OPPRESSION.

SOLOMON ſays, Oppreſſion will make a wiſe man mad.—What will it do then to a ten⯑der and ingenuous heart, which feels itſelf ne⯑glected,—too full of reverence for the author of its wrongs to complain?—ſee, it ſits down in ſilence, robbed by diſcouragements, of all its natural powers to pleaſe,—born to ſee others loaded with careſſes—in ſome uncheery corner it nouriſhes its diſcontent,—and with a weight upon its ſpirits, which its little ſtock of fortitude is not able to withſtand,—it droops, and pines away.—Sad victim of caprice!

VIRTUE AND VICE.

WHOEVER conſiders the ſtate and condition of human nature, and upon this view, how much ſtronger the natural motives are to virtue than to vice, would expect to find the world much better than it is, or ever has been.—For who would ſuppoſe the generality of man⯑kind to betray ſo much folly, as to act againſt the common intereſt of their own kind, as every man does who yields to the temptation of what is wrong.

SIN.

NO motives have been great enough to re⯑ſtrain thoſe from ſin who have ſecretly loved it, and only ſought pretences for the prac⯑tice of it.

SINCERITY.

AN inward ſincerity will of courſe influence the outward deportment; but where the one is wanting, there is great reaſon to ſuſpect the abſence of the other.

WISDOM.

THERE is no one project to which the whole race of mankind is ſo univerſally a bubble, as to that of being thought wiſe; and the af⯑fectation of it is ſo viſible, in men of all com⯑plexions, that you every day ſee ſome one or other ſo very ſolicitous to eſtabliſh the character, as not to allow himſelf leiſure to do the things which fairly win it;—expending more art and ſtratagem to appear ſo in the eyes of the world, than what would ſuffice to make him ſo in truth.

It is owing to the force of this deſire, that you ſee in general, there is no injury touches a man ſo ſenſibly, as an inſult upon his parts and [222] capacity: tell a man of other defects, that he wants learning, induſtry or application,—he will hear your reproof with patience.—Nay you may go further: take him in a proper ſeaſon, you may tax his morals,—you may tell him he is irregular in his conduct,—paſſionate or revengeful in his nature—looſe in his princi⯑ples;—deliver it with the gentleneſs of a friend,—poſſibly he'll not only bear with you,—but, if ingenuous, he will thank you for your lecture, and promiſe a reformation;—but hint,—hint but at a defect in his intellectuals,—touch but that ſore place,—from that moment you are look'd upon as an enemy ſent to torment him before his time, and in return may reckon upon his reſentment and ill-will for ever; ſo that in general you will find it ſafer to tell a man, he is a knave than a fool,—and ſtand a better chance of being forgiven, for proving he has been wanting in a point of common honeſty, than a point of common ſenſe.—Strange ſouls that we are! as if to live well was not the greateſt argument of wiſdom;—and, as if what reflected upon our morals, did not moſt of all reflect upon our underſtandings!

CORPORAL TRIM'S REFLECTIONS ON DEATH.

MY young maſter in London is dead! ſaid Obadiah.—

—A green ſattin night-gown of my mother's, which had been twice ſcoured, was the firſt idea which Obadiah's exclamation brought into Suſan⯑nah's head.—Then, quoth Suſannah, we muſt all go into mourning.—

—O! 'twill be the death of my poor Miſtreſs, cried Suſannah.—my mother's whole wardrobe followed.—What a proceſſion! her red damaſk,—her orange-tawny,—her white and yellow-luteſtrings,—her brown taffata,—her bone-laced caps, her bed-gowns,—and comfortable under⯑petticoats,—Not a rag was left behind.—"No,—ſhe will never look up again," ſaid Suſannah.

We had a fat, fooliſh ſcullion—my father, I think, kept her for her ſimplicity;—ſhe had been all autumn ſtruggling with a dropſy.—He is [222] [...] [223] [...] [224] dead!—ſaid Obadiah,—he is certainly dead!—So am not I, ſaid the fooliſh ſcullion.

—Here is ſad news, Trim! cried Suſannah, wiping her eyes, as Trim ſtepp'd into the kitchen,—maſter Bobby is dead and buried,—the funeral was an interpolation of Suſannah's we ſhall have all to go into mourning, ſaid Suſannah.

I hope not, ſaid Trim.—You hope not! cried Suſannah earneſtly.—The mourning ran not in Trim's head, whatever it did in Suſannah's.—I hope—ſaid Trim, explaining himſelf, I hope in God the news is not true. I heard the letter read with my own ears, anſwered Obadiah; Oh! he's dead, ſaid Suſannah—As ſure, ſaid the ſcullion, as I am alive.

I lament for him from my heart and my ſoul, ſaid Trim, fetching a ſigh.—Poor creature!—poor boy! poor gentleman!

—He was alive laſt Whitſuntide, ſaid the coach⯑man.—Whitſuntide! alas! cried Trim, extending his right arm, and falling inſtantly into the ſame attitude in which he read the ſermon,—what is Whitſuntide, Jonathan, (for that was the coach⯑man's [225] name), or Shrovetide, or any tide or time paſt, to this? Are we not here now, continued the Corporal, (ſtriking the end of his ſtick per⯑pendicularly upon the floor, ſo as to give an idea of health and ſtability)—and are we not—(drop⯑ping his hat upon the ground) gone! in a mo⯑ment!—'Twas infinitely ſtriking! Suſannah burſt into a flood of tears.—We are not ſtocks and ſtones.—Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted.—The fooliſh fat ſcullion herſelf, who was ſcouring a fiſh-kettle upon her knees, was rouſed with it.—The whole kitchen crouded about the Corporal.

—To us, Jonathan, who know not what want or care is,—who live here in the ſervice of two of the beſt of maſters—(bating in my own caſe his majeſty King William the Third, whom I had the honour to ſerve both in Ireland and Flan⯑ders)—I own it, that from Whitſuntide to with⯑in three weeks of Chriſtmas,— 'tis not long—'tis like nothing;—but to thoſe, Jonathan, who know what death is, and what havock and de⯑ſtruction he can make, before a man can well wheel about,—'tis like a whole age.—O Jona⯑than! 'twould make a good-natured man's heart [226] bleed, to conſider, continued the Corporal, (ſtand⯑ing perpendicularly), how low many a brave and upright fellow has been laid ſince that time!—And truſt me, Suſy, added the Corporal, turning to Suſannah, whoſe eyes were ſwimming in wa⯑ter,—before that time comes round again,—many a bright eye will be dim.—Suſannah placed it to the right ſide of the page—ſhe wept—but ſhe curt'ſied too.—Are we not, continued Trim, looking ſtill at Suſannah,—are we not like a flower of the field—a tear of pride ſtole in be⯑twixt every two tears of humiliation—elſe no tongue could have deſcribed Suſannah's affliction—is not all fleſh graſs?—'Tis clay,—'tis dirt.—They all look'd directly at the ſcullion,—the ſcullion, had juſt been ſcouring a fiſh-kettle—It was not fair.—

—What is the fineſt face that ever man looked at!—I could hear Trim talk ſo for ever, cried Suſannah,—what is it! (Suſannah laid her hand upon Trim's ſhoulder)—but corruption?—Su⯑ſannah took it off.

—Now I love you for this—and 'tis this de⯑licious mixture within you, which makes you [227] dear creatures what you are—and he who hates you for it—all I can ſay of the matter is—That he has either a pumpkin for his head—or a pippen for his heart,—and whenever he is diſ⯑ſected 'twill be found ſo.

For my own part, I declare it, that out of doors, I value not death at all:—not this . . ad⯑ded the Corporal, ſnapping his fingers,—but with an air which no one but the Corporal could have given to the ſentiment.—in battle, I value death not this. . . and let him not take me coward⯑ly, like poor Joe Gibbins, in ſcouring his gun.—What is he? A pull of a trigger—a puſh of a bayonet an inch this way or that—makes the difference.—Look along the line—to the right—ſee! Jack's down! well,—'tis worth a regi⯑ment of horſe to him.—No—'tis Dick, Then Jack's no worſe. Never mind which,—we paſs on,—in hot purſuit the wound itſelf which brings him is not felt,—the beſt way is to ſtand up to him,—the man who flies, is in ten times more danger than the man who marches up into his jaws.—I've look'd him, added the Corporal, an hundred times in the face,—and know what he is—He's nothing, Obadiah, at all in the field.—But he's very frightful in a houſe, quoth Oba⯑diah.—I [228] never mind it myſelf, ſaid Jonathan, upon a coach-box.

I pity my miſtreſs.—She will never get the better of it, cried Suſannah.—Now I pity the Captain the moſt of any one in the family, an⯑ſwered Trim.—Madam will get eaſe of heart in weeping,—and the Squire in talking about it,—but my poor maſter will keep it all in ſilence to himſelf.—I ſhall hear him ſigh in his bed for a whole month together, as he did for Lieutenant Le Fever. An' pleaſe your honour, do not ſigh ſo piteouſly, I would ſay to him as I laid beſide him. I cannot help it, Trim, my maſter would ſay,—'tis ſo melancholy an accident—I cannot get it off my heart.—Your honour fears not death yourſelf.—I hope, Trim, I fear nothing, he would ſay, but the doing a wrong thing.—Well, he would add, whatever betides, I will take care of Le Fever's boy.—And with that, like a quieting draught, his honour would ſall aſleep.

I like to hear Trim's ſtories about the Captain, ſaid Suſannah.—He is a kindly-hearted gentle⯑man, ſaid Obadiah, as ever lived.—Aye,—and as brave a one too, ſaid the Corporal, as ever [229] ſtept before a platoon. There never was a better officer in the king's army,—or a better man in God's world; for he would march up to the mouth of a cannon, though he ſaw the lighted match at the very touch-hole,—and yet, for all that, he has a heart as ſoft as a child for other people.—He would not hurt a chicken.—I would ſooner, quoth Jonathan, drive ſuch a gentle⯑man for ſeven pounds a year—than ſome for eight.—Thank thee, Jonathan! for thy twenty ſhillings,—as much, Jonathan, ſaid the Corporal, ſhaking him by the hand, as if thou hadſt put the money into my own pocket.—I would ſerve him to the day of my death out of love. He is a friend and a brother to me,—and could I be ſure my poor brother Tom was dead,—continued the Corporal, taking out his handkerchief,—was I worth ten thouſand pounds, I would leave every ſhilling of it to the Captain.—Trim could not refrain from tears at this teſtamentary proof he gave of his affection to his maſter.—The whole kitchen was affected.

MR. SHANDY's RESIGNATION FOR THE LOSS OF HIS SON.

PHILOSOPHY has a fine ſaying for every thing—For Death it has an entire ſet.

"'Tis an inevitable chance—the firſt ſtatute in Magna Charta—it is an everlaſting act of parliament—All muſt die."

"Monarchs and princes dance in the ſame ring with us."

"—To die, is the great debt and tribute due unto nature: tombs and monuments, which ſhould perpetuate our memories, pay it them⯑ſelves; and the proudeſt pyramid of them all, which wealth and ſcience have erected, has loſt its apex, and ſtands obtruncated in the traveller's horizon.—Kingdoms and provin⯑ces, and towns and cities, have they not their [231] periods? and when thoſe principles and powers, which at firſt cemented and put them toge⯑ther, have performed their ſeveral Revolu⯑tions, they fall back.—"

"Where is Troy, and Mycenae, and Thebes, and Delos, and Perſepolis, and Agrigentum?—What is become of Nineveh and Babylon, of Cyzicum, and Mitylenae? The faireſt towns that ever the ſun roſe upon, are now no more: the names only are left, and thoſe [for many of them are wrong ſpelt] are falling them⯑ſelves by piece-meals to decay, and in length of time will be forgotten, and involved with every thing in a perpetual night: the world itſelf—muſt muſt come to an end."

"Returning out of Aſia, when I ſailed from Aegina towards Megara, I began to view the country round about. Aegina was behind me, Megara was before, Pyraeus on the right hand, Corinth on the left.—What flouriſhing towns now proſtrate upon the earth! Alas! alas! ſaid I to myſelf, that man ſhould diſturb his ſoul for the loſs of a child, when ſo much as this lies awfully buried in his preſence.— [232] Remember, ſaid I to myſelf again—remem⯑ber thou art a man.—"

"My ſon is dead!—ſo much the better;—'tis a ſhame in ſuch a tempeſt to have but one anchor."

"But he is gone for ever from us!—be it ſo. He is got from under the hands of his bar⯑ber before he was bald—he is, but riſen from a feaſt before he was ſurfeited—from a ban⯑quet before he had got drunken."

"The Thracians wept when a child was born—and feaſted and made merry when a man went out of the world; and with reaſon. Death opens the gate of fame, and ſhuts the gate of envy after it,—it unlooſes the chain of the captive, and puts the bondſman's taſk into another man's hands."

"Shew me the man, who knows what life is, who dreads it, and I'll ſhew thee a priſoner who dreads his liberty."