STORY OF MISS SYLVIA S—.

MISS SYLVIA S— was deſcended from one of the beſt families in the kingdom, and was left a large fortune upon her ſiſter's deceaſe. She had early in life been introduced into the beſt com⯑pany, and contracted a paſſion for elegance and expence. It is uſual to make the heroine of a ſtory very witty, and very beautiful; and ſuch cir⯑cumſtances are ſo ſurely expected, that they are ſcarce attended to. But whatever the fineſt poet could conceive of wit, or the moſt celebrated painter imagine of beauty, were excelled in the perfections of this young lady. Her ſuperiority in both was allowed by all, who either heard, or had ſeen her. She was naturally gay, generous to a fault, good-natured to the higheſt degree, affable in converſation; and ſome of her letters, and other writings, as well in verſe as proſe, would have ſhone amongſt thoſe of the moſt celebrated wits of this, or any other age, had they been publiſhed.

[2]But theſe great qualifications were marked by another, which leſſened the value of them all. She was imprudent! But let it not be imagined, that her reputation or honour ſuffered by her im⯑prudence; I only mean, ſhe had no knowledge of the uſe of money; ſhe relieved diſtreſs, by putting herſelf into the circumſtances of the object whoſe wants ſhe ſupplied.

She was arrived at the age of nineteen, when the croud of her lovers, and the continual repeti⯑tion of new flattery, had taught her to think ſhe could never be forſaken, and never poor. Young ladies are apt to expect a certainty of ſucceſs, from a number of lovers; and yet I have ſeldom ſeen a girl courted by an hundred lovers, that found an huſband in any. Before the choice is fixed, ſhe has either loſt her reputation, or her good ſenſe; and the loſs of either is ſufficient to conſign her to perpetual virginity.

Among the number of this young lady's lovers, was the celebrated S—, who, at that time, went by the name of the good-natured man. This gen⯑tleman, with talents that might have done honour to humanity, ſuffered himſelf to fall at length into the loweſt ſtate of debaſement. He followed the dictates of every neweſt paſſion; his love, his pity, his generoſity, and even his friendſhips, were all in exceſs: he was unable to make head againſt any of his ſenſations or deſires; but they were in [3] general worthy wiſhes and deſires; for he was con⯑ſtitutionally virtuous. This gentleman; who at laſt died in a gaol, was, at that time, this lady's envied favourite.

It is probable that he, thoughtleſs creature! had no other proſpect from this amour, but that of paſſing the preſent moments agreeably. He only courted diſſipation; but the lady's thoughts were fixed on happineſs. At length, however, his debts amounting to a conſiderable ſum, he was arreſted, and thrown into priſon. He endeavoured at firſt to conceal his ſituation from his beautiful miſtreſs; but ſhe ſoon came to a knowledge of his diſtreſs, and took a fatal reſolution of freeing him from confinement by diſcharging all the demands of his creditors.

Mr. Naſh was at that time in London, and re⯑preſented to the thoughtleſs young lady, that ſuch a meaſure would effectually ruin both; that ſo warm a concern for the intereſts of Mr. S—, would, in the firſt place, quite impair her fortune in the eyes of our ſex, and, what was worſe, leſſen her reputation in thoſe of her own. He added, that thus bringing Mr. S— from priſon, would be only a temporary relief; that a mind ſo gene⯑rous as his, would become bankrupt under the load of gratitude; and, inſtead of improving in friend⯑ſhip or affection, he would only ſtudy to avoid a^* [4] creditor he could never repay: that, though ſmall favours produce good-will, great ones deſtroy friendſhip. Theſe admonitions, however, were diſregarded; and ſhe too late found the prudence and truth of her adviſer. In ſhort, her fortune was by this means exhauſted; and, with all her attractions, ſhe found her acquaintance began to diſeſteem her, in proportion as ſhe became poor.

In this ſituation ſhe accepted Mr. Naſh's invita⯑tion of returning to Bath. He promiſed to intro⯑duce her to the beſt company there; and he was aſſured that her merit would do the reſt. Upon her very firſt appearance, ladies of the higheſt diſ⯑tinction courted her friendſhip and eſteem; but a ſettled melancholy had taken poſſeſſion of her mind, and no amuſements that they could propoſe were ſufficient to divert it. Yet ſtill, as if from habit, ſhe followed the crowd in its levities, and frequented thoſe places where all perſons endea⯑vour to forget themſelves in the buſtle of cere⯑mony and ſhow.

Her beauty, her ſimplicity, and her unguarded ſituation, ſoon drew the attention of a deſigning wretch, who at that time kept one of the Rooms at Bath, and who thought that this lady's merit, properly managed, might turn to good account. This woman's name was Dame Lindſey, a creature, who, though vicious, was in appearance ſanctified; and, though deſigning, had ſome wit and humour. She began, by the humbleſt aſſiduity, to ingratiate [5] herſelf with Miſs S—; ſhewed that ſhe could be amuſing as a companion, and, by frequent offers of money, proved that ſhe could be uſeful as a friend. Thus, by degrees, ſhe gained an entire aſcendant over this poor, thoughtleſs, deſerted girl; and, in leſs than one year, namely, about 1727, Miſs S—, without ever tranſgreſſing the laws of virtue, had entirely loſt her reputation. Whenever a perſon was wanting to make up a party for play at Dame Lindſey's, Sylvia, as ſhe was then familiarly called, was ſent for, and was obliged to ſuffer all thoſe ſlights, which the rich but too often let fall upon their inferiors in point of fortune.

In moſt, even the greateſt minds, the heart at laſt becomes level with the meanneſs of its condi⯑tion; but in this charming girl it ſtruggled hard with adverſity, and yielded to every encroachment of contempt with ſullen reluctance.

But though in the courſe of three years ſhe was in the very eye of public inſpection, yet Mr. Wood, the architect, avers, that he could never, by the ſtricteſt obſervations, perceive her to be tainted with any other vice, than that of ſuffering herſelf to be decoyed to the gaming-table, and, at her own hazard, playing for the amuſement and ad⯑vantage of others. Her friend, Mr. Naſh, there⯑fore, thought proper to induce her to break off all connections with Dame Lindſey, and to rent part of Mr. Wood's houſe, in Queen-ſquare, where ſhe [6] behaved with the utmoſt complaiſance, regularity, and virtue.

In this ſituation, her deteſtation of life ſtill con⯑tinued; ſhe found, that time would infallibly de⯑prive her of part of her attractions, and that con⯑tinual ſolicitude would impair the reſt. With theſe reflections ſhe would frequently entertain herſelf, and an old faithful maid, in the vales of Bath, whenever the weather would permit them to walk out. She would even ſometimes ſtart queſtions in company, with ſeeming unconcern, in order to know what act of ſuicide was eaſieſt, and which was attended with the ſmalleſt pain. When tired with exerciſe, ſhe generally retired to meditation; and ſhe became habituated to early hours of ſleep and reſt. But when the weather prevented her uſual exerciſe, and her ſleep was thus more diffi⯑cult, ſhe made it a rule to riſe from her bed, and walk about her chamber, till ſhe began to find an inclination for repoſe.

This cuſtom made it neceſſary for her to order a burning candle to be kept all night in her room: and the maid uſually, when ſhe withdrew, locked the chamber-door; and, puſhing the key under it beyond reach, her miſtreſs, by that conſtant me⯑thod, lay undiſturbed till ſeven o'clock in the morning; then ſhe aroſe, unlocked the door, and rang the bell, as a ſignal for the maid to return.

[7]This ſtate of ſeeming piety, regularity, and prudence, continued for ſome time, till the gay, celebrated, toaſted Miſs Sylvia was ſunk into an houſekeeper to the gentleman at whoſe houſe ſhe lived. She was unable to keep company, for want of the elegancies of dreſs, that are the uſual paſs⯑port among the polite; and ſhe was too haughty to ſeem to want them. The faſhionable, the amuſing, and the polite, in ſociety, now ſeldom viſited her; and, from being once the object of every eye, ſhe was now deſerted by all, and preyed upon by the bitter reflections of her own impru⯑dence.

Mr. Wood, and part of his family, were gone to London. Miſs Sylvia was left with the reſt, as a governeſs, at Bath. She ſometimes ſaw Mr. Naſh, and acknowledged the friendſhip of his admoni⯑tions, though ſhe refuſed to accept any other marks of his generoſity than that of advice. Upon the cloſe of the day in which Mr. Wood was expected to re⯑turn from London, ſhe expreſſed ſome uneaſineſs at the diſappointment of not ſeeing him; took parti⯑cular care to ſettle the affairs of his family; and then, as uſual, ſat down to meditation. She now caſt a retroſpect over her paſt miſconduct, and her ap⯑proaching miſery; ſhe ſaw, that even affluence gave her no real happineſs, and from indigence ſhe thought nothing could be hoped but lingering calamity. She at length conceived the fatal reſo⯑lution of leaving a life, in which ſhe could ſee no [8] corner for comfort, and terminating a ſcene of imprudence in ſuicide.

Thus reſolved, ſhe ſat down at her dining-room window, and with cool intrepidity wrote the following elegant lines on one of the panes of the window:

She then went into company with the moſt chearful ſerenity; talked of indifferent ſubjects till ſupper; which ſhe ordered to be got ready in a little library belonging to the family. There ſhe ſpent the remaining hours, preceding bed-time, in dandling two of Mr. Wood's children on her knees. In retiring from thence to her chamber, ſhe went into the nurſery, to take her leave of another child, as it lay ſleeping in the cradle. Struck with the innocence of the little babe's looks, and the conſciouſneſs of her meditated guilt, ſhe could not avoid burſting into tears, and hugging it in her arms; ſhe then bid her old ſer⯑vant a good night, for the firſt time ſhe had ever done ſo, and went to bed as uſual.

It is probable ſhe ſoon quitted her bed, and was ſeized with an alternation of paſſions, before [9] ſhe yielded to the impulſe of deſpair. She dreſſed herſelf in clean linen, and white garments of every kind, like a bride-maid. Her gown was pinned over her breaſt, juſt as a nurſe pins the ſwaddling-clothes of an infant. A pink ſilk gir⯑dle was the inſtrument with which ſhe reſolved to terminate her miſery, and this was lengthened by another made of gold thread. The end of the former was tied with a nooſe, and the latter with three knots, at a ſmall diſtance from one another.

Thus prepared, ſhe ſat down again, and read; for ſhe left the book open at that place, in the ſtory of Olympia, in the Orlando Furioſo of Ari⯑oſto, where, by the perfidy and ingratitude of her boſom friend, ſhe was ruined, and left to the mercy of an unpitying world. This tragical event gave her freſh ſpirits to go through her fatal purpoſe; ſo ſtanding upon a ſtool, and fling⯑ing the girdle, which was tied round her neck, over a cloſet-door that opened into her chamber, ſhe remained ſuſpended. Her weight however broke the girdle, and the poor deſpairer fell upon the floor with ſuch violence, that her fall awakened a workman that lay in the houſe about half an hour after two o'clock.

Recovering herſelf, ſhe began to walk about the room, as her uſual cuſtom was when ſhe wanted ſleep; and the workman imagining it to be only ſome ordinary accident, again went to [10] ſleep. She once more, therefore, had recourſe to a ſtronger girdle made of ſilver thread; and this kept her ſuſpended till ſhe died.

Her old maid continued in the morning to wait as uſual for the ringing of the bell, and protracted her patience, hour after hour, till two o'clock in the afternoon; when the workmen at length en⯑tering the room through the window, found their unfortunate miſtreſs ſtill hanging, and quite cold. The coroner's jury being impanelled, brought in their verdict, Lunacy; and her corpſe was next night decently buried in her father's grave, at the charge of a female companion, with whom ſhe had for many years an inſeparable intimacy.

Thus ended a female wit, a toaſt, and a game⯑ſter; loved, admired, and forſaken; formed for the delight of ſociety, fallen by imprudence into an object of pity. Hundreds in high life la⯑mented her fate, and wiſhed, when too late, to redreſs her injuries. They who once had helped to impair her fortune, now regretted that they aſſiſted in ſo mean a purſuit. The little effects ſhe had left behind were bought up with the great⯑eſt avidity, by thoſe who deſired to preſerve ſome token of a companion that once had given them ſuch delight. The remembrance of every virtue ſhe was poſſeſſed of was now improved by pity. Her former follies were few, but the laſt ſwelled them to a large amount. As ſhe remains the [11] ſtrongeſt inſtance to poſterity, that want of pru⯑dence alone, almoſt cancels every other virtue. LIFE OF NASH, p. 84.

CALAMITIES.

MAN little knows what calamities are beyond his patience to bear, till he tries them. As in aſcending the heights of ambition, which look bright from below, every ſtep we riſe ſhews us ſome new and gloomy proſpect of hidden diſap⯑pointment; ſo in our deſcent from the ſummits of pleaſure, though the vale of miſery below may appear at firſt dark and gloomy, yet the buſy mind, ſtill attentive to its own amuſement, finds, as we deſcend, ſomething to flatter and to pleaſe. Still as we approach, the darkeſt objects appear to brighten, and the mental eye becomes adapted to its gloomy ſituation. VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, v. 1. p. 199.

BOOKS.

BOOKS, while they teach us to reſpect the in⯑tereſts of others, often make us unmindful of our own; while they inſtruct the youthful reader to graſp at ſocial happineſs, he grows miſerable in detail, and, attentive to univerſal harmony, often forgets that he himſelf has a part to ſuſtain in the [12] concert. I diſlike therefore the philoſopher who deſcribes the inconveniencies of life in ſuch plea⯑ſing colours, that the pupil grows enamoured of diſtreſs, longs to try the charms of poverty, meets it without dread, nor fears its inconveniencies till he ſeverely feels them. CITIZEN OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 7.

HOSPITALITY.

HOSPITALITY is one of the firſt chriſtian duties. The beaſt retires to his ſhelter, and the bird flies to its neſt; but helpleſs man can only find refuge from his fellow creature. The greateſt ſtranger in this world was he that came to ſave it. He never had an houſe, as if willing to ſee what hoſpitality was left remaining amongſt us. VIC. OF WAKEFIELD, v. 1. p. 59.

INHUMANITY.

WE ſhould never ſtrike an unneceſſary blow at a victim over whom providence holds the ſcourge of its reſentment. IBID. v. 1. p. 62.

GOOD-NATURE.

TO the good-natured, ſubſequent diſtreſs often atones for former guilt; and while reaſon would repreſs humanity, yet our hearts plead in the fa⯑vour of the wretched. HIST. OF ENGLAND, IN LETTERS FROM A NOBLEMAN TO HIS SON, v. 2. p. 200.

KNOWLEDGE.

THE volume of nature is the book of know⯑ledge; and he becomes moſt wiſe who makes the moſt judicious ſelection. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 14.

OPINION OF THE ENGLISH.

THE Engliſh in general ſeem fonder of gaining the eſteem than the love of thoſe they converſe with: this gives a formality to their amuſements; their gayeſt converſations have ſomething too wiſe for innocent relaxation; though in company you are ſeldom diſguſted with the abſurdity of a fool, you are ſeldom lifted into rapture by thoſe ſtrokes of vivacity which give inſtant, though not perma⯑nent pleaſure.

What they want, however, in gaiety, they make up in politeneſs. You ſmile at hearing me praiſe the Engliſh for their politeneſs: you who have heard very different accounts from the miſſionaries at Pekin, who have ſeen ſuch a different behaviour in their merchants and ſeamen at home. But I muſt ſtill repeat it, the Engliſh ſeem more polite than any of their neighbours: their great art in this reſpect lies in endeavouring, while they oblige, to leſſen the force of the favour. Other coun⯑tries are fond of obliging a ſtranger; but ſeem de⯑ſirous that he ſhould be ſenſible of the obligation. The Engliſh confer their kindneſs with an ap⯑pearance [14] of indifference, and give away benefits with an air as if they deſpiſed them.

REPUTATION.

AS the reputation of books is raiſed not by their freedom from defect, but the greatneſs of their beauties; ſo ſhould that of men be prized not for their exemption from fault, but the ſize of thoſe virtues they are poſſeſſed of. VIC. OF WAKEFIELD, v. 1. p. 158.

GREATNESS.

IT is the misfortune of humanity, that we can never know true greatneſs till that moment when we are going to loſe it. HIST. OF ENGLAND, v. 2. p. 266.

FAVOUR.

EVERY favour a man receives, in ſome mea⯑ſure ſinks him below his dignity; and in proportion to the value of the benefit, or the frequency of its acceptance, he gives up ſo much of his natural independance. He therefore, who thrives upon the unmerited bounty of another, if he has any ſenſibility, ſuffers the worſt of ſervitude: the ſhackled ſlave may murmur without reproach, but the humble dependant is taxed with ingratitude upon every ſymptom of diſcontent; the one may rave round the walls of his cell, but the other [15] lingers in all the ſilence of mental confinement. To increaſe his diſtreſs, every new obligation but adds to the former load which kept the vigorous mind from riſing; till at laſt, elaſtic no longer, it ſhapes itſelf to conſtraint, and puts on habitual ſervility.

VICE.

WE are not to be ſurpriſed that bad men want ſhame; they only bluſh at being detected in do⯑ing good, but glory in their vices. VIC. OF WAKEFIELD, v. 1. p. 162.

MALICE.

TO be at once merry and malicious, is the ſign of a corrupt heart, and mean underſtanding. HIST. OF ENGLAND, v. 2. p. 36.

BENEFACTION.

IN general, the benefactions of a generous man are but ill beſtowed. His heart ſeldom gives him leave to examine the real diſtreſs of the object which ſues for pity; his good-nature takes the alarm too ſoon, and he beſtows his fortune only on apparent wretchedneſs. The man naturally frugal, on the other hand, ſeldom relieves; but when he does, his reaſon, and not his ſenſations, generally find out the object. Every inſtance of [16] his bounty is therefore permanent, and bears wit⯑neſs to his benevolence. LIFE OF NASH, p. 114.

COMMUNION WITH OUR OWN HEARTS.

IF we could but learn to commune with our own hearts, and know what noble company we can make them, we would little regard the elegance and ſplendors of the worthleſs. Almoſt all men have been taught to call life a paſſage, and them⯑ſelves the travellers. The ſimilitude ſtill may be improved, when we obſerve that the good are joy⯑ful and ſerene, like travellers that are going to⯑wards home; the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that are going into exile. VIC. OF WAKEFIELD, v. 2. p. 49.

VASSALAGE.

IT is perhaps one of the ſevereſt misfortunes of the great, that they are, in general, obliged to live among men whoſe real value is leſſened by dependance, and whoſe minds are enſlaved by obligation. The humble companion may have at firſt accepted patronage with generous views; but ſoon he feels the mortifying influence of con⯑ſcious inferiority, by degrees ſinks into a flatterer, and from flattery at laſt degenerates into ſtupid veneration. To remedy this, the great often diſ⯑miſs their old dependants, and take new. Such changes are falſely imputed to levity, falſehood, [17] or caprice, in the patron, ſince they may be more juſtly aſcribed to the client's gradual deteriora⯑tion. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 144.

ADVERSITY.

THE greateſt object in the univerſe, ſays a cer⯑tain philoſopher, is a good man ſtruggling with adverſity; yet there is ſtill a greater, which is the good man that comes to relieve it. VIC. OF WAKEFIELD, v. 2. p. 107.

DESIGNING LOVERS.

DESIGNING lovers in the decline of life are ever moſt dangerous. Skilled in all the weak⯑neſſes of the ſex, they ſeize each favourable op⯑portunity, and by having leſs paſſion than youth⯑ful admirers, have leſs real reſpect, and therefore leſs timidity. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 260.

CIVIL WAR.

CIVIL war is in itſelf terrible, but ſtill more ſo when heightened by cruelty. How guilty ſo⯑ever men may be, it is ever the buſineſs of a ſol⯑dier to remember, that he is only to fight an enemy that oppoſes him, and to ſpare the ſup⯑pliant. HIST. OF ENGLAND, v. 2. p. 200.

POLITENESS.

SOME great minds are only fitted to put forth their powers in the ſtorm; and the occaſion is often wanting, during a whole life, for a great ex⯑ertion: but trifling opportunities of ſhining, are almoſt every hour offered to the little ſedulous mind; and a perſon thus employed, is not only more pleaſing, but more uſeful in a ſtate of tran⯑quil ſociety. LIFE OF NASH, p. 73.

EDWIN AND ANGELINA.

DRESS.

ALL things rare and brilliant will ever conti⯑nue to be faſhionable, while men derive greater advantage from opulence than virtue; while the means of appearing conſiderable are more eaſily ac⯑quired than the title to be conſidered. The firſt impreſſion we generally make, ariſes from our dreſs; and this varies in conformity to our inclinations, and the manner in which we deſire to be conſidered. The modeſt man, or he who would wiſh to be thought ſo, deſires to ſhew the ſimplicity of his mind by the plainneſs of his dreſs: the vain man, on the contrary, takes a pleaſure in diſplaying his ſuperiority, ‘"and is willing to incur the ſpecta⯑tor's diſlike, ſo he does but excite his attention."’ HIST. OF ANIMALS, p. 99.

JUSTICE.

Of all virtues Juſtice is the moſt difficult to be practiſed by a king who has a power to pardon. All men, even tyrants themſelves, lean to mercy when unbiaſſed by paſſions or intereſt. The heart natu⯑rally perſuades to forgiveneſs; and purſuing the dictates of this pleaſing deceiver, we are led to pre⯑fer our private ſatisfaction to public utility. What a thorough love for the public, what a ſtrong command over the paſſions, what a finely conduct⯑ed judgment muſt he poſſeſs, who oppoſes the dic⯑tates of reaſon to thoſe of his heart, and prefers the [26] future intereſt of his people to his own immediate ſatisfaction!

If ſtill to a man's own natural biaſs for tender⯑neſs, we add the numerous ſolicitations made by a criminal's friends for mercy; if we ſurvey a king not only oppoſing his own feelings, but reluctantly refuſing thoſe he regards, and this to ſatisfy the public, whoſe cries he may never hear, whoſe gra⯑titude he may never receive; this ſurely is true greatneſs! Let us fancy ourſelves for a moment in this juſt old man's place, ſurrounded by numbers, all ſoliciting the ſame favour, a favour that nature diſpoſes us to grant, where the inducements to pity are laid before us in the ſtrongeſt light, ſup⯑pliants at our feet, ſome ready to reſent a refuſal, none oppoſing a compliance; let us, I ſay, ſup⯑poſe ourſelves in ſuch a ſituation, and I fancy we ſhould find ourſelves more apt to act the character of good-natured men than of upright magiſtrates.

What contributes to raiſe juſtice above all other kingly virtues is, that it is attended ſeldom with a due ſhare of applauſe, and thoſe who practiſe it muſt be influenced by greater motives than empty fame. The people are generally well pleaſed with a remiſſion of puniſhment, and all that wears the appearance of humanity; it is the wiſe alone who are capable of diſcerning that impartial juſtice is the trueſt mercy: they know it to be difficult, very [27] difficult, at once to compaſſionate, and yet con⯑demn an object that pleads for tenderneſs. CIT. OF THE WORLD, p. 160.

VANITY.

O VANITY! thou conſtant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to exalt, ſerve but to ſink us! Thy falſe colourings, like thoſe employed to heighten beauty, only ſeem to mend that bloom which they contribute to deſtroy. GOOD-NATURED MAN, p. 42.

DIGNITY OF MAN.

MANKIND have ever been prone to expatiate in the praiſe of human nature. The dignity of man is a ſubject that has always been the favourite theme of humanity; they have declaimed with that oſtentation, which uſually accompanies ſuch as are ſure of having a partial audience; they have ob⯑tained victories, becauſe there were none to op⯑poſe. Yet, from all I have ever read or ſeen, men appear more apt to err by having too high, than by having too deſpicable an opinion of their nature; and by attempting to exalt their original place in the creation, depreſs their real value in ſociety. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 201.

INGRATITUDE OF THE WORLD.

THE ingratitude of the world can never deprive us of the conſcious happineſs of having acted with humanity ourſelves. GOOD-NATURED MAN, p. 32.

ABILITIES.

IN learning the uſeful part of every profeſſion, very moderate abilities will ſuffice; even if the mind be a little balanced with ſtupidity, it may in this caſe be uſeful. Great abilities have always been leſs ſerviceable to the poſſeſſors than moderate ones. Life has been compared to a race; but the alluſion ſtill improves, by obſerving that the moſt ſwift are ever the leaſt manageable.

TO know one profeſſion only, is enough for one man to know; and this (whatever the profeſſors may tell you to the contrary) is ſoon learned. Be contented, therefore, with one good employment; for, if you underſtand two at a time, people will give you buſineſs in neither. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 266.

PRAISE.

PRAISE beſtowed on living merit is often found to injure the goodneſs it applauds. HIST. OF ENG. IN LET. v. 2. p. 274.

INDEPENDANCE.

A LIFE of independance is generally a life of virtue. It is that which fits the ſoul for every ge⯑nerous flight of humanity, freedom, and friendſhip. To give ſhould be our pleaſure; but to receive, our ſhame. Serenity, health, and affluence, attend the deſire of riſing by labour; miſery, rapentance, and diſreſpect, that of ſucceeding by extorted benevo⯑lence. The man who can thank himſelf alone for the happineſs he enjoys, is truly bleſt; and lovely, far more lovely, the ſturdy gloom of laborious in⯑digence, than the fawning ſimper of thriving adu⯑lation. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 145.

SONG.

AFFECTION.

WHEN men arrive at a certain ſtation of great⯑neſs, their regards are diſſipated on too great a num⯑ber of objects to feel parental affection: the ties of nature are only ſtrong with thoſe who have but few friends, or few dependants. HIST. OF ENG. IN LET. v. 1. p. 195.

GENEROSITY.

GENEROSITY properly applied will ſup⯑ply every other external advantage in life, but the love of thoſe we converſe with; it will procure eſteem and a conduct reſembling real affection: but actual love is the ſpontaneous production of the mind; no generoſity can purchaſe, no re⯑wards increaſe, nor no liberality continue it; the very perſon who is obliged, has it not in his power to force his lingering affections upon the object he ſhould love, and voluntarily mix paſſion with gratitude. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 1.

GRATITUDE.

GRATITUDE is never conferred, but where there have been previous endeavours to excite it; we conſider it as a debt, and our ſpirits wear a load till we have diſcharged the obligation. Every acknowledgment of gratitude is a circumſtance of [31] humiliation; and ſome are found to ſubmit to frequent mortifications of this kind, proclaiming what obligations they owe, merely becauſe they think it in ſome meaſure cancels the debt.

LOVE AND GRATITUDE.

LOVE is the moſt eaſy and agreeable, and gra⯑titude the moſt humiliating affection of the mind; we never reflect on the man we love, without ex⯑ulting in our choice, while he who has bound us to him by benefits alone, riſes to our idea as a per⯑ſon to whom we have in ſome meaſure forfeited our freedom. Love and gratitude are ſeldom therefore found in the ſame breaſt without impair⯑ing each other; we may tender the one or the other ſingly to thoſe we converſe with, but can⯑not command both together. By attempting to in⯑creaſe, we diminiſh them; the mind becomes bank⯑rupt under too large obligations; all additional benefits leſſen every hope of future return, and bar up every avenue that leads to tenderneſs. IBID. v. 2. p. 3.

FAVOURS.

IN all our connexions with ſociety, it is not only generous, but prudent, to appear inſenſible of the value of thoſe favours we beſtow, and en⯑deavour to make the obligation ſeem as ſlight as poſſible. Love muſt be taken by ſtratagem, and [32] not by open force: We ſhould ſeem ignorant that we oblige, and leave the mind at full liberty to give or refuſe its affections; for conſtraint may indeed leave the receiver ſtill grateful, but it will certainly produce diſguſt.

LIBERALITY.

IMPARTED fortune, and well-placed libe⯑rality, may procure the benefactor good-will, may load the perſon obliged with the ſenſe of the duty he lies under to retaliate: this is gratitude; and ſimple gratitude, untinctured with love, is all the return an ingenuous mind can beſtow for for⯑mer benefits. IBID. v. 2. p. 2.

GRATITUDE AND LOVE.

GRATITUDE and love are almoſt oppoſite affections; love is often an involuntary paſſion, placed upon our companions without our conſent, and frequently conferred without our previous eſteem. We love ſome men, we know not why; our tenderneſs is naturally excited in all their concerns; we excuſe their faults with the ſame indulgence, and approve their virtues with the ſame applauſe, with which we conſider our own. While we entertain the paſſion, it pleaſes us; we cheriſh it with delight, and give it up with re⯑luctance; and love for love is all the reward we expect or deſire. IBID. v. 2. p. 2.

REFLECTION ON THE EARTH.

THE Earth, gentle and indulgent, ever ſub⯑ſervient to the wants of man, ſpreads his walks with flowers, and his table with plenty; returns with intereſt every good committed to her care; and, though ſhe produces the poiſon, ſhe ſtill ſupplies the antidote; though conſtantly teized more to furniſh the luxuries of man than his ne⯑ceſſities, yet, even to the laſt, ſhe continues her kind indulgence, and, when life is over, ſhe pi⯑ouſly covers his remains in her boſom. HIST. OF THE EARTH, p. 54.

REJOICING AT THE DESTRUCTION OF OUR ENEMIES.

TO rejoice at the deſtruction of our enemies, is a foible grafted upon human nature, and we muſt be permitted to indulge it: the true way of ato⯑ning for ſuch an ill-founded pleaſure, is thus to turn our triumph into an act of benevolence, and to teſtify our own joy by endeavouring to baniſh anxiety from others.

Hamti, the beſt and wiſeſt emperor that ever filled the throne, after having gained three ſignal victories over the Tartars, who had invaded his dominions, returned to Nankin in order to enjoy the glory of his conqueſt. After he had reſted for ſome days, the people, who are naturally fond of [34] proceſſions, impatiently expected the triumphal en⯑try, which emperors upon ſuch occaſions were ac⯑cuſtomed to make. Their murmurs came to the emperor's ear. He loved his people, and was will⯑ing to do all in his power to ſatisfy their juſt de⯑ſires. He therefore aſſured them that he intended, upon the next feaſt of the Lanterns, to exhi⯑bit one of the moſt glorious triumphs that had ever been ſeen in China.

The people were in raptures at his condeſcen⯑ſion; and, on the appointed day; aſſembled at the gates of the palace with the moſt eager expecta⯑tions. Here they waited for ſome time, without ſeeing any of thoſe preparations which uſually pre⯑cede a pageant. The lantern, with ten thouſand tapers, was not yet brought forth; the fire-works, which uſually covered the city walls, were not yet lighted: the people once more began to murmur at this delay; when, in the midſt of their impa⯑tience, the palace gates flew open, and the emperor himſelf appeared, not in ſplendor or magnificence, but in an ordinary habit, followed by the blind, the maimed, and the ſtrangers of the city, all in new clothes, and each carrying in his hand money enough to ſupply his neceſſities for the year. The people were at firſt amazed, but ſoon perceived the wiſdom of their king, who taught them, that to make one man happy, was more truly great than having ten thouſand captives groaning at the wheels of his chariot. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 89.

THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN.

YOUTH.

IT has been often ſaid, that the ſeaſon of youth is the ſeaſon of pleaſures; but this can only be true in ſavage countries, where but little prepara⯑tion is made for the perfection of human nature, and where the mind has but a very ſmall part in the enjoyment. It is otherwiſe in thoſe places where nature is carried to the higheſt pitch of re⯑finement, in which this ſeaſon of the greateſt ſen⯑ſual delight is wiſely made ſubſervient to the ſuc⯑ceeding, and more rational one of manhood. Youth, with us, is but a ſcene of preparation; a drama, upon the right conduct of which all fu⯑ture happineſs is to depend. The youth who follows his appetites, too ſoon ſeizes the cup, be⯑fore it has received its beſt ingredients; and, by anticipating his pleaſures, robs the remaining parts of life of their ſhare; ſo that his eagerneſs only produces a manhood of imbecillity, and an age of pain. HIST. OF ANIMALS, p. 70.

THE SOUL.

WHEN the ſoul is at reſt, all the features of the viſage ſeem ſettled in a ſtate of profound tran⯑quillity. Their proportion, their union, and their harmony, ſeem to mark the ſweet ſerenity of the mind, and give a true information of what paſſes within. But, when the ſoul is excited, the [38] human viſage becomes a living picture; where the paſſions are expreſſed with as much delicacy as energy, where every motion is deſigned by ſome correſpondent feature, where every impreſſion an⯑ticipates the will, and betrays thoſe hidden agita⯑tions that he would often wiſh to conceal.

It is particularly in the eyes that the paſſions are painted; and in which we may moſt readily diſ⯑cover their beginning. The eye ſeems to belong to the ſoul more than any other organ; it ſeems to participate of all its emotions, as well the moſt ſoft and tender, as the moſt tumultuous and forceful. It not only receives, but tranſmits them by ſympathy; the obſerving eye of one catches the ſecret fire from another; and the paſſion thus often becomes general. IBID. p. 81.

NATURE.

TO copy nature is a taſk the moſt bungling workman is able to execute; to ſelect ſuch parts as contribute to delight, is reſerved only for thoſe whom accident has bleſt with uncommon talents, or ſuch as have read the Ancients with indefatiga⯑ble induſtry. LIFE OF PARNELL, p. 21.

REFLECTION ON THE LIFE OF A SCHOLAR.

THE life of a ſcholar ſeldom abounds with ad⯑venture. His fame is acquired in ſolitude; and the hiſtorian, who only views him at a diſtance, muſt be content with a dry detail of actions, by which he is ſcarce diſtinguiſhed from the reſt of mankind. But we are fond of talking of thoſe who have given us pleaſure; not that we have any thing important to ſay, but becauſe the ſubject is pleaſing. LIFE OF PARNELL, p. 1.

DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MONARCHICAL AND REPUBLICAN GOVERNMENT.

WE now are all agreed, that unlimited power arrogated on one ſide, and the tumultuous free⯑dom introduced on the other, are both intolerable; yet, of the two, perhaps, deſpotiſm is ſuperior. In a republic, the number of tyrants are uncon⯑troulable; for they can ſupport each other in op⯑preſſion: in a monarchy, there is one object, who, if he offends, is eaſily puniſhable, becauſe he is but one. The oppreſſions of a monarch are generally exerted only in the narrow ſphere round him; the oppreſſions of the governors of a republic, though not ſo flagrant, are more univerſal: the monarch is apt to commit great enormities, but they ſeldom reach the multitude at humble diſtance from the throne; the republican deſpot oppreſſes the multi⯑tude that lies within the circle of his influence, [40] for he knows them: the monarch terrifies me with great evils, which I may never feel; the deſpot actually loads me with ſubmiſſions, which I am conſtantly obliged to ſuſtain; and, in my opinion, it is much better to be in danger of having my head chopped off with an axe, once in my life, than to have my leg galled with a continual fetter.

REFLECTION ON THE LIFE OF A POET.

A POET, while living, is ſeldom an object ſufficiently great to attract much attention: his real merits are known but to a few; and theſe are generally ſparing in their praiſes. When his fame is increaſed by time, it is then too late to inveſti⯑gate the peculiarities of his diſpoſition: the dews of the morning are paſt, and we vainly try to con⯑tinue the chace by the meridian ſplendour. LIFE OF PARNELL, p. 3.

SUCCESS.

HAPPY if we know when to bound our ſuc⯑ceſſes; happy if we can diſtinguiſh between victo⯑ries and advantages; if we can be convinced, that when a nation ſhines brighteſt with conqueſt, it may then, like a waſting taper, be only haſtening to decay. HIST. OF ENG. IN LET. &c. v. 2. p. 258.

NATURAL EVILS.

GOD has permitted thouſands of natural evils to exiſt in the world, becauſe it is by their inter⯑vention that man is capable of moral evil; and he has permitted that we ſhould be ſubject to moral evil, that we might do ſomething to deſerve eter⯑nal happineſs, by ſhewing we had rectitude to avoid it. HIST. OF THE EARTH, p. 20.

ASSUMING IGNORANCE.

ASSUMING IGNORANCE is, of all diſpo⯑ſitions, the moſt ridiculous: for, in the ſame pro⯑portion as the real man of wiſdom is preferable to the unletter'd ruſtic, ſo much is the ruſtic ſupe⯑rior to him, who without learning imagines him⯑ſelf learned. It were better that ſuch a man had never read; for then he might have been conſcious of his weakneſs: but the half-learned man, rely⯑ing upon his ſtrength, ſeldom perceives his wants till he finds his deception paſt a cure. HIST. OF ENG. IN LET. &c. v. 1. p. 8.

OPINION RELATIVE TO CHILDREN.

WHEN men ſpeculate at liberty upon innate ideas, or the abſtracted diſtinctions between will and power, they may be permitted to enjoy their ſyſtems at pleaſure, as they are harmleſs, although they may be wrong: but when they alledge that [42] children are to be every day plunged in cold water, and, whatever be their conſtitution, indiſcrimi⯑nately inured to cold and moiſture; that they are to be kept wet in the feet, to prevent their catch⯑ing cold; and never to be corrected when young, for fear of breaking their ſpirits when old; theſe are ſuch noxious errors, that all reaſonable men ſhould endeavour to oppoſe them. Many have been the children whom theſe opinions, begun in ſpeculation, have injured or deſtroyed in practice; and I have ſeen many a little philoſophical martyr, whom I wiſhed, but was unable to relieve. HIST. OF ANIMALS, p. 66.

HOPE; A SONG.

UTILITY OF NEW BOOKS.

IN proportion as ſociety refines, new books muſt ever become more neceſſary. Savage ruſticity is [43] reclaimed by oral admonition alone; but the ele⯑gant exceſſes of refinement are beſt corrected by the ſtill voice of ſtudious enquiry. In a polite age, almoſt every perſon becomes a reader, and receives more inſtruction from the preſs than the pulpit. The preaching Bonſe may inſtruct the illiterate peaſant; but nothing leſs than the inſinuating ad⯑dreſs of a fine writer can win its way to an heart already relaxed in all the effeminacy of refinement. Books are neceſſary to correct the vices of the po⯑lite; but thoſe vices are ever changing, and the antidote ſhould be changed accordingly,—ſhould ſtill be new.

Inſtead, therefore, of thinking the number of new publications too great, I could wiſh it ſtill greater, as they are the moſt uſeful inſtruments of reformation. Every country muſt be inſtructed either by writers or preachers; but as the number of readers increaſes, the number of hearers is pro⯑portionably diminiſhed,—the writer becomes more uſeful, and the preaching Bonſe leſs neceſſary.

Inſtead, therefore, of complaining that writers are overpaid, when their works procure them a bare ſubſiſtance, I ſhould imagine it the duty of a ſtate, not only to encourage their numbers, but their induſtry. A Bonſe is rewarded with immenſe riches for inſtructing only a few, even of the moſt ignorant, of the people; and ſure the poor ſcholar ſhould not beg his bread, who is capable of in⯑ſtructing a million. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 45.

MODESTY.

MODESTY ſeldom reſides in a breaſt that is not enriched with nobler virtues. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, p. 7.

HAPPINESS.

IT is impoſſible to form a philoſophic ſyſtem of happineſs which is adapted to every condition in life; ſince every perſon who travels in this great purſuit, takes a ſeparate road. The different co⯑lours which ſuit different complexions, are not more various than the different pleaſures appro⯑priated to particular minds. The various ſects who have pretended to give leſſons to inſtruct men in happineſs, have deſcribed their own particular ſenſations without conſidering ours, have only loaded their diſciples with conſtraint, without add⯑ing to their real felicity. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 184.

ENJOYMENT.

WE conſider few objects with ardent attention, but thoſe which have ſome connexion with our wiſhes, our pleaſures, or our neceſſities. A deſire of enjoyment firſt intereſts our paſſions in the pur⯑ſuit; points out the object of inveſtigation; and reaſon then comments where ſenſe has led the way. An increaſe in the number of our enjoyments, therefore, neceſſarily produces an increaſe of ſcien⯑tific [45] reſearch; but in countries where almoſt every enjoyment is wanting, reaſon there ſeems deſtitute of its great inſpirer, and ſpeculation is the buſineſs of fools when it becomes its own reward.

GREATNESS.

WHEN a man has once ſecured a circle of ad⯑mirers, he may be as ridiculous as he thinks pro⯑per; and it all paſſes for elevation of ſentiment, or learned abſence. If he tranſgreſſes the common forms of breeding, miſtakes even a tea-pot for a tobacco-box, it is ſaid, that his thoughts are fixed on more important objects: to ſpeak and act like the reſt of mankind, is to be no greater than they. There is ſomething of oddity in the very idea of greatneſs; for we are ſeldom aſtoniſhed at a thing very much reſembling ourſelves. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 41.

MAN.

MAN is the lord of all the ſublunary creation; the howling ſavage, the winding ſerpent, with all the untameable and rebellious offspring of Nature, are deſtroyed in the conteſt, or driven at a diſtance from his habitations. The extenſive and tem⯑peſtuous ocean, inſtead of limiting or dividing his power, only ſerves to aſſiſt his induſtry, and en⯑large the ſphere of his enjoyments. Its billows, and its monſters, inſtead of preſenting a ſcene of [46] terror, only call up the courage of this little in⯑trepid being; and the greateſt danger that man now fears on the deep, is from his fellow-creatures. Indeed, when I conſider the human race as Nature has formed them, there is but very little of the habitable globe that ſeems made for them. But when I conſider them as accumulating the expe⯑rience of ages, in commanding the earth, there is nothing ſo great, or ſo terrible. What a poor contemptible being is the naked ſavage, ſtanding on the beach of the ocean, and trembling at its tumults! How little capable is he of converting its terrors into benefits; or of ſaying, Behold an element made wholly for my enjoyment! He con⯑ſiders it as an angry Deity, and pays it the homage of ſubmiſſion. But it is very different when he has exerciſed his mental powers; when he has learned to find his own ſuperiority, and to make it ſubſervient to his commands. It is then that his dignity begins to appear, and that the true Deity is juſtly praiſed for having been mindful of man; for having given him the earth for his habi⯑tation, and the ſea for an inheritance. HIST. OF THE EARTH, p. 231.

MEMORY; A SONG.

DIGNITY OF MAN.

STRENGTH and majeſty belong to the man; grace and ſoftneſs are the peculiar embelliſhments of the other ſex. In both, every part of their form declares their ſovereignty over other crea⯑tures. Man ſupports his body erect; his attitude is that of command; and his face, which is turned towards the heavens, diſplays the dignity of his ſtation. The image of his ſoul is painted in his viſage; and the excellence of his nature penetrates through the material form in which it is incloſed. His majeſtic port, his ſedate and reſolute ſtep, announce the nobleneſs of his rank. He touches the earth only with his extremity, and beholds it as if at a diſdainful diſtance. His arms are not given him, as to other creatures, for pillars of ſupport; nor does he loſe, by rendering them cal⯑lous againſt the ground, that delicacy of touch which furniſhes him with ſo many of his enjoy⯑ments. His hands are made for very different pur⯑poſes; to ſecond every intention of his will, and to perfect the gifts of nature. HIST. OF ANIMALS, p. 80.

LUXURY.

LUXURY is the child of ſociety alone; the luxurious man ſtands in need of a thouſand dif⯑ferent artiſts to furniſh out his happineſs: it is more likely, therefore, that he ſhould be a good citizen, who is connected by motives of ſelf-inte⯑reſt with ſo many, than the abſtemious man, who is united to none. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 36.

SOLITUDE.

IT has been ſaid, that he who retires to ſoli⯑tude, is either a beaſt or an angel. The cenſure is too ſevere, and the praiſe unmerited. The diſ⯑contented being, who retires from ſociety, is ge⯑nerally ſome good-natured man, who has begun life without experience, and knew not how to gain it in his intercourſe with mankind. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 10.

LIFE OF MAN.

THE life of man is a journey; a journey that muſt be travelled, however bad the roads, or the accommodation. If, in the beginning, it is found dangerous, narrow, and difficult, it muſt either grow better in the end, or we ſhall by cuſtom learn to bear its inequality. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 125.

PUNISHMENT.

A KING, who can reign without ever puniſh⯑ing, is happy; but that monarch muſt certainly be undone, who, through fear, or ill-timed lenity, ſuffers repeated guilt to eſcape without notice. When a country becomes quite illicit, puniſhments then, like the loppings in a garden, only ſerve to ſtrengthen the ſtock, and prepare for a new harveſt of virtues. HIST. OF ENG. IN LET. &c. v. 1. p. 223.

FAULTS.

THERE are ſome faults ſo nearly allied to ex⯑cellence, that we can ſcarce weed out the vice without eradicating the virtue. GOOD-NATURED MAN, p. 3.

OPINION OF WOMEN; WITH AN ACCOUNT OF CATHARINA ALEXOWNA, EMPRESS OF RUSSIA.

THE modeſt virgin, the prudent wife, or the careful matron, are much more ſerviceable in life than petticoated philoſophers, bluſtering heroines, or virago queens. She who makes her huſband and her children happy, who reclaims the one from vice, and trains up the other to virtue, is a much greater character than ladies deſcribed in romance, whoſe whole occupation is to murder mankind with ſhafts from their quiver or their eyes.

[50]Women, it has been obſerved, are not naturally formed for great cares themſelves, but to ſoften ours. Their tenderneſs is the proper reward for the dangers we undergo for their preſervation; and the eaſe and chearfulneſs of their converſation, our deſirable retreat from the fatigues of intenſe appli⯑cation. They are confined within the narrow li⯑mits of domeſtic aſſiduity; and when they ſtray beyond them, they move beyond their ſphere, and conſequently without grace.

Fame, therefore, has been very unjuſtly diſ⯑penſed, among the female ſex. Thoſe who leaſt deſerved to be remembered, meet our admiration and applauſe; while many, who have been an ho⯑nour to humanity, are paſſed over in ſilence. Per⯑haps no age has produced a ſtronger inſtance of miſplaced fame than the preſent: the Semiramis and the Thaleſtris of antiquity are talked of, while a modern character, infinitely greater than either, is unnoticed and unknown.

^* Catharina Alexowna, born near Derpat, a little city in Livonia, was heir to no other inheritance than the virtues and frugality other parents. Her father being dead, ſhe lived with her aged mother, in their cottage covered with ſtraw; and both, though very poor, were very contented. Here, re⯑tired [51] from the gaze of the world, by the labour of her hands ſhe ſupported her parent, who was now incapable of ſupporting herſelf. While Catharina ſpun, the old woman would ſit by, and read ſome book of devotion; thus, when the fatigues of the day were over, both would ſit down contentedly by their fire-ſide, and enjoy the frugal meal with vacant feſtivity.

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

Catharina was fifteen when her mother died: ſhe now, therefore, left her cottage, and went to live with the Lutheran miniſter, by whom ſhe had been inſtructed from her childhood. In his houſe ſhe reſided, in quality of governeſs to his children; at once reconciling in her character unerring pru⯑dence with ſurpriſing vivacity.

The old man, who regarded her as one of his own children, had her inſtructed in dancing and [52] muſic, by the maſters who attended the reſt of his family. Thus ſhe continued to improve, till he died; by which accident ſhe was once more re⯑duced to priſtine poverty. The country of Livo⯑nia was at this time waſted by war, and lay in a moſt miſerable ſtate of deſolation. Thoſe calami⯑ties are ever moſt heavy upon the poor; wherefore Catharina, though poſſeſſed of ſo many accom⯑pliſhments, experienced all the miſeries of hope⯑leſs indigence. Proviſions becoming every day more ſcarce, and her private ſtock being entirely exhauſted, ſhe reſolved at laſt to travel to Marien⯑burgh, a city of greater plenty.

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

One evening, upon her journey, as ſhe had en⯑tered a cottage by the way-ſide, to take up her lodging for the night, ſhe was inſulted by two Swediſh ſoldiers, who inſiſted upon qualifying her, as they termed it, to fellow ſhe camp. They might, probably, have carried their inſults into violence, had not a ſubaltern officer, accidentally paſſing by, come in to her aſſiſtance. Upon his appearing, the ſoldiers immediately deſiſted; but her thank⯑fulneſs [53] was hardly greater than her ſurpriſe, when ſhe inſtantly recollected, in her deliverer, the ſon of the Lutheran miniſter, her former inſtructor, benefactor, and friend.

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

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

In order, therefore, to prevent further ſolicita⯑tions from others, as ſoon as the officer came to [54] town upon duty, ſhe offered him her perſon, which he accepted with tranſport; and their nuptials were ſolemniſed as uſual. But all the lines of her fortune were to be ſtriking: the very day on which they were married, the Ruſſians laid ſiege to Ma⯑rienburgh. The unhappy ſoldier had now no time to enjoy the well-earned pleaſures of matrimony; he was called off before conſummation to an attack, from which he was never after ſeen to return.

In the mean time, the ſiege went on with fury, aggravated on one ſide by obſtinacy, on the other by revenge. This war between the two northern powers at that time was truly barbarous; the in⯑nocent peaſant and the harmleſs virgin often ſhared the fate of the ſoldier in arms. Marienburgh was taken by aſſault; and ſuch was the fury of the aſ⯑ſailants, that not only the garriſon, but almoſt all the inhabitants, men, women, and children, were put to the ſword. At length, when the carnage was pretty well over, Catharina was found hid in an oven.

She had been hitherto poor, but ſtill was free; ſhe was now to conform to her hard fate, and learn what it was to be a ſlave: in this ſituation, how⯑ever, ſhe behaved with piety and humility; and, though misfortunes had abated her vivacity, yet ſhe was chearful. The fame of her merit and re⯑ſignation reached even Prince Menzikoff, the Ruſſian General: he deſired to ſee her, was ſtruck with her beauty, bought her from the ſoldier, her maſter, [55] and placed her under the direction of his own ſiſter. Here ſhe was treated with all the reſpect which her merit deſerved, while her beauty every day improved with her good fortune.

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

He had been forced, when young, to marry from motives of intereſt; he was now reſolved to marry purſuant to his own inclinations. He im⯑mediately enquired the hiſtory of the fair Livonian, who was not yet eighteen. He traced her through the vale of obſcurity, through all the viciſſitudes of her fortune, and found her truly great in them all. The meanneſs of her birth was no obſtruc⯑tion to his deſign; their nuptials were ſolemniſed in private; the Prince aſſuring his courtiers, that virtue alone was the propereſt ladder to a throne.

We now ſee Catharina, from the low, mud-walled cottage, Empreſs of the greateſt kingdom upon earth. The poor ſolitary wanderer is now ſurrounded by thouſands, who find happineſs in her ſmile. She, who formerly wanted a meal, is [56] now capable of diffuſing plenty upon whole na⯑tions. To her fortune ſhe owed a part of this pre⯑eminence, but to her virtues more.

She ever after retained thoſe great qualities which firſt placed her on a throne; and while the extraordinary prince, her huſband, laboured for the reformation of his male ſubjects, ſhe ſtudied, in her turn, the improvement of her own ſex. She altered their dreſſes, introduced mixed aſſemblies, inſtituted an order of female knighthood, and, at length, when ſhe had greatly filled all the ſtations of empreſs, friend, wife, and mother, bravely died without regret,—regretted by all. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 269.

THE COUNTRY SCHOOLMASTER.

DEPENDANCE.

AMONG the many who have enforced the duty of giving, I am ſurpriſed there are none to incul⯑cate the ignominy of receiving; to ſhew, that by every favour we accept, we in ſome meaſure for⯑feit our native freedom, and that a ſtate of conti⯑nual dependance on the generoſity of others is a life of gradual debaſement. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 142.

WISDOM AND VIRTUE.

AVOID ſuch performances where vice aſſumes the face of virtue; ſeek wiſdom and knowledge [58] without ever thinking you have found them. A man is wiſe, while he continues in the purſuit of wiſdom; but when he once fancies that he has found the object of his enquiry, he then becomes a fool. Learn to purſue virtue from the man that is blind, who never makes a ſtep without firſt exa⯑mining the ground with his ſtaff. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 80.

MISFORTUNES OF THE GREAT CON⯑TRASTED WITH THOSE OF THE POOR.

THE ſlighteſt misfortunes of the great, the moſt imaginary uneaſineſſes of the rich, are aggra⯑vated with all the power of eloquence, and held up to engage our attention and ſympathetic ſorrow. The poor weep unheeded, perſecuted by every ſubordinate ſpecies of tyranny; and every law, which gives others ſecurity, becomes an enemy to them. IBID. p. 212.

PRIDE AND RESENTMENT.

THERE are no obſtructions more fatal to for⯑tune than pride and reſentment. If you muſt re⯑ſent injuries at all, at leaſt ſuppreſs your indigna⯑tion until you become rich, and then ſhew away. The reſentment of a poor man is like the efforts of a harmleſs inſect to ſting; it may get him cruſhed, but cannot defend him. Who values that anger which is conſumed only in empty menaces? IBID. v. 1. p. 267.

ROYAL FAVOUR.

A PRUDENT KING may have private friends, but ſhould never retain a public favourite: royal favour ſhould ſhine with indiſcriminate luſtre, and the monarch ſhould ever guard againſt raiſing thoſe he moſt loves to the higheſt preferments. In being thus biaſſed by his affections, he will probably be induced to reward talents unequal to the burthen of affairs, or impatient of the fatigues of application. HIST. OF ENG. IN LET. &c. v. 1. p. 119.

VICES OF GREAT KINGS.

THE vices of conquering monarchs and great kings are ever moſt dangerous, becauſe they moſt generally produce imitation. IBID. p. 120.

DISQUIETUDE.

IT is a melancholy conſideration, that our com⯑forts often produce our greateſt anxieties, and that an increaſe of our poſſeſſions is but an inlet to new diſquietudes. GOOD-NATURED MAN, p. 8.

THE MAN OF THE WORLD. A TALE.

IF you are fond of hearing hair-breadth 'ſcapes, my hiſtory muſt certainly pleaſe; for I have been for twenty years upon the very verge of ſtarving, without ever being ſtarved.

My father, the younger ſon of a good family, was poſſeſſed of a ſmall living in the church. His education was above his fortune, and his gene⯑roſity greater than his education. Poor as he was, he had his flatterers ſtill poorer than himſelf; for every dinner he gave them, they returned him an equivalent in praiſe; and this was all he wanted. The ſame ambition that actuates a monarch at the head of an army, influenced my father at the head of his table: he told the ſtory of the ivy-tree, and that was laughed at; he repeated the jeſt of the two ſcholars and one pair of breeches, and the company laughed at that; but the ſtory of Taffy in the ſedan chair was ſure to ſet the table in a roar. Thus his pleaſure increaſed, in propor⯑tion to the pleaſure he gave: he loved all the world, and he fancied all the world loved him.

As his fortune was but ſmall, he lived up to the very extent of it; he had no intentions of leaving his children money, for that was droſs; he was reſolved they ſhould have learning, for [61] learning, he uſed to obſerve, was better than ſil⯑ver or gold. For this purpoſe he undertook to inſtruct us himſelf; and took as much pains to form our morals, as to improve our underſtanding. We were told that univerſal benevolence was what firſt cemented ſociety: we were taught to con⯑ſider all the wants of mankind as our own; to regard the human face divine with affection and eſteem: he wound us up to be mere machines of pity, and rendered us incapable of withſtanding the ſlighteſt impulſe made either by real or ficti⯑tious diſtreſs; in a word, we were perfectly in⯑ſtructed in the art of giving away thouſands, be⯑fore we were taught the more neceſſary qualifica⯑tions of getting a farthing.

I cannot avoid imagining, that, thus refined by his leſſons out of all my ſuſpicion, and diveſted of even all the little cunning which nature had given me, I reſembled, upon my firſt entrance into the buſy and inſidious world, one of thoſe gladiators who were expoſed without armour in the amphi⯑theatre at Rome. My father, however, who had only ſeen the world on one ſide, ſeemed to triumph in my ſuperior diſcernment; though my whole ſtock of wiſdom conſiſted in being able to talk like himſelf upon ſubjects that once were uſeful, becauſe they were then topics of the buſy world, but that now were utterly uſeleſs, becauſe con⯑nected with the buſy world no longer.

[62]The firſt opportunity he had of finding his ex⯑pectations diſappointed, was at the very middling figure I made in the Univerſity: he had flattered himſelf that he ſhould ſoon ſee me riſing into the foremoſt rank in literary reputation, but was mor⯑tified to find me utterly unnoticed and unknown. His diſappointment might have been partly aſcri⯑bed to his having over-rated my talents, and partly to my diſlike of mathematical reaſonings at a time when my imagination and memory, yet un⯑ſatiſfied, were more eager after new objects, than deſirous of reaſoning upon thoſe I knew. This did not, however, pleaſe my tutors, who obſerved, indeed, that I was a little dull; but at the ſame time allowed, that I ſeemed to be very good-natured, and had no harm in me.

After I had reſided at college ſeven years, my father died, and left me—his bleſſing. Thus ſhoved from ſhore without ill-nature to protect, or cunning to guide, or proper ſtores to ſubſiſt me in ſo dangerous a voyage, I was obliged to embark in the wide world at twenty-two. But, in order to ſettle in life, my friends adviſed (for they always adviſe when they begin to deſpiſe us) they ad⯑viſed me, I ſay, to go into orders.

To be obliged to wear a long wig, when I liked a ſhort one, or a black coat, when I generally dreſſed in brown, I thought was ſuch a reſtraint upon my liberty, that I abſolutely rejected the [63] propoſal. A prieſt in England, is not the ſame mortified creature with a bonze in China; with us, not he that faſts beſt, but eats beſt, is reckon⯑ed the beſt liver: yet I rejected a life of luxury, indolence, and eaſe, from no other conſideration but that boyiſh one of dreſs; ſo that my friends were now perfectly ſatisfied I was undone; and yet they thought it a pity for one who had not the leaſt harm in him, and was ſo very good-natured.

Poverty naturally begets dependance, and I was admitted as flatterer to a great man. At firſt I was ſurpriſed, that the ſituation of a flatterer at a great man's table could be thought diſagreeable; there was no great trouble in liſtening attentively when his lordſhip ſpoke, and laughing when he looked round for applauſe. This even good-manners might have obliged me to perform. I found, however, too ſoon, that his lordſhip was a greater dunce than myſelf; and from that very moment my power of flattery was at an end. I now rather aimed at ſetting him right, than at re⯑ceiving his abſurdities with ſubmiſſion. To flatter thoſe we do not know, is an eaſy taſk; but to flat⯑ter our intimate acquaintances, all whoſe foibles are ſtrongly in our eye, is drudgery inſupportable. Every time I now opened my lips in praiſe, my falſ⯑hood went to my conſcience: his lordſhip ſoon per⯑ceived me to be unfit for ſervice; I was therefore diſcharged; my patron at the ſame time being [64] graciouſly pleaſed to obſerve, that he believed I was tolerably good-natured, and had not the leaſt harm in me.

Diſappointed in ambition, I had recourſe to love. A young lady, who lived with her aunt, and was poſſeſſed of a pretty fortune in her own diſpoſal, had given me, as I fancied, ſome reaſons to expect ſucceſs. The ſymptoms by which I was guided were ſtriking: ſhe had always laughed with me at her aukward acquaintance, and at her aunt among the number; ſhe always obſerved, that a man of ſenſe would make a better huſband than a fool, and I as conſtantly applied the obſervation in my own favour. She continually talked in my company of friendſhip, and the beauties of the mind, and ſpoke of Mr. Shrimp my rival's high-heel'd ſhoes with deteſtation. Theſe were circumſtances which I thought ſtrongly in my fa⯑vour; ſo, after reſolving, and re-reſolving, I had courage enough to tell her my mind. Miſs heard my propoſal with ſerenity, ſeeming at the ſame time to ſtudy the figures of her fan. Out at laſt it came. There was but one ſmall objection to complete our happineſs, which was no more than —that ſhe was married three months before to Mr. Shrimp with high-heel'd ſhoes! By way of conſo⯑lation, however, ſhe obſerved, that, though I was diſappointed in her, my addreſſes to her aunt would probably kindle her into ſenſibility; as the old lady always allowed me to be very good-na⯑tured, [65] and not to have the leaſt ſhare of harm in me.

Yet ſtill I had friends, numerous friends; and to them I was reſolved to apply. O Friendſhip! thou fond ſoother of the human breaſt, to thee we fly in every calamity; to thee the wretched ſeek for ſuccour; on thee the care-tired ſon of miſery fondly relies; from thy kind aſſiſtance the unfor⯑tunate always hopes relief, and may be ever ſure of—diſappointment! My firſt application was to a city ſcrivener, who had frequently offered to lend me money, when he knew I did not want it. I informed him, that now was the time to put his friendſhip to the teſt; that I wanted to borrow a couple of hundreds for a certain occaſion, and was reſolved to take it up from him. And pray, Sir, cried my friend, do you want all this money? Indeed, I never wanted it more, returned I. I am ſorry for that, cries the ſcrivener, with all my heart; for they who want money when they come to borrow, will always want money when they ſhould come to pay.

From him I flew with indignation to one of the beſt friends I had in the world, and made the ſame requeſt. Indeed, Mr. Dry-bone, cries my friend, I always thought it would come to this. You know, Sir, I would not adviſe you but for your own good; but your conduct has hitherto been ri⯑diculous in the higheſt degree, and ſome of your [66] acquaintance always thought you a very ſilly fel⯑low. Let me ſee—you want two hundred pounds; do you want only two hundred, Sir, exactly? To confeſs a truth, returned I, I ſhall want three hundred; but then I have another friend, from whom I can borrow the reſt. Why then, replied my friend, if you would take my advice—and you know I ſhould not preſume to adviſe you but for your own good—I would recommend it to you to borrow the whole ſum from that other friend; and then one note will ſerve for all, you know.

Poverty now began to come faſt upon me; yet, inſtead of growing more provident or cautious as I grew poor, I became every day more indolent and ſimple. A friend was arreſted for fifty pounds; I was unable to extricate him, except by becom⯑ing his bail. When at liberty, he fled from his creditors, and left me to take his place. In pri⯑ſon I expected greater ſatisfaction than I had en⯑joyed at large. I hoped to converſe with men in this new world, ſimple and believing like myſelf; but I found them as cunning and as cautious as thoſe in the world I had left behind. They ſpunged up my money whilſt it laſted; borrowed my coals, and never paid them; and cheated me when I played at cribbage. All this was done becauſe they believed me to be very good-natured, and knew that I had no harm in me.

Upon my firſt entrance into this manſion, which is to ſome the abode of deſpair, I felt no ſenſa⯑tions [67] different from thoſe I experienced abroad. I was now on one ſide the door, and thoſe who were unconfined were on the other; this was all the difference between us. At firſt, indeed, I felt ſome uneaſineſs, in conſidering how I ſhould be able to provide this week for the wants of the week enſuing; but, after, ſome time, if I found myſelf ſure of eating one day, I never troubled my head how I was to be ſupplied another. I ſeized every precarious meal with the utmoſt good-humour, indulged, no rants of ſpleen at my ſitua⯑tion, never called down heaven and all the ſtars to behold me dining upon an half-penny-worth of radiſhes; my very companions were taught to be⯑lieve that I liked ſallad better than mutton. I contented myſelf with thinking, that all my life I ſhould either eat white bread or brown; con⯑ſidered that all that happened was beſt, laughed when I was not in pain, took the world as it went, and read Tacitus often, for want of more books and company.

How long I might have continued in this tor⯑pid ſtate of ſimplicity I cannot tell, had I not been rouſed by ſeeing an old acquaintance, whom I knew to be a prudent blockhead, preferred to a place in the government. I now found that I had purſued a wrong track, and that the true way of be⯑ing able to relieve others, was to aim at indepen⯑dance myſelf. My immediate care, therefore, was to leave my preſent habitation, and make an entire re⯑formation [68] in my conduct and behaviour. For a free, open, undeſigning deportment, I put on that of cloſeneſs, prudence and oeconomy. One of the moſt heroic actions I ever performed, and for which I ſhall praiſe myſelf as long as I live, was the refuſing half a crown to an old acquaint⯑ance, at the time when he wanted it, and I had it to ſpare; for this alone I deſerve to be decreed an ovation.

I now, therefore, purſued a courſe of uninter⯑rupted frugality, ſeldom wanted a dinner, and was conſequently invited to twenty. I ſoon be⯑gan to get the character of a ſaving hunks that had money; and inſenſibly grew into eſteem. Neighbours have aſked my advice in the diſpoſal of their daughters, and I have always taken care not to give any. I have contracted a friendſhip with an alderman, only by obſerving, that if we take a farthing from a thouſand pound, it will be a thouſand pound no longer. I have been invited to a pawnbroker's table, by pretending to hate gravy; and am now actually upon treaty of mar⯑riage with a rich widow, for only having obſerved that bread was riſing. If ever I am aſked a queſ⯑tion, whether I know it or not, inſtead of an⯑ſwering, I only ſmile, and look wiſe. If a cha⯑rity is propoſed, I go about with the hat, but put nothing in myſelf. If a wretch ſolicits my pity, I obſerve, that the world is filled with impoſtors; and take a certain method of not being deceived, [69] by never relieving. In ſhort, I now find the trueſt way of finding eſteem, even from the indigent, is to give away nothing, and thus have much in our power to give. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 103.

EPITAPH UPON DR. PARNELL.

FLATTERY.

THE moſt ſavage countries underſtand flattery almoſt as well as the moſt polite; ſince, to be ſuf⯑ficiently ſervile is, perhaps, the whole of the art, and the trueſt method of pleaſing. HIST. OF ENG. IN LET. v. 1. p. 27.

UNCONTROULED POWER.

OF all miſeries that ever affected kingdoms, an uncontrouled power among the great is certainly moſt afflictive. The tyranny of a ſingle monarch only falls upon the narrow circle round him; the arbitrary will of a number of delegates falls moſt heavily upon the lower ranks of people, who have no redreſs. IBID. v. 1. p. 79.

MODEST DIFFIDENCE.

THERE are attractions in modeſt diffidence, above the force of words. A ſilent addreſs is the genuine eloquence of ſincerity. GOOD-NATURED MAN, p. 18.

EPITAPH ON DAVID GARRICK.

FEAR.

FEAR guides more to their duty than grati⯑tude: for one man who is virtuous from the love of virtue, from the obligation which he thinks he lies under to the Giver of All, there are ten thou⯑ſand who are good only from their apprehenſions of puniſhment. Could theſe laſt be perſuaded, as the Epicureans were, that Heaven had no thun⯑ders in ſtore for the villain, they would no longer continue to acknowledge ſubordination, or thank that Being who gave them exiſtence. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 34.

OBLIGATIONS.

WERE men taught to deſpiſe the receiving ob⯑ligations with the ſame force of reaſoning and de⯑clamation that they are inſtructed to confer them, we might then ſee every perſon in ſociety filling up the requiſite duties of his ſtation with chear⯑ful induſtry, neither relaxed by hope, nor ſullen from diſappointment. IBID. v. 2. p. 142.

KNOWLEDGE.

WHEN we riſe in knowledge as the proſpect widens, the objects of our regard become more obſcure; and the unlettered peaſant, whoſe views are only directed to the narrow ſphere around him, beholds nature with a finer reliſh, and taſtes her bleſſings with a keener appetite, than the philo⯑ſopher, whoſe mind attempts to graſp an univerſal ſyſtem. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 152.

CONVERSATION OF A FINE WOMAN.

THERE is ſomething irreſiſtibly pleaſing in the converſation of a fine woman; even though her tongue be ſilent, the eloquence of her eyes teaches wiſdom. The mind ſympathiſes with the regu⯑larity of the object in view, and, ſtruck with ex⯑ternal grace, vibrates into reſpondent harmony. IBID. v. 2. p. 205.

SORROW.

WE ſhould feel ſorrow, but not ſink under its oppreſſion; the heart of a wiſe man ſhould reſem⯑ble a mirrour, which reflects every object without being ſullied by any. The wheel of fortune turns inceſſantly round, and who can ſay within himſelf, I ſhall to-day be uppermoſt? We ſhould hold the immutable mean that lies between inſenſibility and anguiſh; our attempts ſhould be, not to extinguiſh [74] nature, but to repreſs it; not to ſtand unmoved at diſtreſs, but endeavour to turn every diſaſter to our own advantage. Our greateſt glory is, not in never falling, but in riſing every time we fall.

READING.

IT is of no importance to read much, except you be regular in your reading. If it be inter⯑rupted for any conſiderable time, it can never be attended with proper improvement. There are ſome who ſtudy for one day with intenſe applica⯑tion, and repoſe themſelves for ten days after. But wiſdom is a coquette, and muſt be courted with unabating aſſiduity.

It was a ſaying of the ancients, that a man never opens a book without reaping ſome advantage by it. I ſay, with them, that every book can ſerve to make us more expert, except romances; and theſe are no better than inſtruments of debauchery. They are dangerous fictions, where love is the ruling paſſion. IBID. vol. 2. p. 79.

INDOLENCE.

INDOLENCE aſſumes the airs of wiſdom, and, while it toſſes the cup and ball with infantine folly, deſires the world to look on, and calls the ſtupid paſtime philoſophy and learning. IBID. p. 106.

EDUCATING CHILDREN.

I HAVE ever found it a vain taſk to try to make a child's learning its amuſement; nor do I ſee what good end it would anſwer, were it actually attained. The child ought to have its ſhare of play, and it will be benefited thereby; and for every reaſon, alſo, it ought to have its ſhare of labour. The mind, by early labour, will be thus accuſtomed to fatigues and ſubordination; and whatever be the perſon's future employment in life, he will be better fitted to endure it: he will be thus enabled to ſupport the drudgeries of office with content, or to fill up the vacancies of life with variety. The child, therefore, ſhould by times be put to its duty; and be taught to know, that the taſk is to be done, or the puniſhment to be endured. I do not object againſt alluring it to duty by reward; but we well know, that the mind will be more ſtrongly ſtimulated by pain; and both may, upon ſome occaſions, take their turn to operate. In this manner, a child, by playing with its equals abroad, and labouring with them at ſchool, will acquire more health and knowledge than by being bred up under the wing of any ſpe⯑culative ſyſtem-maker; and will be thus qualified for a life of activity and obedience. It is true, indeed, that, when educated in this manner, the boy may not be ſo ſeemingly ſenſible and forward as one bred up under ſolitary inſtruction; and, perhaps, this early forwardneſs is more engaging [76] than uſeful. It is well known, that many of thoſe children who are ſuch prodigies of literature before ten, have not made an adequate progreſs to twenty. It ſhould ſeem, that they only began learning manly things before their time; and, while others were buſied in picking up that knowledge adapted to their age and curioſity, theſe were forced upon ſubjects unſuited to their years; and, upon that account alone, appearing extraordinary. The ſtock of knowledge in both may be equal; but with this difference, that each is yet to learn what the other knows.

FELICITY.

INSOLENCE OF COURT FAVOURITES.

AS, in a family, the faults and the imperti⯑nence of ſervants are often to be aſcribed to their maſters; ſo, in a ſtate, the vices and the inſolence of favourites ſhould be juſtly attributed to the king who employs them. HIST. OF ENG. IN LET. &c. v. 1. p. 238.

FIDELITY OF A DOG.

OF all the beaſts that graze the lawn or hunt the foreſt, a Dog is the only animal that, leaving his fellows, attempts to cultivate the friendſhip of man; to man he looks, in all his neceſſities, with a ſpeaking eye, for aſſiſtance; exerts, for him, all the little ſervice in his power, with chearfulneſs and pleaſure; for him bears famine and fatigue with patience and reſignation: no injuries can abate his fidelity; no diſtreſs induce him to forſake his benefactor: ſtudious to pleaſe, and fearing to offend, he is ſtill an humble, ſteadfaſt dependant; and in him alone fawning is not flattery. How unkind, then, to torture this faithful creature, who has left the foreſt to claim the protection of man! How ungrateful a return to the truſty ani⯑mal for all its ſervices! ESSAY 13. p. 109.

PLEASURE.

ALL our pleaſures, though ſeemingly never ſo remote from ſenſe, derive their origin from ſome one of the ſenſes. The moſt exquiſite demonſtra⯑tion in mathematics, or the moſt pleaſing diſquiſi⯑tion in metaphyſics, if it does not ultimately tend to increaſe ſome ſenſual ſatisfaction, is delightful only to fools, or to men who have by long habit contracted a falſe idea of pleaſure; and he who ſeparates ſenſual and ſentimental enjoyments, ſeek⯑ing happineſs from mind alone, is in fact as wretched as the naked inhabitant of the foreſt, who places all happineſs in the firſt, regardleſs of the latter. There are two extremes in this reſpect; the ſavage who ſwallows down the draught of plea⯑ſure without ſtaying to reflect on his happineſs, and the ſage who paſſeth the cup while he reflects on the conveniences of drinking. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 20.

WANT OF PRUDENCE.

WANT of prudence is too frequently the want of virtue; nor is there on earth a more powerful advocate for vice than poverty. IBID. p. 22.

DUTY OF CHILDREN TO THEIR PARENTS.

THE duty of children to their parents, a duty which nature implants in every breaſt, forms the [79] ſtrength of that government which has ſubſiſted for time immemorial. Filial obedience is the firſt and greateſt requiſite of a ſtate; by this we become good ſubjects, capable of behaving with juſt ſub⯑ordination to our ſuperiors, and grateful depen⯑dants on heaven; by this we become fonder of marriage, in order to be capable of exacting obe⯑dience from others in our turn: by this we become good magiſtrates; for early ſubmiſſion is the trueſt leſſon to thoſe who would learn to rule. By this the whole ſtate may be ſaid to reſemble one family, of which the Emperor is the protector, father, and friend. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 176.

POPULAR GLORY CONTRASTED WITH TRUE GLORY.

POPULAR GLORY is a perfect coquette; her lovers muſt toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every caprice; and, perhaps, at laſt, be jilted for their pains. True glory, on the other hand; re⯑ſembles a woman of ſenſe; her admirers muſt play no tricks; they feel no great anxiety, for they are ſure, in the end, of being rewarded in proportion to their merit. When Swift uſed to appear in pub⯑lic, he generally had the mob ſhouting in his train. ‘"Pox take theſe fools," he would ſay, "how much joy might all this bawling give my Lord-Mayor!"’ ESSAY 8. p. 73.

LOVE.

LOVE, when founded in the heart, will ſhew itſelf in a thouſand unpremeditated ſallies of fond⯑neſs; but every cool deliberate exhibition of the paſſion, only argues little underſtanding, or great inſincerity.

Choang was the fondeſt huſband, and Hanſi the moſt endearing wife, in all the kingdom of Korea: they were a pattern of conjugal bliſs; the inhabi⯑tants of the country around ſaw, and envied their felicity; wherever Choang came, Hanſi was ſure to follow; and in all the pleaſures of Hanſi, Cho⯑ang was admitted a partner. They walked hand in hand wherever they appeared, ſhewing every mark of mutual ſatisfaction, embracing, kiſſing; their mouths were for ever joined; and, to ſpeak in the language of anatomy, it was with them one per⯑petual anaſtomoſis.

Their love was ſo great, that it was thought no⯑thing could interrupt their mutual peace; when an accident happened, which, in ſome meaſure, di⯑miniſhed the huſband's aſſurance of his wife's fide⯑lity; for love ſo refined as his, was ſubject to a thouſand little diſquietudes.

Happening to go one day alone among the tombs that lay at ſome diſtance from his houſe, he there perceived a lady dreſſed in the deepeſt mourning, [81] (being cloathed all over in white) fanning the wet clay that was raiſed over one of the graves with a large fan, which ſhe held in her hand. Choang, who had early been taught wiſdom in the ſchool of Lao, was unable to aſſign a cauſe for her pre⯑ſent employment; and, coming up, civilly demand⯑ed the reaſon. ‘"Alas!" replied the lady, her eyes bathed in tears, "how is it poſſible to ſurvive the loſs of my huſband, who lies buried in this grave? He was the beſt of men, the tendereſt of huſbands; with his dying breath he bid me never marry again till the earth over his grave ſhould be dry; and here you ſee me ſteadily reſolving to obey his will, and endeavouring to dry it with my fan. I have employed two whole days in fulfilling his com⯑mands, and am determined not to marry till they are punctually obeyed, even though his grave ſhould take up four days in drying."’

Choang, who was ſtruck with the widow's beauty, could not, however, avoid ſmiling at her haſte to be married; but, concealing the cauſe of his mirth, civilly invited her home; adding, that he had a wife who might be capable of giving her ſome conſolation. As ſoon as he and his gueſt were re⯑turned, he imparted to Hanſi in private what he had ſeen, and could not avoid expreſſing his un⯑eaſineſs, that ſuch might be his own caſe, if his deareſt wife ſhould one day happen to ſurvive him.

[82]It is impoſſible to deſcribe Hanſi's reſentment at ſo unkind a ſuſpicion. As her paſſion for him was not only great, but extremely delicate, ſhe em⯑ployed tears, anger, frowns, and exclamations, to chide his ſuſpicions; the widow herſelf was in⯑veighed againſt; and Hanſi declared ſhe was re⯑ſolved never to ſleep under the ſame roof with a wretch, who, like her, could be guilty of ſuch barefaced inconſtancy. The night was cold and ſtormy; however, the ſtranger was obliged to ſeek another lodging, for Choang was not diſpoſed to reſiſt, and Hanſi would have her way.

The widow had ſcarce been gone an hour, when an old diſciple of Choang's, whom he had not ſeen for many years, came to pay him a viſit. He was received with the utmoſt ceremony, placed in the moſt honourable ſeat at ſupper, and the wine began to circulate with great freedom. Choang and Hanſi exhibited open marks of mutual tenderneſs and unfeigned reconciliation: nothing could equal their apparent happineſs; ſo fond an huſband, ſo obe⯑dient a wife, few could behold without regretting their own infelicity; when, lo! their happineſs was at once diſturbed by a moſt fatal accident. Choang fell lifeleſs in an apoplectic fit upon the floor. Every method was uſed, but in vain, for his recovery. Hanſi was at firſt inconſolable for his death: after ſome hours, however, ſhe found ſpirits to read his laſt will. The enſuing day ſhe began to moralize and talk wiſdom; the next day [83] ſhe was able to comfort the young diſciple; and, on the third, to ſhorten a long ſtory, they both agreed to be married.

There was now no longer mourning in the apart⯑ments; the body of Choang was now thruſt into an old coffin, and placed in one of the meaneſt rooms, there to lie unattended until the time pre⯑ſcribed by law for his interment. In the mean time, Hanſi, and the young diſciple, were arrayed in the moſt magnificent habits; the bride wore in her noſe a jewel of immenſe price, and her lover was dreſſed in all the finery of his former maſter, together with a pair of artificial whiſkers that reached down to his toes. The hour of their nup⯑tials was arrived; the whole family ſympathiſed with their approaching happineſs; the apartments were brightened up with lights that diffuſed the moſt exquiſite perfume, and a luſtre more bright than noon-day. The lady expected her youthful lover in an inner apartment, with impatience; when his ſervant approaching with terror in his countenance, informed her, that his maſter was fallen into a fit, which would certainly be mortal, unleſs the heart of a man lately dead, could be obtained, and applied to his breaſt. She ſcarce waited to hear the end of his ſtory, when, tucking up her clothes, ſhe ran with a mattock in her hand to the coffin, where Choang lay, reſolving to apply the heart of her dead huſband as a cure for the living. She therefore ſtruck the lid with the ut⯑moſt violence. In a few blows the coffin flew open, [84] when the body, which to all appearance had been dead, began to move. Terrified at the ſight, Hanſi dropped the mattock, and Choang walked out, aſtoniſhed at his own ſituation, his wife's un⯑uſual magnificence, and her more amazing ſur⯑priſe. He went among the apartments, unable to conceive the cauſe of ſo much ſplendour. He was not long in ſuſpence, before his domeſtics informed him of every tranſaction ſince he firſt became in⯑ſenſible. He could ſcarce believe what they told him, and went in purſuit of Hanſi herſelf, in order to receive more certain information, or to reproach her infidelity. But ſhe prevented his reproaches: he found her weltering in blood; for ſhe had ſtabbed herſelf to the heart, being unable to ſur⯑vive her ſhame and diſappointment.

Choang, being a philoſopher, was too wiſe to make any loud lamentations; he thought it beſt to bear his loſs with ſerenity; ſo, mending up the old coffin where he had lain himſelf, he placed his faithleſs ſpouſe in his room; and, unwilling that ſo many nuptial preparations ſhould be expended in vain, he the ſame night married the widow with the large fan.

As they both were appriſed of the foibles of each other before-hand, they knew how to excuſe them after marriage. They lived together for many years in great tranquillity, and not expecting rap⯑ture, made a ſhift to find contentment. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 63.

POVERTY.

JUSTICE.

JUSTICE may be defined, that virtue which impels us to give to every perſon what is his due. In this extended ſenſe of the word, it comprehends the practice of every virtue which reaſon preſcribes, or ſociety ſhould expect. Our duty to our Maker, to each other, and to ourſelves, are fully anſwered, if we give them what we owe them. Thus juſtice, properly ſpeaking, is the only virtue: and all the reſt have their origin in it.

The qualities of candour, fortitude, charity, and generoſity, for inſtance, are not in their own nature virtues; and, if ever they deſerve the title, it is owing only to juſtice, which impels and di⯑rects them. Without ſuch a moderator, candour might become indiſcretion, fortitude obſtinacy, charity imprudence, and generoſity miſtaken pro⯑fuſion. ESSAY 6. p. 47.

DISINTERESTED ACTION.

A DISINTERESTED action, if it be not con⯑ducted by juſtice, is, at beſt, indifferent in its na⯑ture, and not unfrequently even turns to vice. The expences of ſociety, of preſents, of enter⯑tainments, and the other helps to chearfulneſs, are actions merely indifferent, when not repugnant to a better method of diſpoſing of our ſuperfluities; but they become vicious when they obſtruct or ex⯑hauſt our abilities from a more virtuous diſpoſition of our circumſtances. ESSAY 6. p. 47.

TRUE GENEROSITY.

TRUE generoſity is a duty as indiſpenſibly ne⯑ceſſary as thoſe impoſed upon us by law. It is a rule impoſed upon us by reaſon, which ſhould be the ſovereign law of a rational being. But this generoſity does not conſiſt in obeying every im⯑pulſe of humanity, in following blind paſſion for our guide, and impairing our circumſtances by preſent benefactions, ſo as to render us incapable of future ones. IBID. p. 48.

LITERATURE.

WHATEVER be the motives which induce men to write, whether avarice, or fame, the coun⯑try becomes moſt wiſe and happy, in which they [88] moſt ſerve for inſtructors. The countries where ſacerdotal inſtruction alone is permitted, remain in ignorance, ſuperſtition, and hopeleſs ſlavery. In England, where there are as many new books publiſhed as in all the reſt of Europe together, a ſpirit of freedom and reaſon reigns among the peo⯑ple; they have been often known to act like fools, they are generally found to think like men. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 47.

DEATH OF A PHILOSOPHER.

LET others beſtrew the hearſes of the great with panegyric. When a philoſopher dies, I con⯑ſider myſelf as loſing a patron, an inſtructor, and a friend; I conſider the world as loſing one who might ſerve to conſole her amidſt the deſolations of war and ambition. Nature every day produces in abundance men capable of filling all the requi⯑ſite duties of authority; but ſhe is niggard in the birth of an exalted mind, ſcarcely producing in a century a ſingle genius to bleſs and enlighten a degenerate age. Prodigal in the production of kings, governors, mandarines, chams, and cour⯑tiers, ſhe ſeems to have forgotten, for more than three thouſand years, the manner in which ſhe once formed the brain of a Confucius; and well it is ſhe has forgotten, when a bad world gave him ſo very bad a reception. IBID. v. 1. p. 181.

TENDERNESS.

TENDERNESS, without a capacity of re⯑lieving, only makes the man who feels it more wretched than the object which ſues for aſſiſtance. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 212.

ESSAY ON FRIENDSHIP.

THERE are few ſubjects which have been more written upon, and leſs underſtood, than that of Friendſhip. To follow the dictates of ſome, this virtue, inſtead of being the aſſuager of pain, be⯑comes the ſource of every inconvenience. Such ſpeculatiſts, by expecting too much from friendſhip, diſſolve the connexion, and, by drawing the bands too cloſely, at length break them. Almoſt all our romance and novel-writers are of this kind; they perſuade us to friendſhips, which we find impoſ⯑ſible to ſuſtain to the laſt; ſo that this ſweetner of life, under proper regulations, is, by their means, rendered inacceſſible or uneaſy. It is certain, the beſt method to cultivate this virtue is by letting it, in ſome meaſure, make itſelf; a ſimilitude of minds or ſtudies, and even ſometimes a diverſity of purſuits, will produce all the pleaſures that ariſe from it. The current of tenderneſs widens, as it proceeds: and two men imperceptibly find their hearts warm with good-nature far each other, [90] when they were at firſt only in purſuit of mirth or relaxation.

Friendſhip is like a debt of honour; the mo⯑ment it is talked of, it loſes its real name, and aſſumes the more ungrateful form of obligation. From hence we find, that thoſe who regularly undertake to cultivate friendſhip, find ingratitude generally repays their endeavours. That circle of beings, which dependance gathers round us, is al⯑moſt ever unfriendly; they ſecretly wiſh the term of their connexions more nearly equal; and, where they even have the moſt virtue, are pre⯑pared to reſerve all their affections for their pa⯑tron, only in the hour of his decline. Increaſing the obligations which are laid upon ſuch minds, only increaſes their burthen; they feel themſelves unable to repay the immenſity of their debt, and their bankrupt hearts are taught a latent reſent⯑ment at the hand that it ſtretched out with offers of ſervice and relief.

Plautinus was a man who thought that every good was bought from riches; and as he was poſ⯑ſeſſed of great wealth, and had a mind naturally formed for virtue, he reſolved to gather a circle of the beſt men round him. Among the number of his dependants was Muſidorus, with a mind juſt as fond of virtue, yet not leſs proud than his pa⯑tron. His circumſtances, however, were ſuch as forced him to ſtoop to the good offices of his ſu⯑perior, [91] and he ſaw himſelf daily among a number of others loaded with benefits and proteſtations of friendſhip. Theſe, in the uſual courſe of the world, he thought it prudent to accept; but, while he gave his eſteem, he could not give his heart. A want of affection breaks out in the moſt trifling inſtances, and Plautinus had ſkill enough to ob⯑ſerve the minuteſt actions of the man he wiſhed to make his friend. In theſe he ever found his aim diſappointed; for Muſidorus claimed an exchange of hearts, which Plautinus, ſolicited by a variety of claims, could never think of beſtowing.

It may be eaſily ſuppoſed, that the reſerve of our poor proud man, was ſoon conſtrued into in⯑gratitude; and ſuch, indeed, in the common ac⯑ceptation of the world it was. Wherever Muſi⯑dorus appeared, he was remarked as the ungrate⯑ful man; he had acccepted favours, it was ſaid, and had ſtill the inſolence to pretend to indepen⯑dance. The event, however, juſtified his conduct. Plautinus, by miſplaced liberality, at length be⯑came poor; and it was then that Muſidorus firſt thought of making a friend of him He flew to the man of fallen fortune, with an offer of all he had; wrought under his direction with aſſiduity; and by uniting their talents, both were at length placed in that ſtate of life from which one of them had formerly fallen.

[92]To this ſtory, taken from modern life, I ſhall add one more, taken from a Greek writer of an⯑tiquity:—

THE COUNTRY ALEHOUSE.

SABINUS AND OLINDA.

IN a fair, rich, flouriſhing country, whoſe cliffs are waſhed by the German ocean, lived Sabinus, a youth formed by Nature to make a conqueſt [95] wherever he thought proper; but the conſtancy of his diſpoſition fixed him only with Olinda.

He was, indeed, ſuperior to her in fortune; but that defect on her ſide was ſo amply ſupplied by her merit, that none was thought more worthy of his regards than ſhe. He loved her, he was be⯑loved by her; and, in a ſhort time, by joining hands publicly, they avowed the union of their hearts. But, alas! none, however fortunate, however happy, are exempt from the ſhafts of en⯑vy, and the malignant effects of ungoverned ap⯑petite. How unſafe, how deteſtable are they who have this fury for their guide! How certainly will it lead them from themſelves, and plunge them in errors they would have ſhuddered at, even in ap⯑prehenſion! Ariana, a lady of many amiable qua⯑lities, very nearly allied to Sabinus, and highly eſteemed by him, imagined herſelf ſlighted, and injuriouſly treated, ſince his marriage with Olinda. By incautiouſly ſuffering this jealouſy to corrode in her breaſt, ſhe began to give a looſe to paſſion: ſhe forgot thoſe many virtues, for which ſhe had been ſo long, and ſo juſtly applauded. Cauſe⯑leſs ſuſpicion, and miſtaken reſentment, betrayed her into all the gloom of diſcontent: ſhe ſighed without ceaſing; the happineſs of others gave her intolerable pain: ſhe thought of nothing but re⯑venge. How unlike what ſhe was, the chearful, the prudent, the compaſſionate Ariana!

[96]She continually laboured to diſturb an union ſo firmly, ſo affectionately founded, and planned every ſcheme which ſhe thought moſt likely to diſ⯑turb it.

Fortune ſeemed willing to promote her unjuſt intentions; the circumſtances of Sabinus had been long embarraſſed by a tedious law-ſuit, and the court determining the cauſe unexpectedly in favour of his opponent, it ſunk his fortune to the loweſt pitch of penury from the higheſt affluence.

From the nearneſs of relationſhip, Sabinus ex⯑pected from Ariana thoſe aſſiſtances his preſent ſituation required; but ſhe was inſenſible to all his entreaties, and the juſtice of every remon⯑ſtrance, unleſs he firſt ſeparated from Olinda, whom ſhe regarded with deteſtation. Upon a compliance with her deſires in this reſpect, ſhe promiſed her fortune, her intereſt, and her all, ſhould be at his command. Sabinus was ſhocked at the propoſal; he loved his wife with inexpreſ⯑ſible tenderneſs, and refuſed thoſe offers with in⯑dignation which were to be purchaſed at ſo high a price: Ariana was no leſs diſpleaſed to find her offers rejected, and gave a looſe to all that warmth which ſhe had long endeavoured to ſuppreſs.

Reproach generally produces recrimination; the quarrel roſe to ſuch a height, that Sabinus was marked for deſtruction; and the very next day, [97] the ſtrength of an old family debt, he was ſent to jail, with none but Olinda to comfort him in his miſeries. In this manſion of diſtreſs they lived together with reſignation, and even with comfort. She provided the frugal meal, and he read for her while employed in the little offices of domeſtic concern. Their fellow-priſoners admired their contentment, and whenever they had a deſire of relaxing into mirth, and enjoying thoſe little comforts that a priſon affords, Sabinus and Olinda were ſure to be of the party. Inſtead of reproach⯑ing each for their mutual wretchedneſs, they both lightened it, by bearing each a ſhare of the load impoſed by Providence. Whenever Sabinus ſhew⯑ed the leaſt concern on his dear partner's account, ſhe conjured him by the love he bore her, by thoſe tender ties which now united them for ever, not to diſcompoſe himſelf: that ſo long as his affection laſted, the defied all the ills of fortune, and every loſs of fame or friendſhip: that no thing could make her miſerable, but his ſeem⯑ing to want happineſs; nothing pleaſed but his ſympathiſing with her pleaſure.

A continuance in priſon ſoon robbed them of the little they had left, and famine began to make its horrid appearance; yet ſtill was neither found to murmur: they both looked upon their little boy, who, inſenſible of their or his own diſtreſs, was play⯑ing about the room with inexpreſſible yet ſilent an⯑guiſh, when a meſſenger came to inform them that [98] Ariana was dead; and that her will, in favour of a very diſtant relation, and who was now in ano⯑ther country, might be eaſily procured, and burnt; in which caſe, all her large fortune would revert to him, as being the next heir at law.

A propoſal of ſo baſe a nature filled our un⯑happy couple with horror; they ordered the meſ⯑ſenger immediately out of the room, and falling upon each other's neck, indulged an agony of ſorrow: for now even all hopes of relief were ba⯑niſhed. The meſſenger who made the propoſal, however, was only a ſpy ſent by Ariana to ſound the diſpoſitions of a man ſhe loved at once and perſecuted.

This lady, though warped by wrong paſſions, was naturally kind, judicious and friendly. She found that all her attempts to ſhake the conſtancy or the integrity of Sabinus were ineffectual: She had, therefore, begun to reflect, and to wonder how ſhe could, ſo long and ſo unprovoked, injure ſuch uncommon fortitude and affection.

She had, from the next room, herſelf heard the reception given to the meſſenger, and could not avoid feeling all the force of ſuperior virtue; ſhe therefore reaſſumed her former goodneſs of heart; ſhe came into the room with tears in her eyes, and acknowledged the ſeverity of her former treatment. She beſtowed her firſt care in [99] providing them all the neceſſary ſupplies, and acknowledged them as the moſt deſerving heirs of her fortune. From this moment Sabinus en⯑joyed an uninterrupted happineſs with Olinda, and both were happy in the friendſhip and aſſiſt⯑ance of Ariana, who, dying ſoon after, left them in poſſeſſion of a large eſtate; and in her laſt moments confeſſed, that Virtue was the only path to true glory; and that, however Innocence may for a time be depreſſed, a ſteady perſeverance will in time lead it to a certain victory.

INNOCENCE AND SIMPLICITY.

MAN was born to live with innocence and ſim⯑plicity, but he has deviated from Nature; he was born to ſhare the bounties of Heaven, but he has monopolized them; he was born to govern the brute creation, but he is become their tyrant. If an epicure now ſhould happen to ſurfeit on his laſt night's feaſt, twenty animals, the next day, are to undergo the moſt exquiſite tortures, in order to provoke his appetite to another guilty meal. Hail, O ye ſimple, honeſt Bramins of the Eaſt! ye inof⯑fenſive friends of all that were born to happineſs as well as you! You never ſought a ſhort-lived plea⯑ſure from the miſeries of other creatures. You never ſtudied the tormenting arts of ingenious re⯑finement; you never ſurfeited upon a guilty meal. [100] How much more purified and refined are all your ſenſations than ours! You diſtinguiſh every ele⯑ment with the utmoſt preciſion; a ſtream untaſted before is new luxury; a change of air is a new banquet, too refined for weſtern imaginations to conceive. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 52.

ADULATION.

THE man who is conſtantly ſerved up with adulation, muſt be a firſt-rate philoſopher, if he can liſten without contracting new affectations. The opinion we form of ourſelves, is generally mea⯑ſured by what we hear from others; and when they conſpire to deceive, we too readily concur in the deluſion. Among the number of much-applauded men in the circle of our own friends, we can re⯑collect but few that have heads quite ſtrong enough to bear a loud acclamation of public praiſe in their favour; among the whole liſt, we ſhall ſcarce find one that has not thus been made, on ſome ſide of his character, a coxcomb. LIFE OF NASH, p. 149.

THE SWISS PEASANT.

AGE.

AGE, that leſſens the enjoyment of life, in⯑creaſes our deſire of living. Thoſe dangers, which in the vigour of youth we had learned to deſpiſe, aſſume new terrors as we grow old. Our caution increaſing as our years increaſe, fear becomes at laſt the prevailing paſſion of the mind; and the ſmall remainder of life is taken up in uſeleſs ef⯑forts [103] to keep off our end, or provide for a conti⯑nued exiſtence. ESSAY 14.

HOPE, THE LAMP OF LIFE.

IF I ſhould judge of that part of life which lies before me, by that which I have already ſeen, the proſpect is hideous. Experience tells me, that my paſt enjoyments have brought no real felicity; and ſenſation aſſures me, that thoſe I have felt are ſtronger than thoſe which are yet to come. Yet experience and ſenſation in vain perſuade; hope, more powerful than either, dreſſes out the diſtant proſpect in fancied beauty; ſome happineſs in long perſpective ſtill beckons me to purſue; and, like a loſing gameſter, every new diſappointment in⯑creaſes my ardour to continue the game. ESSAY 14.

LOVE OF LIFE.

WHENCE this increaſed love of life, which grows upon us with our years? Whence comes it, that we thus make greater efforts to preſerve our exiſtence, at a period when it becomes ſcarce worth the keeping? Is it that nature, attentive to the preſervation of mankind, increaſes our wiſhes to live, while ſhe leſſens our enjoyments; and, as ſhe robs the ſenſes of every pleaſure, equips imagina⯑tion in the ſpoil? Life would be inſupportable to an old man, who, loaded with infirmities, feared [104] death no more than when in the vigour of man⯑hood: the numberleſs calamities of decaying na⯑ture, and the conſciouſneſs of ſurviving every pleaſure, would at once induce him, with his own hand, to terminate the ſcene of miſery; but hap⯑pily the contempt of death forſakes him at a time when it could only be prejudicial; and life ac⯑quires an imaginary value, in proportion as its real value is no more. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 37.

ATTACHMENT.

OUR attachment to every object around us, in⯑creaſes, in general, from the length of our ac⯑quaintance with it. I would not chuſe, ſays a French philoſopher, to ſee an old poſt pulled up, with which I had been long acquainted. A mind long habituated to a certain ſet of objects, inſen⯑ſibly becomes fond of ſeeing them; viſits them from habit, and parts from them with reluctance. From hence proceeds the avarice of the old in every kind of poſſeſſion. They love the world, and all that it produces; they love life, and all its advantages; not becauſe it gives them pleaſure, but becauſe they have known it long.

CHINVANG the Chaſte, aſcending the throne of China, commanded that all who were unjuſtly detained in priſon, during the preceding reigns, [105] ſhould be ſet free. Among the number who came to thank their deliverer on this occaſion, there ap⯑peared a majeſtic old man, who, falling at the em⯑peror's feet, addreſſed him as follows: ‘"Great father of China, behold a wretch, now eighty-five years old, who was ſhut up in a dungeon at the age of twenty-two. I was impriſoned, though a ſtranger to crime, or without being even con⯑fronted by my accuſers. I have now lived in ſoli⯑tude and darkneſs for more than fifty years, and am grown familiar with diſtreſs. As yet dazzled with the ſplendour of that ſun to which you have reſtored me, I have been wandering the ſtreets, to find ſome friend that would aſſiſt, or relieve, or remember me; but my friends, my family, and relations, are all dead, and I am forgotten. Per⯑mit me, then, O Chinvang, to wear out the wretch⯑ed remains of life in my former priſon: the walls of my dungeon are to me more pleaſing than the moſt ſplendid palace; I have not long to live, and ſhall be unhappy except I ſpend the reſt of my days where my youth was paſſed; in that priſon from whence you were pleaſed to releaſe me."’

The old man's paſſion for confinement is ſimilar to that we all have for life. We are habituated to the priſon, we look round with diſcontent, are diſpleaſed with the abode, and yet the length of our captivity only increaſes our fondneſs for the cell. The trees we have planted, the houſes we have built, or the poſterity we have begotten, all [106] ſerve to bind us cloſer to earth, and embitter our parting. Life ſues the young like a new acquaint⯑ance; the companion, as yet unexhauſted, is at once inſtructive and amuſing; its company pleaſes; yet, for all this, it is but little regarded. To us, who are declined in years, life appears like an old friend; its jeſts have been anticipated in former converſation; it has no new ſtory to make us ſmile, no new improvement with which to ſurpriſe; yet ſtill we love it: deſtitute of every agreement, ſtill we love it; huſband the waſting treaſure with in⯑creaſed frugality, and feel all the poignancy of anguiſh in the fatal ſeparation. ESSAY 14.

DRESS.

DRESS has a mechanical influence upon the mind, and we naturally are awed into reſpect and eſteem at the elegance of thoſe whom even our reaſon would teach us to contemn. LIFE OF NASH, p. 11.

EFFRONTERY.

HOW many little things do we ſee, without merit, or without friends, puſh themſelves forward into public notice, and, by ſelf-advertiſing, attract the attention of the day! The wiſe deſpiſe them; but the public are not all wiſe. Thus they ſuc⯑ceed, [107] riſe upon the wing of folly, or of faſhion, and by their ſucceſs give a new ſanction to effron⯑tery. LIFE OF NASH, p. 14.

SYMPATHETIC SINCERITY.

THE low and timid are ever ſuſpicious; but a heart impreſſed with honourable ſentiments, ex⯑pects from others ſympathetic ſincerity. LIFE OF NASH, p. 72.

FAVOUR.

THERE are ſome who, born without any ſhare of ſenſibility, receive favour after favour, and ſtill cringe for more; who accept the offer of genero⯑ſity with as little reluctance as the wages of merit, and even make thanks for paſt benefits an indirect petition for new. Such, I grant, can ſuffer no debaſement from dependance, ſince they were ori⯑ginally as vile as was poſſible to be. Dependance degrades only the ingenuous, but leaves the ſordid mind in priſtine meanneſs. In this manner, there⯑fore, long-continued generoſity is miſplaced, or it is injurious; it either finds a man worthleſs, or it makes him ſo; and true it is, that the perſon who is contented to be often obliged, ought not to have been obliged at all. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 143.

BENEFACTION AND ACKNOWLEDGE⯑MENT.

BENEFACTION and acknowledgement are often injurious even to the giver as well as the receiver; a man can gain but little knowledge of himſelf, or of the world, amidſt a circle of thoſe whom hope or gratitude has gathered round him; their unceaſing humiliations muſt neceſſarily increaſe his comparative magnitude, for all men meaſure their own abilities by thoſe of their company: thus be⯑ing taught to over-rate his merit, he in reality leſſens it; increaſing in confidence, but not in power, his profeſſions end in empty boaſt, his un⯑dertakings in ſhameful diſappointment. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 144.

ACCIDENTAL MEETINGS.

ACCIDENTAL meetings, though they happen every day, ſeldom excite our ſurpriſe but upon ſome extraordinary occaſion. To what a fortuitous concurrence do we not owe every pleaſure and convenience of our lives! How many ſeeming ac⯑cidents muſt unite, before we can be cloathed or fed! The peaſant muſt be diſpoſed to labour, the ſhower muſt fall, the wind fill the merchant's ſail, or numbers muſt want the uſual ſupply. VIC. OF WAKEFIELD, v. 2. p. 121.

TIDINGS.

THE diſtant ſounds of muſic, that catch new ſweetneſs as they vibrate through the long-drawn valley, are not more pleaſing to the ear, than the tidings of a far-diſtant friend. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 242.

GENEROSITY.

FEW virtues have been more praiſed by mora⯑liſts, than generoſity; every practical treatiſe of ethics tends to increaſe our ſenſibility of the di⯑ſtreſſes of others, and to relax the graſp of fruga⯑lity. Philoſophers that are poor, praiſe it becauſe they are gainers by its effects; and the opulent Seneca himſelf has written a treatiſe on benefits, though he was known to give nothing away. IBID. v. 2. p. 141.

PLEASING EXPECTATION.

IT has been a thouſand times obſerved, and I muſt obſerve it once more, that the hours we paſs with happy proſpects in view, are more pleaſing than thoſe crowned with fruition. In the firſt caſe, we cook the diſh to our own appetite; in the lat⯑ter, nature cooks it for us. VIC. OF WAKEFIELD, v. 1. p. 193.

JUDGMENT OF HUMAN NATURE.

THE Engliſh are a people of good-ſenſe; and I am the more ſurpriſed to find them ſwayed, in their opinions, by men who often, from their very education, are incompetent judges. Men who, being always bred in affluence, ſee the world only on one ſide, are ſurely improper judges of human nature: they may, indeed, deſcribe a ceremony, a pageant, or a ball; but how can they pretend to dive into the ſecrets of the human heart, who have been nurſed up only in forms, and daily be⯑hold nothing but the ſame inſipid adulation ſmiling upon every face? Few of them have been bred in that beſt of ſchools, the ſchool of adverſity; and, by what I can learn, fewer ſtill have been bred in any ſchool at all. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 247.

LOVE OF COUNTRY.

THERE are no pleaſures, ſenſual or ſentimen⯑tal, which, this city^* does not produce; yet, I know not how, I could not be content to reſide here for life. There is ſomething ſo ſeducing in that ſpot in which we firſt had exiſtence, that no⯑thing but it can pleaſe: whatever viciſſitudes we experience in life, however we toil, or whereſoever we wander, our fatigued wiſhes ſtill recur to home for tranquillity; we long to die in that ſpot which [111] gave us birth, and in that pleaſing expectation opiate every calamity.

DR. PRIMROSE's ADDRESS TO HIS FEL⯑LOW-PRISONERS. THE EQUAL DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DE⯑MONSTRATED WITH REGARD TO THE HAP⯑PY AND THE MISERABLE HERE BELOW. THAT FROM THE NATURE OF PLEASURE AND PAIN, THE WRETCHED MUST BE REPAID THE BALANCE OF THEIR SUFFERINGS IN THE LIFE HEREAFTER.

MY friends, my children, and fellow-ſufferers, when I reflect on the diſtribution of good and evil here below, I find that much has been given man to enjoy, yet ſtill more to ſuffer. Though we ſhould examine the whole world, we ſhall not find one man ſo happy as to have nothing left to wiſh for; but we daily ſee thouſands, who, by ſui⯑cide, ſhew us they have nothing left to hope. In this life, then, it appears that we cannot be en⯑tirely bleſt; but yet we may be completely miſe⯑rable!

Why man ſhould thus feel pain; why our wretchedneſs ſhould be requiſite in the formation of univerſal felicity; why, when all other ſyſtems are made perfect only by the perfection of their ſubordinate parts, the great ſyſtem ſhould require [112] for its perfection, parts that are not only ſubordi⯑nate to others, but imperfect in themſelves!— Theſe are queſtions that never can be explained, and might be uſeleſs if known. On this ſubject, Providence has thought fit to elude our curioſity, ſatisfied with granting us motives to conſolation.

In this ſituation, man has called in the friendly aſſiſtance of Philoſophy; and Heaven, ſeeing the incapacity of that to conſole him, has given him the aid of Religion. The conſolations of Philoſo⯑phy are very amuſing, but often fallacious. It tells us, that life is filled with comforts, if we will but enjoy them; and, on the other hand, that though we unavoidably have miſeries here, life is is ſhort, and they will ſoon be over. Thus do theſe conſolations deſtroy each other; for if life is a place of comfort, its ſhortneſs muſt be miſery; and, if it be long, our griefs are protracted. Thus philoſophy is weak; but religion comforts in an higher ſtrain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his mind, and preparing it for another abode. When the good man leaves the body, and is all a glorious mind, he will find he has been making him⯑ſelf a heaven of happineſs here; while the wretch that has been maimed and contaminated by his vices, ſhrinks from his body with terror, and finds that he has anticipated the vengeance of Heaven. To Religion, then, we muſt hold, in every circum⯑ſtance of life, for our trueſt comfort; for, if al⯑ready we are happy, it is a pleaſure to think that [113] we can make that happineſs unending; and, if we are miſerable, it is very conſoling to think that there is a place of reſt. Thus, to the fortunate, Religion holds out a continuance of bliſs; to the wretched, a change from pain.

But, though Religion is very kind to all men, it has promiſed peculiar reward to the unhappy; the ſick, the naked, the houſeleſs, the heavy-laden, and the priſoner, have ever moſt frequent pro⯑miſes in our ſacred law. The Author of our Re⯑ligion every where profeſſes himſelf the wretch's friend; and, unlike the falſe ones of this world, beſtows all his careſſes upon the forlorn. The un⯑thinking have cenſured this as a partiality, as a preference without merit to deſerve it; but they never reflect, that it is not in the power even of Heaven itſelf to make the offer of unceaſing feli⯑city as great a gift to the happy as to the miſe⯑rable. To the firſt, eternity is but a ſingle bleſſ⯑ing, ſince, at moſt, it but increaſes what they al⯑ready poſſeſs. To the latter it is a double advan⯑tage; for it diminiſhes their pain here, and re⯑wards them with heavenly bliſs hereafter.

But Providence is in another reſpect kinder to the poor than the rich; for, as it thus makes the life after death more deſirable, ſo it ſmooths the paſ⯑ſage there. The wretched have long familiarity with every face of terror. The man of ſorrows [114] lays himſelf quietly down; he has no poſſeſſions to regret, and but few ties to ſtop his departure: he feels only Nature's pang in the final ſeparation, and this is no way greater than he has often faint⯑ed under before; for, after a certain degree of pain, every new breach that death opens in the conſtitution, nature kindly covers with inſenſi⯑bility.

Thus Providence has given the wretched two advantages over the happy in this life, greater fe⯑licity in dying, and, in Heaven, all the ſuperiority of pleaſure which ariſes from contraſted enjoyment. And this ſuperiority, my friends, is no ſmall ad⯑vantage, and ſeems to be one of the pleaſures of the poor man in the parable; for, though he was already in Heaven, and felt all the raptures it could give, yet it was mentioned as an addition to his happineſs, that he had once been wretched, and now was comforted; that he had known what it was to be miſerable, and now felt what it was to be happy.

Thus, my friends, you ſee Religion does what Philoſophy could never do: it ſhews the equal dealings of Heaven to the happy and the unhap⯑py, and levels all human enjoyments to nearly the ſame ſtandard. It gives to both rich and poor the ſame happineſs hereafter, and equal hopes to aſpire after it; but if the rich have the advantage of enjoying pleaſure here, the poor have the end⯑leſs [115] ſatisfaction of knowing what it was once to be miſerable, when crowned with endleſs feli⯑city hereafter; and even though this ſhould be called a ſmall advantage, yet, being an eternal one, it muſt make up, by duration, what the temporal happineſs of the great may have exceeded by intenſeneſs.

Theſe are, therefore, the conſolations which the wretched have peculiar to themſelves, and in which they are above the reſt of mankind; in other reſpects they are below them. They who would know the miſeries of the poor, muſt ſee life and endure it. To declaim on the temporal ad⯑vantages they enjoy, is only repeating what none either believe or practiſe. The men who have the neceſſaries of living are not poor, and they who want them muſt be miſerable. Yes, my friends, we muſt be miſerable. No vain efforts of a re⯑fined imagination can ſoothe the wants of nature, can give elaſtic ſweetneſs to the dank vapour of a dungeon, or eaſe to the throbbings of a woe-worn heart. Let the Philoſopher from his couch of ſoftneſs tell us that we can reſiſt all theſe. Alas! the effort by which we reſiſt them is ſtill the greateſt pain! Death is ſlight, and any man may ſuſtain it; but torments are dreadful, and theſe no man can endure.

To us, then, my friends, the promiſes of hap⯑pineſs in Heaven ſhould be peculiarly dear; for if [116] our reward be in this life alone, we are then, in⯑deed, of all men the moſt miſerable. When I look round theſe gloomy walls, made to terrify, as well as to confine us; this light that only ſerves to ſhew the horrors of the place, thoſe ſhackles that tyranny has impoſed, or crime made neceſ⯑ſary; when I ſurvey theſe emaciated looks, and hear thoſe groans, O my friends, what a glo⯑rious exchange would Heaven be for theſe! To fly through regions unconfined as air; to baſk in the ſunſhine of eternal bliſs; to carol over endleſs hymns of praiſe; to have no maſter to threaten or inſult us, but the form of Goodneſs himſelf for ever in our eyes; when I think of theſe things, Death becomes the meſſenger of very glad tidings; when I think of theſe things, his ſharp⯑eſt arrow becomes the ſtaff of my ſupport; when I think of theſe things, what is there in life worth having? when I think of theſe things, what is there that ſhould not be ſpurned away? Kings in their palaces ſhould groan for ſuch ad⯑vantages; but we, humbled as we are, ſhould yearn for them.

And ſhall theſe things be ours? Ours they will certainly be, if we but try for them; and, what is a comfort, we are ſhut up from many tempta⯑tions that would retard our purſuit. Only let us try for them, and they will certainly be ours, and, what is ſtill a comfort, ſhortly too; for, if we look back on paſt life, it appears but a very ſhort ſpan; and, whatever we may think of the reſt of [117] life, it will yet be found of leſs duration: as we grow older, the days ſeem to grow ſhorter, and our intimacy with time ever leſſens the perception of his ſtay. Then let us take comfort now, for we ſhall ſoon be at our journey's end; we ſhall ſoon lay down the heavy burthen laid by Heaven upon us; and though Death, the only friend of the wretched, for a little while mocks the weary traveller with the view, and, like his horizon, ſtill flies before him; yet the time will certainly and ſhortly come, when we ſhall ceaſe from our toil; when the luxurious great ones of the world ſhall no more tread us to the earth; when we ſhall think with pleaſure on our ſufferings below; when we ſhall be ſurrounded with all our friends, or ſuch as deſerved our friend⯑ſhip; when our bliſs ſhall be unutterable, and ſtill, to crown all, unending. VIC. OF WAKEFIELD, v. 2. p. 97.

PARTY.

PARTY entirely diſtorts the judgment, and deſtroys the taſte. When the mind is once in⯑fected with this diſeaſe, it can only find pleaſure in what contributes to increaſe the diſtemper. Like the tiger, that ſeldom deſiſts from purſuing man after having once preyed upon human fleſh, the Reader, who has once gratified his appetite with calumny, makes, ever after, the moſt agree⯑able feaſt upon murdered reputation. Such Read⯑ers [118] generally admire ſome half-witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having loſt the character of a wiſe one. Him they dignify with the name of Poet; his tawdry lampoons are called ſatires; his turbulence is ſaid to be force, and his phrenzy fire.

RETIREMENT.

RIDICULE.

RIDICULE has ever been the moſt powerful enemy of enthuſiaſm, and properly the only anta⯑goniſt that can be oppoſed to it with ſucceſs. Per⯑ſecution only ſerves to propagate new religions; they acquire freſh vigour beneath the executioner and the ax, and, like ſome vivacious inſects, multi⯑ply by diſſection. It is alſo impoſſible to combat enthuſiaſm with reaſon; for, though it makes a ſhew of reſiſtance, it ſoon eludes the preſſure, re⯑fers you to diſtinctions not to be underſtood, and feelings which it cannot explain. A man who would endeavour to fix an enthuſiaſt by argument, might as well attempt to ſpread quickſilver with his ſingers. The only way to conquer a viſionary is to deſpiſe him; the ſtake, the faggot, and the diſputing Doctor, in ſome meaſure ennoble the opinions they are brought to oppoſe; they are harmleſs againſt innovating pride; contempt alone is truly dreadful. Hunters generally know the moſt vulnerable part of the beaſts they purſue, by the care which every animal takes to defend the ſide which is weakeſt: on what ſide the enthuſiaſt is moſt vulnerable, may be known by the care which he takes in the beginning to work his diſciples into gravity, and guard them againſt the power of ridicule. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 185.

INTEGRITY.

BOTH wit and underſtanding are trifles, with⯑out integrity; it is that which gives value to every character. The ignorant peaſant, without fault, is greater than the philoſopher with many; for what is genius or courage without an heart? VIC. OF WAKEFIELD, v. 1. p. 158.

STORY OF COLONEL M—.

AT the concluſion of the treaty of peace at Utrecht, Col. M— was one of the thoughtleſs, agreeable, gay creatures, that drew the attention of the company at Bath. He danced and talked with great vivacity; and when he gamed among the ladies, he ſhewed, that his attention was em⯑ployed rather upon their hearts than their fortunes. His own fortune, however, was a trifle, when com⯑pared to the elegance of his expence; and his im⯑prudence at laſt was ſo great, that it obliged him to ſell an annuity, ariſing from his commiſſion, to keep up his ſplendour a little logger.

However thoughtleſs he might be, he had the happineſs of gaining the affections of Miſs L—, whoſe father deſigned her a very large fortune. This lady was courted by a nobleman of diſtinc⯑tion; but ſhe refuſed his addreſſes, reſolved upon gratifying rather her inclinations than her avarice. [121] The intrigue went on ſucceſsfully between her and the Colonel, and they both would certainly have been married, and been undone, had not Mr. Naſh appriſed her father of their intentions. The old gentleman recalled his daughter from Bath, and offered Mr. Naſh a very conſiderable preſent, for the care he had taken, which he refuſed.

In the mean time, Col. M— had an intima⯑tion how his intrigue came to be diſcovered; and by taxing Mr. Naſh, found that his ſuſpicions were not without foundation. A challenge was the im⯑mediate conſequence; which the King of Bath, conſcious of having only done his duty, thought proper to decline. As none are permitted to wear ſwords at Bath, the Colonel found no opportunity of gratifying his reſentment, and waited with im⯑patience to find Mr. Naſh in town, to require proper ſatisfaction.

During this interval, however, he found his creditors became too importunate for him to re⯑main longer at Bath; and his finances and credit being quite exhauſted, he took the deſperate reſo⯑lution of going over to the Dutch army in Flanders, where he enliſted himſelf a volunteer. Here he underwent all the fatigues of a private centinel, with the additional miſery of receiving no pay; and his friends in England gave out, that he was ſhot at the battle of —.

[122]In the mean time, the nobleman preſſed his paſ⯑ſion with ardour; but, during the progreſs of his amour, the young lady's father died, and left her heireſs to a fortune of fifteen hundred a year. She thought herſelf now diſengaged from her former paſſion. An abſence of two years had in ſome meaſure abated her love for the Colonel; and the aſſiduity, the merit, and real regard, of the gen⯑tleman who ſtill continued to ſolicit her, were al⯑moſt too powerful for her conſtancy. Mr. Naſh, in the mean time, took every opportunity of en⯑quiring after Col. M—, and found that he had for ſome time been returned to England, but changed his name, in order to avoid the fury of his creditors; and that he was entered into a com⯑pany of ſtrolling players, who were at that time exhibiting at Peterborough.

He now therefore thought he owed the Colonel, in juſtice, an opportunity of promoting his for⯑tune, as he had once deprived him of an occaſion of ſatisfying his love. Our Beau, therefore, in⯑vited the lady to be of a party to Peterborough, and offered his own equipage, which was then one of the moſt elegant in England, to conduct her there. The propoſal being accepted, the lady, the nobleman, and Mr. Naſh, arrived in town juſt as the players were going to begin.

Col. M—, who uſed every means of remain⯑ing incognito, and who was too proud to make his [123] diſtreſſes known to any of his former acquaintance, was now degraded into the character of Tom in the Conſcious Lovers. Miſs L— was placed in the foremoſt row of the ſpectators, her lord on one ſide, and the impatient Naſh on the other, when the unhappy youth appeared in that deſpicable ſi⯑tuation upon the ſtage. The moment he came on, his former miſtreſs ſtruck his view; but his amaze⯑ment was increaſed, when he ſaw her fainting away in the arms of thoſe who ſat behind her. He was incapable of proceeding; and, ſcarce knowing what he did, he flew and caught her in his arms.

‘"Colonel," cried Naſh, when they were in ſome meaſure recovered, "you once thought me your enemy, becauſe I endeavoured to prevent you both from ruining each other; you were then wrong, and you have long had my forgiveneſs. If you love well enough now for matrimony, you fairly have my conſent; and d—n him, ſay I, that at⯑tempts to part you."’ Their nuptials were ſo⯑lemniſed ſoon after; and affluence added a zeſt to all their future enjoyments. Mr. Naſh had the thanks of each; and he afterwards ſpent ſeveral agreeable days in that ſociety which he had con⯑tributed to render happy. LIFE OF NASH, p. 79.

REVOLUTIONS OF LIFE.

THE world is like a vaſt ſea, mankind like a veſſel ſailing on its tempeſtuous boſom. Our pru⯑dence is its ſails, the ſciences ſerve us for oars, good or bad fortune are the favourable or contrary winds, and judgment is the rudder; without this laſt the veſſel is toſſed by every billow, and will find ſhipwreck in every breeze. In a word, ob⯑ſcurity and indigence are the parents of vigilance and oeconomy; vigilance and oeconomy, of riches and honour; riches and honour, of pride and luxu⯑ry; pride and luxury, of impurity and idleneſs; and impurity and idleneſs again produce indigence and obſcurity. Such are the revolutions of life. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 80.

MISERIES OF GENIUS IN VARIOUS AGES, AND HER HAPPINESS IN THIS.

THE character of a poet is in every country the ſame; fond of enjoying the preſent, careleſs of the future; his converſation that of a man of ſenſe, his actions thoſe of a fool! Of fortitude able to ſtand unmoved at the burſting of an earth⯑quake, yet of ſenſibility to be affected by the breaking of a tea-cup. Such is his character; which, conſidered in every light, is the very oppo⯑ſite of that which leads to riches.

[125]The poets of the Weſt are as remarkable for their indigence as their genius; and yet, among the numerous hoſpitals deſigned to relieve the poor, I have heard of but one erected for the benefit of decayed authors. This was founded by Pope Urban VIII. and called the retreat of the incurables; intimating, that it was equally impoſſible to re⯑claim the patients, who ſued for reception, from poverty, or from poetry. To be ſincere; were I to ſend you an account of the lives of the Weſtern poets, either ancient or modern, I fancy you would think me employed in collecting materials for an hiſtory of human wretchedneſs.

Homer is the firſt poet and beggar of note among the ancients; he was blind, and ſung his ballads about the ſtreets; but it is obſerved, that his mouth was more frequently filled with verſes than with bread. Plautus, the comic poet, was better off; he had two trades, he was a poet for his diverſion, and helped to turn a mill in order to gain a liveli⯑hood. Terence was a ſlave, and Boëthius died in a jail.

Among the Italians, Paulo Borgheſe, almoſt as good a poet as Taſſo, knew fourteen different trades, and yet died becauſe he could get employment in none. Taſſo himſelf, who had the moſt amiable character of all poets, has often been obliged to borrow a crown from ſome friend, in order to pay for a month's ſubſiſtence. He has left us a pretty [126] ſonnet, addreſſed to his cat, in which he begs the light of her eyes to write by, being too poor to afford himſelf a candle. But Bentivoglio, poor Bentivoglio! chiefly demands our pity. His co⯑medies will laſt with the Italian language. He diſſipated a noble fortune in acts of charity and benevolence; but, falling into miſery in his old age, was refuſed to be admitted into an hoſpital which he himſelf had erected.

In Spain, it is ſaid, the great Cervantes died of hunger; and it is certain that the famous Camoens ended his days in an hoſpital.

If we turn to France, we ſhall there find even ſtronger inſtances of the ingratitude of the public. Vaugelas, one of the politeſt writers, and one of the honeſteſt men, of his time, was ſurnamed the Owl, from his being obliged to keep within all day, and venture out only by night, through fear of his creditors. His laſt will is very remarkable: after having bequeathed all his worldly ſubſtance to the diſcharging his debts, he goes on thus: But as there ſtill may remain ſome creditors un⯑paid, even after all that I have ſhall be diſpoſed of, in ſuch a caſe, it is my laſt will, that my body ſhould be ſold to the ſurgeons, to the beſt advan⯑tage, and that the purchaſe ſhould go to the diſ⯑charging thoſe debts which I owe to ſociety; ſo that, if I could not while living, at leaſt when dead, I may be uſeful.

[127] Caſſander was one of the greateſt geniuses of his time; yet all his merit could not procure him a bare ſubſiſtence. Being by degrees driven into an hatred of all mankind, from the little pity he found amongſt them, he even ventured at laſt ungrate⯑fully to impute his calamities to Providence. In his laſt agonies, when the prieſt intreated him to rely on the juſtice of heaven, and aſk mercy from him that made him; If God, replies he, has ſhewn me no juſtice here, what reaſon have I to expect any from him hereafter? But being anſwered, that a ſuſpenſion of juſtice was no argument that ſhould induce us to doubt of its reality; let me intreat you, continued his confeſſor, by all that is dear, to be reconciled to God, your father, your maker, and friend. No, replied the exaſperated wretch, you know the manner in which he left me to live; (and pointing to the ſtraw on which he was ſtretched) and you ſee the manner in which he leaves me to die!

But the ſufferings of the poet in other countries is nothing when compared to his diſtreſſes here: the names of Spenſer and Otway, Butler and Dry⯑den, are every day mentioned as a national re⯑proach; ſome of them lived in a ſtate of precarious indigence, and others literally died of hunger.

At preſent, the few poets in England no longer depend on the Great for ſubſiſtence; they have now no other patrons but the public; and the public, collectively conſidered, is a good and a [128] generous maſter. It is, indeed, too frequently miſtaken as to the merits of every candidate for favour; but, to make amends, it is never miſtaken long. A performance, indeed, may be forced for a time into reputation; but, deſtitute of real me⯑rit, it ſoon ſinks: time, the touchſtone of what is truly valuable, will ſoon diſcover the fraud; and an author ſhould never arrogate to himſelf any ſhare of ſucceſs, till his works have been read at leaſt ten years with ſatisfaction.

A man of letters, at preſent, whoſe works are valuable, is perfectly ſenſible of their value. Every polite member of the community, by buying what he writes, contributes to reward him. The ridi⯑cule, therefore, of living in a garret, might have been wit in the laſt age, but continues ſuch no longer, becauſe no longer true. A writer of real merit, now, may eaſily be rich, if his heart be ſet only on fortune: and for thoſe who have no merit, it is but ſit that ſuch ſhould remain in merited ob⯑ſcurity. He may now refuſe an invitation to din⯑ner, without fearing to incur his patron's diſplea⯑ſure, or to ſtarve by remaining at home. He may now venture to appear in company with juſt ſuch clothes as other men generally wear, and talk, even to princes, with all the conſcious ſuperiority of wiſdom. Though he cannot boaſt of fortune here, yet he can bravely aſſert the dignity of in⯑dependance. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 81.

DISSEMBLING.

KNOWLEDGE, wiſdom, erudition, arts, and elegance, what are they, but the mere trappings of the mind, if they do not ſerve to increaſe the happineſs of the poſſeſſor? A mind rightly inſti⯑tuted in the ſchool of philoſophy, acquires at once the ſtability of the oak, and the flexibility of the offer. The trueſt manner of leſſening our agonies, is to ſhrink from their preſſure, is to confeſs that we feel them.

The fortitude of ſages is but a dream; for where lies the merit in being inſenſible to the ſtrokes of fortune, or in diſſembling our ſenſibility? If we are inſenſible, that ariſes only from an happy con⯑ſtitution; that is a bleſſing previouſly granted by heaven, and which no art can procure, no inſtitu⯑tions improve. If we diſſemble our feelings, we only artificially endeavour to perſuade others that we enjoy privileges which we actually do not poſ⯑ſeſs. Thus, while we endeavour to appear happy, we feel at once all the pangs of internal miſery, and all the ſelf-reproaching conſciouſneſs of en⯑deavouring to deceive. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 202.

THE PASSIONS.

PHILOSOPHERS have long declaimed againſt the paſſions, as being the ſource of all our miſe⯑ries. [130] They are the ſource of all our misfortunes, I own; but they are the ſource of our pleaſures too: and every endeavour of our lives, and all the inſtitutions of philoſophy, ſhould tend to this, not to diſſemble an abſence of paſſion, but to repel thoſe which lead to vice by thoſe which direct to virtue.

THE SOUL.

THE ſoul may be compared to a field of battle, where two armies are ready every moment to en⯑counter; not a ſingle vice but has a more power⯑ful opponent, and not one virtue but may be over⯑borne by a combination of vices. Reaſon guides the bands of either hoſt, nor can it ſubdue one paſſion but by the aſſiſtance of another. Thus, as a bark, on every ſide beſet with ſtorms, enjoys a ſtate of reſt; ſo does the mind, when influenced by a juſt equipoiſe of the paſſions, enjoy tran⯑quillity. IBID.

LOVE.

WHETHER love be natural or no, it contri⯑butes to the happineſs of every ſociety into which it is introduced. All our pleaſures are ſhort, and can only charm at intervals: love is a method of protracting our greateſt pleaſure; and ſurely that gameſter, who plays the greateſt ſtake to the beſt advantage, will, at the end of life, riſe victorious. [131] This was the opinion of Vanini, who affirmed that every hour was loſt which was not ſpent in love. His accuſers were unable to comprehend his mean⯑ing; and the poor advocate for love was burned in flames, alas! no way metaphorical. But whatever advantages the individual may reap from this paſ⯑ſion, ſociety will certainly be refined and improved by its introduction: all laws calculated to diſcou⯑rage it, tend to embrute the ſpecies, and weaken the ſtate. Though it cannot plant morals in the human breaſt, it cultivates them when there: pity, generoſity, and honour, receive a brighter poliſh from its aſſiſtance; and a ſingle amour is ſufficient entirely to bruſh off the clown. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 207.

The ſame efforts that are uſed in ſome places to ſuppreſs pity and other natural paſſions, may have been employed to extinguiſh love. No nation, however unpoliſhed, is remarkable for innocence, that is not famous for that paſſion: it has flouriſhed in the coldeſt, as well as the warmeſt regions. Even in the ſultry wilds of Southern America, the lover is not ſatisfied with poſſeſſing his miſtreſs's perſon without having her mind.

[132] But the effects of love are too violent to be the reſult of an artificial paſſion; nor is it in the power of faſhion to force the conſtitution into thoſe changes which we every day obſerve. Several have died of it. Few lovers are unacquainted with the fate of the two Italian lovers, Da Corſin and Julia Bellamano, who, after a long ſeparation, expired with pleaſure in each other's arms. Such inſtances are too ſtrong confirmations of the reality of the paſſion, and ſerve to ſhew that ſuppreſſing it is but oppoſing the natural dictates of the heart. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 209.

ERROR.

FOR the firſt time, the very beſt may err; art may perſuade, and novelty ſpread out its charm. The firſt fault is the child of Simplicity; but every other, the offspring of Guilt. VIC. OF WAKEFIELD, v. 1. p. 192.

VIRTUE.

IN a poliſhed ſociety, that man, though in rags, who has the power of enforcing virtue from the preſs, is of more real uſe than forty ſtupid brach⯑mans or bonzes, or guebres, though they preached never ſo often, never ſo loud, or never ſo long. That man, though in rags, who is capable of de⯑ceiving even indolence into wiſdom, and who pro⯑feſſes amuſement while he aims at reformation, is more uſeful in refined ſociety than twenty cardi⯑nals [133] with all their ſcarlet, and tricked out in all the fopperies of ſcholaſtic finery.

OSTENTATION.

INSTEAD of regarding the great with envy, I generally conſider them with ſome ſhare of com⯑paſſion. I look upon them as a ſet of good-na⯑tured miſguided people, who are indebted to us, and not to themſelves, for all the happineſs they enjoy. For our pleaſure, and not their own, they ſweat under a cumberous heap of finery; for our pleaſure the lacquied train, the ſlow parading pa⯑geant, with all the gravity of grandeur, moves in review; a ſingle coat, or a ſingle footman, an⯑ſwers all the purpoſes of the moſt indolent refine⯑ment as well; and thoſe who have twenty, may be ſaid to keep one for their own pleaſure, and the other nineteen merely for ours. So true is the obſervation of Confucius, That we take greater pains to perſuade others that we are happy, than in endeavouring to think ſo ourſelves. IBID. v. 1. p. 281.

PLEASURE.

THE enthuſiaſm of pleaſure charms only by intervals. The higheſt rapture laſts only for a moment, and all the ſenſes ſeem ſo combined, as to be ſoon tired into languor by the gratification of any one of them. It is only among the Poets [134] we hear of men changing to one delight, when ſatiated with another. In nature, it is very dif⯑ferent; the glutton, when ſated with the full meal, is unqualified to feel the real pleaſure of drinking; the drunkard, in turn, finds few of thoſe tranſports which lovers boaſt in enjoyment; and the lover, when cloyed, finds a diminution of every other appetite. Thus, after a full indulgence of any one ſenſe, the man of pleaſure finds a lan⯑guor in all, is placed in a chaſm between paſt and expected enjoyment, perceives an interval which muſt be filled up. The preſent can give no ſatis⯑faction, becauſe he has already robbed it of every charm. A mind thus left without immediate em⯑ployment, naturally recurs to the paſt or the fu⯑ture: the reflector finds that he was happy, and knows that he cannot be ſo now; he ſees that he may yet be happy, and wiſhes the hour was come: thus every period of his continuance is miſerable, except that very ſhort one of immediate gratifica⯑tion. Inſtead of a life of diſſipation, none has more frequent converſations with diſagreeable ſelf than he: his enthuſiaſms are but few and tran⯑ſient; his appetites, like angry creditors, conti⯑nually making fruitleſs demands for what he is unable to pay; and the greater his former plea⯑ſure, the more ſtrong his regret, the more impa⯑tient his expectations. A life of pleaſure is, there⯑fore, the moſt unpleaſing life in the world.

[135]Habit has rendered the man of buſineſs more cool in his deſires; he finds leſs regret for paſt pleaſures, and leſs ſolicitude for thoſe to come. The life he now leads, though tainted in ſome meaſure with hope, is yet not afflicted ſo ſtrongly with regret, and is leſs divided between ſhort-lived rapture and laſting anguiſh. The pleaſures he has enjoyed are not ſo vivid, and thoſe he has to expect cannot conſequently create ſo much anxiety.

The philoſopher, who extends his regard to all mankind, muſt have ſtill a ſmaller concern for what has already affected, or may hereafter affect himſelf; the concerns of others make his whole ſtudy, and that ſtudy is his pleaſure; and this pleaſure is continuing in its nature, becauſe it can be changed at will, leaving but few of theſe anxi⯑ous intervals which are employed in remembrance or anticipation. The philoſopher, by this means, leads a life of almoſt continued diſſipation; and reflection, which makes the uneaſineſs and miſery of others, ſerves as a companion and inſtructor to him.

In a word, poſitive happineſs is conſtitutional, and incapable of increaſe; miſery is artificial, and generally proceeds from our folly. Philoſophy can add to our happineſs in no other manner, but by diminiſhing our miſery: it ſhould not pretend to increaſe our preſent ſtock, but make us oeco⯑nomiſts [136] of what we are poſſeſſed of. The great ſource of calamity lies in regret or anticipation: he, therefore, is moſt wiſe, who thinks of the preſent alone, regardleſs of the paſt or the future. This is impoſſible to the man of pleaſure; it is difficult to the man of buſineſs; and is, in ſome meaſure, attainable by the philoſopher. Happy were we all born philoſophers, all born with a talent of thus diſſipating our own cares, by ſpread⯑ing them upon all mankind! IBID. v. 1. p. 188.

STUDY.

HE who has begun his fortune by ſtudy, will certainly confirm it by perſeverance. The love of books damps the paſſion for pleaſure, and, when this paſſion is once extinguiſhed, life is then cheap⯑ly ſupported; thus a man, being poſſeſſed of more than he wants, can never be ſubject to great diſap⯑pointments, and avoids all thoſe meanneſſes which indigence ſometimes unavoidably produces. IBID. v. 2. p. 71.

PLEASURES OF STUDY.

THERE is unſpeakable pleaſure attending the life of a voluntary ſtudent. The firſt time I read an excellent book, it is to me juſt as if I had gained a new friend. When I read over a book I have peruſed before, it reſembles the meeting with an old one. We ought to lay hold of every [137] incident in life for improvement, the trifling as well as the important. It is not one diamond alone which gives luſtre to another; a common coarſe ſtone is alſo employed for that purpoſe. Thus I ought to draw advantage from the inſults and con⯑tempt I meet with from a worthleſs fellow. His brutality ought to induce me to ſelf-examination, and correct every blemiſh that may have given riſe to his calumny. IBID. v. 2. p. 77.

EARLY DISTASTE TO STUDY NOT TO BE CONQUERED.

WITH all the pleaſures and profits which are generally produced by learning, parents often find it difficult to induce their children to ſtudy. They often ſeem dragged to what wears the appearance of application. Thus being dilatory in the begin⯑ning, all future hopes of eminence are entirely cut off. If they find themſelves obliged to write two lines more polite than ordinary, their pen then ſeems as heavy as a mill-ſtone, and they ſpend ten years in turning two or three periods with propriety.

Theſe perſons are moſt at a loſs when a banquet is almoſt over; the plate and the dice go round, that the number of little verſes which each is obliged to repeat, may be determined by chance. The booby, when it comes to his turn, appears [138] quite ſtupid and inſenſible. The company divert themſelves with his confuſion; and ſneers, winks, and whiſpers, are circulated at his expence. As for him, he opens a pair of large heavy eyes, ſtares at all about him, and even offers to join in the laugh, without ever conſidering himſelf as the burthen of all their good-humour.

GRACE.

IF you would find the Goddeſs of Grace, ſeek her not under one form, for ſhe aſſumes a thou⯑ſand. Ever changing under the eye of inſpection, her variety, rather than her figure, is pleaſing. In contemplating her beauty, the eye glides over every perfection with giddy delight, and, capable of fixing no where, is charmed with the whole. She is now Contemplation with ſolemn look, again Compaſſion with humid eye; ſhe now ſparkles with joy, ſoon every feature ſpeaks diſtreſs: her looks at times invite our approach, at others re⯑preſs our preſumption; the Goddeſs cannot be properly called beautiful under any one of theſe forms, but by combining them all, ſhe becomes irreſiſtibly pleaſing. IBID. p. 53.

PENITENCE.

THE kindneſs of Heaven is promiſed to the penitent. Heaven, we are aſſured, is much more [139] pleaſed to view a repentant ſinner, than many perſons who have ſupported a courſe of undevi⯑ating rectitude. And this is right; for the ſingle effort by which we ſtop ſhort in the down-hill path to perdition, is itſelf a greater exertion of virtue, than an hundred acts of juſtice. VIC. OF WAKEFIELD, v. 2. p. 43.

EARNEST EMPLOYMENT.

EARNEST employment, if it cannot cure, at leaſt will palliate every anxiety. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 111.

THE MERCHANT's CLERK.

IT is uſually ſaid by grammarians, that the uſe of language is to expreſs our wants and deſires; but men who know the world, hold, and I think with ſome ſhew of reaſon, that he who beſt knows how to keep his neceſſities private, is the moſt likely perſon to have them redreſſed; and that the true uſe of ſpeech is not ſo much to expreſs our wants as to conceal them.

When we reflect on the manner in which man⯑kind generally confer their favours, there appears ſomething ſo attractive in riches, that the large heap generally collects from the ſmaller: and the poor find as much pleaſure in increaſing the enor⯑mous [140] maſs of the rich, as the miſer, who owns it, ſees happineſs in its increaſe. Nor is there in this any thing repugnant to the laws of mora⯑lity. Seneca himſelf allows, that in conferring benefits, the preſent ſhould always be ſuited to the dignity of the receiver. Thus the rich receive large preſents, and are thanked for accepting them. Men of middling ſtations are obliged to be content with preſents ſomething leſs; while the beggar, who may be truly ſaid to want indeed, is well paid if a farthing rewards his warmeſt ſoli⯑citations.

Every man who has ſeen the world, and has had his ups and downs in life, as the expreſſion is, muſt have frequently experienced the truth of this doctrine; and muſt know, that to have much, or to ſeem to have it, is the only way to have more. Ovid finely compares a man of broken fortune to a falling column; the lower it ſinks, the greater is that weight it is obliged to ſuſtain. Thus, when a man's circumſtances are ſuch that he has no occaſion to borrow, he finds numbers willing to lend him; but, ſhould his wants be ſuch that he ſues for a trifle, it is two to one whether he may be truſted with the ſmalleſt ſum. A certain young fellow, whom I knew, whenever he had occaſion to aſk his friend for a guinea, uſed to prelude his requeſt as if he wanted two hundred; and talked ſo familiarly of large ſums, that none could ever think he wanted a ſmall one. The [141] ſame gentleman, whenever he wanted credit for a ſuit of clothes, always made the propoſal in a laced coat; for he found by experience, that, if he appeared ſhabby on theſe occaſions, his tailor had taken an oath againſt truſting; or, what was every whit as bad, his foreman was out of the way, and ſhould not be at home for ſome time.

There can be no inducements to reveal our wants, except to find pity, and, by this means, relief; but, before a poor man opens his mind in ſuch circumſtances, he ſhould firſt conſider whether he is contented to loſe the eſteem of the perſon he ſolicits, and whether he is willing to give up friendſhip to excite compaſſion. Pity and Friend⯑ſhip are paſſions incompatible with each other; and it is impoſſible that both can reſide in any breaſt for the ſmalleſt ſpace, without impairing each other. Friendſhip is made up of eſteem and pleaſure; Pity is compoſed of ſorrow and con⯑tempt; the mind may, for ſome time, fluctuate between them, but it can never entertain both at once.

In fact, Pity, though it may often relieve, is but, at beſt, a ſhort-lived paſſion, and ſeldom af⯑fords diſtreſs more than a tranſitory aſſiſtance: with ſome it ſcarce laſts from the firſt impulſe till the hand can be put into the pocket; with others, it may continue for twice that ſpace; and on ſome, of extraordinary ſenſibility, I have ſeen it ope⯑rate [142] for half an hour together: but ſtill, laſt as it may, it generally produces but beggarly effects; and where, from this motive, we give five far⯑things, from others, we give pounds. Whatever be our feelings from the firſt impulſe of diſtreſs, when the ſame diſtreſs ſolicits a ſecond, we then feel with diminiſhed ſenſibility; and, like the re⯑petition of an echo, every ſtroke becomes weaker; 'till, at laſt, our ſenſations loſe all mixture of ſorrow, and degenerate into downright contempt.

Theſe ſpeculations bring to my mind the fate of a very good-natured fellow, who is now no more. He was bred in a compting-houſe, and his father dying juſt as he was out of his time, left him an handſome fortune, and many friends to adviſe with. The reſtraint in which my friend had been brought up, had thrown a gloom upon his tem⯑per, which ſome regarded as prudence; and, from ſuch conſiderations, he had every day repeated offers of friendſhip. Such as had money, were ready to offer him their aſſiſtance that way; and they who had daughters, frequently, in the warmth of affection, adviſed him to marry. My friend, however, was in good circumſtances; he wanted neither money, friends, nor a wife; and, there⯑fore, modeſtly declined their propoſals.

Some errors, however, in the management of his affairs, and ſeveral loſſes in trade, ſoon brought him to a different way of thinking; and he at [143] laſt conſidered, that it was his beſt way to let his friends know that their offers were at length ac⯑ceptable. His firſt addreſs was to a ^* ſcrivener, who had formerly made him frequent offers of money and friendſhip, at a time when, perhaps, he knew thoſe offers would have been refuſed. As a man, therefore, confident of not being refuſed, he re⯑queſted the uſe of a hundred guineas for a few days, as he juſt then had occaſion for money. ‘"And pray, Sir, replied the ſcrivener, "do you want all this money?"’ ‘"Want it, Sir?" ſays the other, If I did not want it, I ſhould not have aſked it."’ ‘"I am ſorry for that," ſays the friend; for thoſe who want money when they borrow, will always want money when they ſhould come to pay. To ſay the truth, Sir, money is money now; and, I believe, it is all ſunk in the bottom of the ſea, for my part; he that has got a little, is a fool if he does not keep what he has got."’

Not quite diſconcerted by this refuſal, our ad⯑venturer was reſolved to apply to another, who he knew was the very beſt friend he had in the world. The gentleman whom he now addreſſed, received his propoſal with all the affability that could be expected from generous friendſhip. ‘"Let me ſee—you want an hundred guineas—and pray, dear Jack, would not fifty anſwer?"’ ‘"If you have but fifty to ſpare, Sir, I muſt be [144] contented."’ ‘"Fifty to ſpare! I do not ſay that; for, I believe, I have but twenty about me."’ ‘"Then I muſt borrow the other thirty from ſome other friend."’ ‘"And pray," re⯑plied the friend, would it not be the beſt way to borrow the whole money from that other friend, and then one note will ſerve for all, you know?—You know, my dear Sir, that you need make no ceremony with me at any time; you know I'm your friend; and, when you chuſe a bit of dinner, or ſo—You, Tom! ſee the gentleman down. You won't forget to dine with us now and then. Your very humble ſer⯑vant."’

Diſtreſſed, but not diſcouraged, at this treat⯑ment, he was at laſt reſolved to find that aſſiſtance from love, which he could not have from friend⯑ſhip. A young lady, a diſtant relation by the mother's ſide, had a fortune in her own hands; and, as ſhe had already made all the advances that her ſex's modeſty would permit, he made his pro⯑poſal with confidence. He ſoon, however, per⯑ceived, That no bankrupt ever found the fair-one kind. She had lately fallen deeply in love with another, who had more money, and the whole neighbourhood thought it would be a match.

Every day now began to ſtrip my poor friend of his former finery; his clothes flew, piece by piece, to the pawnbroker's, and he ſeemed, at length, equipped in the genuine livery of misfortune. But [145] ſtill he thought himſelf ſecure from actual neceſ⯑ſity; the numberleſs invitations he had received to dine, even after his loſſes, were yet unanſwered: he was therefore now reſolved to accent of a din⯑ner, becauſe he wanted one; and in this manner he actually lived among his friends a whole week, without being openly affronted. The laſt place I ſaw him in, was at a reverend divine's. He had, as he fancied, juſt nicked the time of dinner; for he came in as the doth was laying. He took a chair without being deſired, and talked for ſome time without being attended to. He aſſured the company, that nothing procured ſo good an appe⯑tite as a walk in the Park, where he had been that morning. He went on, and praiſed the figure of the damaſk table-cloth; talked of a feaſt where he had been the day before, but that the veniſon was over-done: but all this procured him no invita⯑tion. Finding, therefore, the gentleman of the houſe inſenſible to all his fetches, he thought pro⯑per, at laſt, to retire, and mend his appetite by a ſecond walk in the Park.

You, then, O ye beggars of my acquaintance, whether in rags or lace; whether in Kent-ſtreet or the Mall; whether at the Smyrna or St. Giles's; might I be permitted to adviſe as a friend, never ſeem to want the favour which you ſolicit. Apply to every paſſion but human pity for redreſs: you may find permanent relief from vanity, from ſelf-intereſt, or from avarice; but from compaſſion [146] never. The very eloquence of a poor man is diſ⯑guſting; and that mouth, which is opened even by wiſdom, is ſeldom expected to cloſe without the horrors of a petition.

To ward off the gripe of poverty, you muſt pretend to be a ſtranger to her, and ſhe will at leaſt uſe you with ceremony. If you be caught dining upon a halfpenny porringer of peaſe-ſoup and potatoes, praiſe the wholeſomeneſs of your frugal repaſt: you may obſerve that Dr. Cheyne has preſcribed peaſe-broth for the gravel; hint that you are not one of thoſe who are always making a deity of your belly. If, again, you are obliged to wear flimſy ſtuff in the midſt of winter, be the firſt to remark, that ſtuffs are very much worn at Paris; or, if there be found ſome irrepa⯑rable defects in any part of your equipage, which cannot be concealed by all the arts of ſitting croſs-legged, coaxing, or darning, ſay, that neither you nor Sampſon Gideon were ever very fond of dreſs. If you be a philoſopher, hint that Plato or Seneca are the taylors you chooſe to employ; aſſure the company that man ought to be content with a bare covering; ſince what now is ſo much his pride, was formerly his ſhame. In ſhort, however caught, never give out; but aſcribe to the frugality of your diſpoſition what others might be apt to attribute to the narrowneſs of your circumſtances. To be poor, and to ſeem poor, is a certain method never to riſe: pride in the great is hateful; in the wiſe, [147] it is ridiculous; but beggarly pride is a rational vanity, which I have been taught to applaud and excuſe.

THE DISABLED SOLDIER.

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

There is nothing magnanimous in bearing miſ⯑fortunes with fortitude, when the whole world is looking on: men in ſuch circumſtances will act bravely, even from motives of vanity; but he who, in the vale of obſcurity, can brave adverſity; who, without friends to encourage, acquaintances to pity, or even without hope to alleviate his miſ⯑fortunes, can behave with tranquillity and indif⯑ference, is truly great: whether peaſant or cour⯑tier, he deſerves admiration, and ſhould be held up for our imitation and reſpect.

[148]While the ſlighteſt inconveniences of the great are magnified into calamities, while Tragedy mouths out their ſufferings in all the ſtrains of eloquence, the miſeries of the poor are entirely diſregarded; and yet ſome of the lower ranks of people under⯑go more real hardſhips in one day, than thoſe of a more exalted ſtation ſuffer in their whole lives. It is inconceivable what difficulties the meaneſt of our common ſailors and ſoldiers endure, without mur⯑muring or regret; without paſſionately declaiming againſt providence, or calling their fellows to be gazers on their intrepidity. Every day is to them a day of miſery, and yet they entertain their hard fate without repining.

With what indignation do I hear an Ovid, a Cicero, or a Rabutin, complain of their misfor⯑tunes and hardſhips; whoſe greateſt calamity was that of being unable to viſit a certain ſpot of earth, to which they had fooliſhly attached an idea of happineſs! Their diſtreſſes were pleaſures, com⯑pared to what many of the adventuring poor every day endure without murmuring. They ate, drank, and ſlept; they had ſlaves to attend them, and were ſure of ſubſiſtence for life: while many of their fellow-creatures are obliged to wander with⯑out a friend to comfort or aſſiſt them, and even without ſhelter from the ſeverity of the ſeaſon.

I have been led into theſe reflections, from ac⯑cidentally meeting, ſome days ago, a poor fellow, [149] whom I knew when a boy, dreſſed in a ſailor's jacket, and begging at one of the outlets of the town, with a wooden leg. I knew him to have been honeſt and induſtrious when in the country, and was curious to learn what had reduced him to his preſent ſituation; wherefore, after giving him what I thought proper, I deſired to know the hiſ⯑tory of his life and misfortunes, and the manner in which he was reduced to his preſent diſtreſs. The diſabled ſoldier, for ſuch he was, though dreſſed in a ſailor's habit, ſcratching his head, and leaning on his crutch, put himſelf into an attitude to comply with my requeſt, and gave me his hiſtory, as follows.

"AS for my misfortune, maſter, I can't pre⯑tend to have gone through any more than other folks; for, except the loſs of my limb, and my being obliged to beg, I don't know any reaſon, thank Heaven, that I have to complain; there is Bill Tibbs, of our regiment, he has loſt both his legs, and an eye to boot; but, thank Heaven, it is not ſo bad with me yet.

"I was born in Shropſhire; my father was a la⯑bourer, and died when I was five years old; ſo I was put upon the pariſh. As he had been a wan⯑dering ſort of a man, the pariſhioners were not able to tell to what pariſh I belonged, or where I was born; ſo they ſent me to another pariſh, and that pariſh ſent me to a third. I thought in my [150] heart, they kept ſending me about ſo long, that they would not let me be born in any pariſh at all; but, at laſt, however, they fixed me. I had ſome diſpoſition to be a ſcholar, and was reſolved, at leaſt, to know my letters; but the maſter of the work-houſe put me to buſineſs as ſoon as I was able to handle a mallet; and here I lived an eaſy kind of life for five years. I only wrought ten hours in the day, and had my meat and drink provided for my labour. It is true, I was not ſuffered to ſtir out of the houſe, for fear, as they ſaid, I ſhould run away. But what of that? I had the liberty of the whole houſe, and the yard before the door; and that was enough for me. I was then bound out to a farmer, where I was up both early and late; but I ate and drank well, and liked my bu⯑ſineſs well enough, till he died, when I was obliged to provide for myſelf; ſo I was reſolved to go ſeek my fortune.

"In this manner I went from town to town, worked when I could get employment, and ſtarved when I could get none; when happening one day to go through a field belonging to a juſtice of peace, I ſpied a hare croſſing the path juſt before me; and I believe the devil put it in my head to fling my ſtick at it. Well, what will you have on't? I killed the hare, and was bringing it away, when the juſtice himſelf met me: he called me a poacher and a villain; and, collaring me, deſired I would give an account of myſelf. I fell upon my knees, [151] begged his worſhip's pardon, and began to give a full account of all that I knew of my breed, ſeed, and generation; but, though I gave a very true account, the juſtice ſaid I could give no account; ſo I was indicted at the ſeſſions, found guilty of being poor, and ſent up to London to Newgate, in order to be tranſported as a vagabond.

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

"When my time was expired, I worked my paſſage home; and glad I was to ſee Old England again, becauſe I loved my country. I was afraid, however, that I ſhould be indicted for a vagabond once more, ſo did not much care to go down into [152] the country, but kept about the town, and did little jobs, when I could get them.

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

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

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

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

"Though we had no arms, one Engliſhman is able to beat five French at any time; ſo we went down to the door, where both the centries were [154] poſted, and, ruſhing upon them, ſeized their arms in a moment, and knocked them down. From thence, nine of us ran together to the quay, and ſeizing the firſt boat we met, got out of the har⯑bour, and put to ſea. We had not been here three days before we were taken up by the Dorſet privateer, who were glad of ſo many good hands; and we conſented to run our chance. However, we had not as much luck as we expected. In three days we fell in with the Pompadour privateer, of forty guns, while we had but twenty-three; ſo to it we went, yard-arm and yard-arm. The fight laſted for three hours, and I verily believe we ſhould have taken the Frenchman, had we but had ſome more men left behind; but, unfortunately, we loſt all our men juſt as we were going to get the victory.

"I was once more in the power of the French, and, I believe, it would have gone hard with me had I been brought back to Breſt; but, by good for⯑tune, we were retaken by the Viper. I had almoſt forgot to tell you, that, in that engagement, I was wounded in two places: I loſt four fingers off the left hand, and my leg was ſhot off. If I had had the good fortune to have loſt my leg and uſe of my hand on board a king's ſhip, and not a⯑board a privateer, I ſhould have been intitled to clothing and maintenance during the reſt of my life; but that was not my chance: one man is born with a ſilver ſpoon in his mouth, and ano⯑ther [155] with a wooden ladle. However, bleſſed be God! I enjoy good health, and will, for ever, love liberty and Old England. Liberty, property, and Old England, for ever, huzza!

Thus ſaying, he limped off, leaving me in ad⯑miration at his intrepidity and content; nor could I avoid acknowledging, that an habitual acquaint⯑ance with miſery ſerves better than philoſophy to teach us to deſpiſe it. ESSAY 24.

REPOSE.

MEN complain of not finding a place of re⯑poſe. They are in the wrong; they have it for ſeeking. What they ſhould, indeed, complain of, is, that the heart is an enemy to what they ſeek. To themſelves, alone, ſhould they impute their diſcontent. They ſeek, within the ſhort ſpan of life, to ſatisfy a thouſand deſires; each of which, alone, is unſatiable. One month paſſes, and ano⯑ther comes on; the year ends, and then begins; but man is ſtill unchanging in folly, ſtill blindly continuing in prejudice. To the wiſe man, every climate and every ſoil is pleaſing; to ſuch a man, the melody of birds is more raviſhing than the harmony of a full concert; and the tincture of the cloud, preferable to the touch of the fineſt pencil. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 124.

CONSCIENCE.

THE pain which conſcience gives the man who has already done wrong, is ſoon got over. Conſcience is a coward; and thoſe faults it has not ſtrength enough to prevent, it ſeldom has juſtice enough to accuſe. VIC. OF WAKEFIELD, v. 1. p. 138.

LOVE, AMBITION, AND AVARICE.

DISAPPOINTED love makes the miſery of youth; diſappointed ambition, that of manhood; and ſucceſsful avarice, that of age. Theſe three attack us through life; and it is our duty to ſtand upon our guard. To love, we ought to oppoſe diſſipation, and endeavour to change the object of the affections; to ambition, the happineſs of in⯑dolence and obſcurity; and to avarice, the fear of ſoon dying. Theſe are the ſhields with which we ſhould arm ourſelves; and thus make every ſcene of life, if not pleaſing, at leaſt ſupportable. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 124.

THE PHILOSOPHIC COBLER.

THOUGH not very fond of ſeeing a pageant myſelf, yet I am generally pleaſed with being in the crowd which ſees it; it is amuſing to obſerve [157] the effect which ſuch a ſpectacle has upon the va⯑riety of faces; the pleaſure it excites in ſome, the envy in others, and the wiſhes it raiſes in all. With this deſign I lately went to ſee the entry of a foreign ambaſſador, reſolved to make one in the mob, to ſhout as they ſhouted, to fix with ear⯑neſtneſs upon the ſame frivolous objects, and par⯑ticipate, for a while, the pleaſures and the wiſhes of the vulgar.

Struggling here for ſome time, in order to be firſt to ſee the cavalcade as it paſſed, ſome one of the crowd unluckily happened to tread upon my ſhoe, and tore it in ſuch a manner, that I was ut⯑terly unqualified to march forward with the main body, and obliged to fall back in the rear. Thus rendered incapable of being a ſpectator of the ſhew myſelf, I was at leaſt willing to obſerve the ſpectators, and limped behind like one of the in⯑valids which follow the march of an army.

In this plight, as I was conſidering the eager⯑neſs that appeared on every face, how ſome buſtled to get foremoſt, and others contented themſelves with taking a tranſient peep when they could; how ſome praiſed the four black ſervants that were ſtuck behind one of the equipages, and ſome the ribbons that decorated the horſes' necks in another; my attention was called off to an object more extraordinary than any that I had yet ſeen: A poor Cobler ſat in his ſtall by the way-ſide, and [158] continued to work while the crowd paſſed by, without teſtifying the ſmalleſt ſhare of curioſity. I own his want of attention excited mine; and, as I ſtood in need of his aſſiſtance, I thought it beſt to employ a Philoſophic Cobler on this occa⯑ſion: perceiving my buſineſs, therefore, he de⯑ſired me to enter and ſit down, took my ſhoe in his lap, and began to mend it with his uſual in⯑difference and taciturnity.

‘"How, my friend," ſaid I to him, can you continue to work while all thoſe fine things are paſſing by your door?"’ ‘"Very fine they are, maſter, returned the cobler, for thoſe that like them, to be ſure; but what are all thoſe fine things to me? You don't know what it is to be a cobler, and ſo much the better for your⯑ſelf. Your bread is baked; you may go and ſee ſights the whole day, and eat a warm ſup⯑per when you come home at night; but for me, if I ſhould run hunting after all theſe fine folk, what ſhould I get by my journey but an appe⯑tite? and, God help me, I have too much of that at home already, without ſtirring out for it. Your people who may eat four meals a day, and ſupper at night, are but a bad example to ſuch a one as I. No, maſter, as God has call⯑ed me into this world in order to mend old ſhoes, I have no buſineſs with fine folk, and they no buſineſs with me."’ I here interrupted him with a ſmile. ‘"See this laſt, maſter," con⯑tinues he, and this hammer; this laſt and ham⯑mer [159] are the two beſt friends I have in this world; nobody elſe will be my friend, becauſe I want a friend. The great folks you ſaw paſs by juſt now have five hundred friends, becauſe they have no occaſion for them. Now, while I ſtick to my good friends here, I am very con⯑tented; but, when I ever ſo little run after ſights and fine things, I begin to hate my work, I grow ſad, and have no heart to mend ſhoes any longer."’

This diſcourſe only ſerved to raiſe my curioſity to know more of a man whom Nature had thus formed into a Philoſopher. I therefore inſenſi⯑bly led him into an hiſtory of his adventures:— ‘"I have lived, ſaid he, a wandering life, now five-and-fifty years, here to-day and gone to⯑morrow; for it was my misfortune, when I was young, to be fond of changing."’ ‘"You have been a traveller, then, I preſume?"’ inter⯑rupted I. ‘"I can't boaſt much of travelling," continued he, for I have never left the pariſh in which I was born but three times in my life, that I can remember; but then there is not a ſtreet in the whole neighbourhood that I have not lived in, at ſome time or another. When I began to ſettle, and to take to my buſi⯑neſs in one ſtreet, ſome unforeſeen misfortune, or a deſire of trying my luck elſewhere, has re⯑moved me, perhaps, a whole mile away from my former cuſtomers, while ſome more lucky cob⯑ler would come into my place, and make a [160] handſome fortune among friends of my making: there was one who actually died in a ſtall that I had left, worth ſeven pounds ſeven ſhillings, all in hard gold, which he had quilted into the waiſtband of his breeches."’

I could not but ſmile at theſe migrations of a man by the fire-ſide, and continued to aſk if he had ever been married. ‘"Ay, that I have, maſ⯑ter replied he, for ſixteen long years; and a weary life I had of it, Heaven knows. My wife took it into her head, that the only way to thrive in this world was to ſave money; ſo, though our comings-in was but about three ſhillings a week, all that ever ſhe could lay her hands upon ſhe uſed to hide away from me, though we were obliged to ſtarve the whole week for it."’

‘"The firſt three years we uſed to quarrel about this every day, and I always got the better; but ſhe had a hard ſpirit, and ſtill continued to hide as uſual; ſo that I was at laſt tired of quarrelling, and getting the better; and ſhe ſcraped and ſcraped at pleaſure, 'till I was almoſt ſtarved to death. Her conduct drove me, at laſt, in de⯑ſpair to the alehouſe; here I uſed to ſit with people who hated home like myſelf, drank while I had money left, and run in ſcore while any body would truſt me; 'till at laſt the landlady, coming one day with a long bill when I was from home, and putting it into my wife's hands, [161] the length of it effectually broke her heart. I ſearched the whole ſtall, after ſhe was dead, for money; but ſhe had hidden it ſo effectually, that, with all my pains, I could never find a farthing."’

By this time my ſhoe was mended, and, ſatisfy⯑ing the poor artiſt for his trouble, and rewarding him beſides for his information, I took my leave, and returned home to lengthen out the amuſement his converſation afforded, by communicating it to my friend. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 282.

CHARITY OF THE ENGLISH.

WHILE I ſometimes lament the cauſe of hu⯑manity, and the depravity of human nature, there now and then appear gleams of greatneſs that ſerve to relieve the eye oppreſſed with the hideous proſpect, and reſemble thoſe cultivated ſpots that are ſometimes found in the midſt of an Aſiatic wilderneſs. I ſee many ſuperior excellencies among the Engliſh, which it is not in the power of all their follies to hide: I ſee virtues which, in other countries, are known only to a few, practiſed here by every rank of people.

I know not whether it proceeds from their ſu⯑perior opulence, that the Engliſh are more chari⯑table than the reſt of mankind; whether, by being poſſeſſed of all the conveniencies of life them⯑ſelves, they have more leiſure to perceive the un⯑eaſy [162] ſituation of the diſtreſſed; whatever be the motive, they are not only the moſt charitable of any other nation, but moſt judicious in diſtin⯑guiſhing the propereſt objects of compaſſion.

In other countries, the giver is generally influ⯑enced by the immediate impulſe of pity; his ge⯑neroſity is exerted as much to relieve his own uneaſy ſenſations, as to comfort the object in di⯑ſtreſs: in England, benefactions are of a more ge⯑neral nature; ſome men of fortune and univerſal benevolence propoſe the proper objects; the wants and the merits of the petitioners are canvaſſed by the people; neither paſſion nor pity find a place in the cool diſcuſſion; and charity is then only exerted, when it has received the approbation of reaſon. IBID. p. 86.

THE COMMON ENGLISH STRANGERS TO URBANITY; WITH REMARKS ON THEIR PROWESS IN DIFFI⯑CULTIES.

THE poor of every country are but little prone to treat each other with tenderneſs; their own miſeries are too apt to engroſs all their pity; and, perhaps too, they give but little commiſeration, as they find but little from others. But, in Eng⯑land, the poor treat each other, upon every occa⯑ſion, with more than ſavage animoſity, and as if they were in a ſtate of open war by nature. In China, if two porters ſhould meet in a narrow [163] ſtreet, they would lay down their burthens, make a thouſand excuſes to each other for the accidental interruption, and beg pardon on their knees. If two men of the ſame occupation ſhould meet here, they would firſt begin to ſcold, and, at laſt, to beat each other. One would think they had mi⯑ſeries enough reſulting from penury and labour, not to increaſe them by ill-nature among them⯑ſelves, and ſubjection to new penalties; but ſuch conſiderations never weigh with them.

But to recompenſe this ſtrange abſurdity, they are, in the main, generous, brave, and enterpriſing. They feel the ſlighteſt injuries with a degree of ungoverned impatience, but reſiſt the greateſt ca⯑lamities with ſurpriſing fortitude. Thoſe miſeries under which any other people in the world would ſink, they have often ſhewed they were capable of enduring: if accidently caſt upon ſome deſolate coaſt, their perſeverance is beyond what any other nation is capable of ſuſtaining; if impriſoned for crimes, their efforts to eſcape are greater than among others. The peculiar ſtrength of their priſons, when compared to thoſe elſewhere, argues their hardineſs; even the ſtrongeſt priſons I have ever ſeen in other countries, would be very inſufficient to confine the untameable ſpirit of an Engliſhman. In ſhort, what man dares do in circumſtances of danger, an Engliſhman will. His virtues ſeem to ſleep in the calm, and are called out only to com⯑bat the kindred ſtorm. IBID, v. 2. p. 112.

TENDERNESS AND GENEROSITY OF ENGLISH MISCREANTS.

THE greateſt eulogy of the Engliſh is the gene⯑roſity of their miſcreants; the tenderneſs in gene⯑ral of their robbers and highwaymen. Perhaps no people can produce inſtances of the ſame kind, where the deſperate mix pity with injuſtice; ſtill ſhew that they underſtand a diſtinction in crimes; and even, in acts of violence, have ſtill ſome tinc⯑ture of remaining virtue. In every other country, robbery and murder go almoſt always together; here it ſeldom happens, except upon ill-judged reſiſtance or purſuit. The banditti of other coun⯑tries are unmerciful to a ſupreme degree; the highwayman and robber here are generous at leaſt to the public, and pretend even to virtues in their intercourſe among each other. Taking, therefore, my opinion of the Engliſh from the virtues and vices practiſed among the vulgar, they at once preſent to a ſtranger all their faults, and keep their virtues up only for the enquiring eye of a philo⯑ſopher. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 113.

INSOLENCE OF THE COMMON ENGLISH TO FOREIGNERS.

FOREIGNERS are generally ſhocked at the inſolence of the common Engliſh, upon firſt coming among them: they find themſelves ridiculed and [165] inſulted in every ſtreet; they meet with none of thoſe trifling civilities, ſo frequent elſewhere, which are inſtances of mutual good-will without previous acquaintance; they travel through the country, either too ignorant or too obſtinate to cultivate a cloſer acquaintance, meet every moment ſomething to excite their diſguſt, and return home to charac⯑teriſe this as the region of ſpleen, inſolence, and ill-nature. In ſhort, England would be the laſt place in the world I would travel to by way of amuſement, but the firſt for inſtruction; I would chuſe to have others for my acquaintance, but Engliſhmen for my friends. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 114.

HAPPINESS EVER REPUGNANT TO OUR WISHES.

THE mind is ever ingenious in making its own diſtreſs. The wandering beggar, who has none to protect, to feed, or to ſhelter him, fancies com⯑plete happineſs in labour and a full meal. Take him from rags and want, feed, clothe, and employ him, his wiſhes now riſe one ſtep above his ſtation; he could be happy were he poſſeſſed of raiment, food, and eaſe. Suppoſe his wiſhes gratified even in theſe, his proſpects widen as he aſcends: he finds himſelf in affluence and tranquillity indeed; but indolence ſoon breeds anxiety, and he deſires not only to be freed from pain, but to be poſſeſſed of pleaſure: pleaſure is granted him; and this but opens his ſoul to ambition; and ambition will [166] be ſure to taint his future happineſs, either with jealouſy, diſappointment, or fatigue.

But of all the arts of diſtreſs found out by man, for his own torment, perhaps that of philoſophic miſery is moſt truly ridiculous; a paſſion no where carried to ſo extravagant an exceſs as in the ^* coun⯑try where I now reſide. It is not enough to en⯑gage all the compaſſion of a philoſopher here, that his own globe is harraſſed with wars, peſtilence, or barbarity; he ſhall grieve for the inhabitants of the moon, if the ſituation of her imaginary moun⯑tains happens to alter; and dread the extinction of the ſun, if the ſpots on his ſurface happen to increaſe. One ſhould imagine, that philoſophy was introduced to make men happy; but here it ſerves to make hundreds miſerable. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 2. p. 114.

LEGISLATIVE POWER.

IT were highly to be wiſhed, that legiſlative power would direct the law rather to reforma⯑tion than ſeverity; that it would appear con⯑vinced, that the work of eradicating crimes, is not by making puniſhments familiar, but formidable. Inſtead of our preſent priſons, which find or make men guilty, which incloſe wretches for the com⯑miſſion of one crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted for the perpetration of thouſands, it were to be wiſhed we had, as in other parts of [167] Europe, places of penitence and ſolitude, where the accuſed might be attended by ſuch as could give them repentance if guilty, or new motives of virtue if innocent. And this, but not the increaſ⯑ing puniſhments, is the way to mend a ſtate: nor can I avoid even queſtioning the validity of that right, which ſocial combinations have aſſumed, of capitally puniſhing offences of a ſlight nature. In caſes of murder, their right is obvious; as it is the duty of us all, from the law of ſelf-defence, to cut off that man who has ſhewn a diſregard for the life of another. Againſt ſuch, all nature riſes in arms; but it is not ſo againſt him who ſteals my property. Natural law gives me no right to take away his life, as by that the horſe he ſteals is as much his property as mine. If, then, I have any right, it muſt be from a compact made between us, that he who deprives the other of his horſe ſhall die. But this is a falſe compact; becauſe no man has a right to barter his life, no more than to take it away; as it is not his own. And, next, the compact is inadequate, and would be ſet aſide, even in a court of modern equity, as there is a great penalty for a very trifling convenience; ſince it is far better that two men ſhould live, than that one man ſhould ride. But a compact that is falſe between two men, is equally ſo be⯑tween an hundred, or an hundred thouſand; for as ten millions of circles can never make a ſquare, ſo the united voice of myriads cannot lend the ſmalleſt foundation to falſehood. It is thus that [168] Reaſon ſpeaks; and untutored Nature ſays the ſame thing. Savages, that are directed nearly by natural law alone, are very tender of the lives of each other; they ſeldom ſhed blood but to retaliate former cruelty.

Our Saxon anceſtors, fierce as they were in war, had but few executions in times of peace; and in all commencing governments that have the print of nature ſtill ſtrong upon them, ſcarce any crime is held capital.

It is among the citizens of a refined community that penal laws, which are in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the poor. Government, while it grows older, ſeems to acquire the moroſeneſs of age; and, as if our poſſeſſions were become dearer in proportion as they increaſed, as if the more enormous our wealth the more extenſive our fears, our poſſeſſions are paled with new edicts every day, and hung round with gibbets to ſcare every in⯑vader.

Whether is it from the number of our penal laws, or the licentiouſneſs of our people, that this country ſhould ſhew more convicts in a year, than half the dominions of Europe united? Perhaps it is owing to both; for they mutually produce each other. When by indiſcriminate penal laws a na⯑tion beholds the ſame puniſhment affixed to diſſi⯑milar degrees of guilt, from perceiving no diſtinc⯑tion [169] in the penalty, the people are led to loſe all ſenſe of diſtinction in the crime, and this diſtinc⯑tion is the bulwark of all morality: thus the mul⯑titude of laws produce new vices, and new vices call for freſh reſtraints.

It were to be wiſhed, then, that power, inſtead of contriving new laws to puniſh vice, inſtead of drawing hard the cords of ſociety till a convul⯑ſion come to burſt them, inſtead of cutting away wretches as uſeleſs, before we have tried their uti⯑lity, inſtead of converting correction into ven⯑geance, it were to be wiſhed, that we tried the reſtrictive arts of government, and made law the protector, but not the tyrant of the people. We ſhould then find that creatures, whoſe ſouls are held as droſs, only wanted the hand of a refiner; we ſhould then find that wretches, now ſtuck up for long tortures, leſt luxury ſhould feel a mo⯑mentary pang, might, if properly treated, ſerve to ſinew the ſtate in times of danger; that, as their faces are like ours, their hearts are ſo too; that few minds are ſo baſe as that perſeverance cannot amend; that a man may ſee his laſt crime without dying for it; and that very little blood will ſerve to cement our ſecurity. VIC. OF WAKEFIELD, v. 2. p. 77.

OBSERVATIONS ON DEATH.

DEATH is not that terrible thing which we ſuppoſe it to be; it is a ſpectre which frights us at a diſtance, but which diſappears when we come to approach it more cloſely. Our ideas of its terrors are conceived in prejudice, and dreſſed up by fancy; we regard it not only as the greateſt misfortune, but alſo as an evil accompanied with the moſt ex⯑cruciating tortures: we have even increaſed our apprehenſions, by reaſoning on the extent of our ſufferings. It muſt be dreadful, ſay ſome, ſince it is ſufficient to ſeparate the ſoul from the body; it muſt be long, ſince our ſufferings are proportioned to the ſucceſſion of our ideas; and theſe being painful, muſt ſucceed each other with extreme ra⯑pidity. In this manner has falſe philoſophy la⯑boured to augment the miſeries of our nature, and to aggravate that period which nature has kindly covered with inſenſibility. Neither the mind, nor the body, can ſuffer theſe calamities; the mind is, at that time, moſtly without ideas; and the body too much enfeebled to be capable of perceiving its pain. A very acute pain produces either death, or fainting, which is a ſtate ſimilar to death: the body can ſuffer but to a certain de⯑gree; if the torture becomes exceſſive, it deſtroys itſelf; and the mind ceaſes to perceive, when the body can no longer endure.

[171]In this manner, exceſſive pain admits of no re⯑flection; and, wherever there are any ſigns of it, we may be ſure that the ſufferings of the patient are no greater than what we ourſelves may have re⯑membered to endure.

But, in the article of death, we have many in⯑ſtances in which the dying perſon has ſhewn that very reflection which pre-ſuppoſes an abſence of the greateſt pain; and, conſequently, that pang which ends life cannot even be ſo great as thoſe which have preceded. Thus, when Charles XII. was ſhot at the ſiege of Frederickſhall, he was ſeen to clap his hand on the hilt of his ſword; and, although the blow was great enough to ter⯑minate one of the boldeſt and braveſt lives in the world, yet it was not painful enough to deſtroy reflection. He perceived himſelf attacked; he reflected that he ought to defend himſelf, and his body obeyed the impulſe of his mind, even in the laſt extremity. Thus it is the prejudice of per⯑ſons in health, and not the body in pain, that makes us ſuffer from the approach of death: we have, all our lives, contracted an habit of making out exceſſive pleaſures and pains; and nothing but repeated experience ſhews us how ſeldom the one can be ſuffered, or the other enjoyed, to the utmoſt. If there be any thing neceſſary to con⯑firm what we have ſaid concerning the gradual ceſſation of life, or the inſenſible approaches of our end, nothing can more effectually prove it [172] than the uncertainty of the ſigns of death. If we conſult what Winſlow or Bruhier have ſaid upon this ſubject, we ſhall be convinced, that between life and death, the ſhade is ſo very undiſtinguiſh⯑able, that even all the powers of art can ſcarcely determine where the one ends, and the other be⯑gins. The colour of the viſage, the warmth of the body, the ſuppleneſs of the joints, are but un⯑certain ſigns of life ſtill ſubſiſting; while, on the contrary, the paleneſs of the complexion, the coldneſs of the body, the ſtiffneſs of the extremi⯑ties, the ceſſation of all motion, and the total in⯑ſenſibility of the parts, are but uncertain marks of death begun. In the ſame manner, alſo, with regard to the pulſe, and the breathing, theſe mo⯑tions are often ſo kept under, that it is impoſſible to perceive them. By approaching a looking-glaſs to the mouth of the perſon ſuppoſed to be dead, people often expect to find whether he breathes or not; but this is a very uncertain ex⯑periment: the glaſs is frequently ſullied by the vapour of the dead man's body; and often the perſon is ſtill alive, although the glaſs is no way tarniſhed. In the ſame manner, neither burning, nor ſcarifying; neither noiſes in the ears, nor pungent ſpirits applied to the noſtrils, give certain ſigns of the diſcontinuance of life; and there are many in⯑ſtances of perſons who have endured them all, and afterwards recovered, without any external aſſiſt⯑ance, to the aſtoniſhment of the ſpectators. How careful, therefore, ſhould we be, before we commit [173] thoſe who are deareſt to us to the grave, to be well aſſured of their departure!—Experience, juſtice, humanity, all perſuade us not to haſten the fune⯑rals of our friends, but to keep their bodies un⯑buried, until we have certain ſigns of their real deceaſe. HIST. OF ANIMALS, p. 206.

GRATIFIED AMBITION.

GRATIFIED ambition, or irreparable cala⯑mity, may produce tranſient ſenſations of pleaſure or diſtreſs. Thoſe ſtorms may diſcompoſe in pro⯑portion as they are ſtrong, or the mind is pliant to their impreſſion. But the ſoul, though at firſt liſted up by the event, is every day operated upon with diminiſhed influence; and at length ſubſides into the level of its uſual tranquillity. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 185.

SCIENTIFIC REFINEMENT.

PHILOSOPHERS who have teſtified ſuch ſur⯑priſe at the want of curioſity in the ignorant, ſeem not to conſider that they are uſually employed in making proviſions of a more important nature; in providing rather for the neceſſities than the amuſements of life. It is not 'till our more preſ⯑ſing wants are ſufficiently ſupplied, that we can attend to the calls of curioſity; ſo that, in every age, ſcientific refinement has been the lateſt ef⯑fort of human induſtry. HIST. OF THE EARTH, p. 2.

FOLLIES OF THE WISE.

THERE is ſomething ſatisfactory in accounts of the follies of the wiſe; they give a natural air to the picture, and reconcile us to our own. LIFE OF PARNELL, p. 20.

THE STROLLING PLAYER.

I AM fond of amuſement, in whatever company it is to be found; and wit, though dreſſed in rags, is ever pleaſing to me. I went ſome days ago to take a walk in St. James's Park, about the hour in which company leave it to go to dinner. There were but few in the walks, and thoſe who ſtaid, ſeemed, by their locks, rather more willing to for⯑get that they had an appetite than gain one. I ſat down on one of the benches, at the other end of which was ſeated a man in very ſhabby clothes.

We continued to groan, to hem, and to cough, as uſual upon ſuch occaſions; and, at laſt, ven⯑tured upon converſation. ‘"I beg pardon, Sir," cried I, "but I think I have ſeen you before; your face is familiar to me."’ ‘"Yes, Sir," re⯑plied he, "I have a good familiar face, as my friends tell me. I am as well known in every town in England as the dromedary, or live croco⯑dile. [175] You muſt underſtand, Sir, that I have been theſe ſixteen years Merry Andrew to a puppet-ſhow; laſt Bartholomew fair my maſter and I quar⯑relled, beat each other, and parted; he to ſell his puppets to the pincuſhion-makers in Roſemary⯑lane, and I to ſtarve in St. James's Park."’

‘"I am ſorry, Sir, that a perſon of your ap⯑pearance ſhould labour under any difficulties."’ ‘"O, Sir," returned he, "my appearance is very much at your ſervice; but, though I cannot boaſt of eating much, yet there are few that are merrier: if I had twenty thouſand a year, I ſhould be very merry; and, thank the Fates, though not worth a groat, I am very merry ſtill. If I have three-pence in my pocket, I never refuſe to be my three-halfpence; and, if I have no money, I never ſcorn to be treated by any that are kind enough to pay my reckoning. What think you, Sir, of a ſteak and a tankard? You ſhall treat me now, and I will treat you again when I find you in the Park in love with eating, and without money to pay for a dinner."’

As I never refuſe a ſmall expence for the ſake of a merry companion, we inſtantly adjourned to a neighbouring alehouſe; and, in a few moments, had a frothing tankard, and a ſmoaking ſteak, ſpread on the table before us. It is impoſſible to expreſs how much the ſight of ſuch good cheer improved my companion's vivacity. ‘"I like this [176] dinner, Sir," ſays he, for three reaſons: firſt, becauſe I am naturally fond of beef; ſecondly, becauſe I am hungry; and, thirdly and laſtly, becauſe I get it for nothing: no meat eats ſo ſweet as that for which we do not pay."’

He therefore now fell to, and his appetite ſeemed to correſpond with his inclination. After dinner was over, he obſerved that the ſteak was tough; ‘"and yet, Sir," returns he, "bad as it was, it ſeemed a rump-ſteak to me. O the de⯑lights of poverty and a good appetite! We beg⯑gars are the very foundlings of Nature: the rich ſhe treats like an errant ſtep-mother; they are pleaſed with nothing: cut a ſteak from what part you will, and it is inſupportably tough; dreſs it up with pickles,—even pickles cannot procure them an appetite. But the whole creation is filled with good things for the beggar; Calvert's butt out-taſtes champaigne, and Sedgeley's home-brewed excels tokay. Joy, joy, my blood! though our eſtates lie no where, we have fortunes wherever we go. If an inundation ſweeps away half the grounds of Cornwall, I am content; I have no lands there: if the ſtocks ſink, that gives me no uneaſineſs; I am no Jew."’

The fellow's vivacity, joined to his poverty, I own, raiſed my curioſity to know ſomething of his life and circumſtances; and I intreated, that he would indulge my deſire.—‘"That I will, Sir," [177] ſaid he, "and welcome; only let us drink to pre⯑vent our ſleeping; let us have another tankard while we are awake; let us have another tankard; for, ah! how charming a tankard looks when full!"’

"You muſt know, then, that I am very well deſcended: my anceſtors have made ſome noiſe in the world; for my mother cried oyſters, and my father beat a drum: I am told we have even had ſome trumpeters in our family. Many a noble⯑man cannot ſhew ſo reſpectful a genealogy: but that is neither here nor there. As I was their only child, my father deſigned to breed me up to his own employment, which was that of drummer to a puppet-ſhew. Thus the whole employment of my younger years was that of interpreter to Punch and King Solomon in all his glory. But, though my father was very fond of inſtructing me in beating all the marches and points of war, I made no very great progreſs, becauſe I naturally had no ear for muſic; ſo, at the age of fifteen, I went and liſted for a ſoldier. As I had ever hated beating a drum, ſo I ſoon found that I diſliked carrying a muſket alſo; neither the one trade nor the other were to my taſte, for I was by nature fond of being a gentleman: beſides, I was obliged to obey my captain; he has his will, I have mine, and you have yours: now I very reaſonably con⯑cluded, that it was much more comfortable for a man to obey his own will than another's.

[178]"The life of a ſoldier ſoon therefore gave me the ſpleen: I aſked leave to quit the ſervice; but, as I was tall and ſtrong, my captain thanked me for my kind intention, and ſaid, becauſe he had a regard for me, we ſhould not part. I wrote to my father a very diſmal penitent letter, and deſired that he would raiſe money to pay for my diſcharge; but the good man was as fond of drinking as I was (Sir, my ſervice to you), and thoſe who are fond of drinking never pay for other people's diſcharges: in ſhort, he never anſwered my letter. What could be done? If I have not moneys, ſaid I to myſelf, to pay for my diſcharge, I muſt find an equivalent ſome other way; and that muſt be by running away. I deſerted, and that anſwered my purpoſe every bit as well as if I had bought my diſcharge.

"Well, I was now fairly rid of my military employment: I ſold my ſoldier's clothes, bought worſe, and, in order not to be overtaken, took the moſt unfrequented roads poſſible. One evening, as I was entering a village, I perceived a man, whom I afterwards found to be the curate of the pariſh, thrown from his horſe in a miry road, and almoſt ſmothered in the mud. He deſired my aſ⯑ſiſtance; I gave it, and drew him out with ſome difficulty. He thanked me for my trouble, and was going off; but I followed him home, for I loved always to have a man thank me at his own door. The curate aſked an hundred queſtions; as, whoſe ſon I was; from whence I came; and whe⯑ther [179] I would be faithful? I anſwered him greatly to his ſatisfaction; and gave myſelf one of the beſt characters in the world for ſobriety (Sir, I have the honour of drinking your health), diſcretion, and fidelity. To make a long ſtory ſhort, he wanted a ſervant, and hired me. With him I lived but two months; we did not much like each other: I was fond of eating, and he gave me but little to eat; I loved a pretty girl, and the old woman, my fellow-ſervant, was ill-natured and ugly. As they endeavoured to ſtarve me between them, I made a pious reſolution to prevent their committing murder: I ſtole the eggs as ſoon as they were laid; I emptied every unfiniſhed bottle that I could lay my hands on; whatever eatable came in my way was ſure to diſappear: in ſhort, they found I would not do; ſo I was diſcharged one morning, and paid three ſhillings and ſix⯑pence for two months wages.

"While my money was getting ready, I em⯑ployed myſelf in making preparations for my de⯑parture: two hens were hatching in an outhouſe; I went and habitually took the eggs, and, not to ſeparate the parents from the children, I lodged hens and all in my knapſack. After this piece of frugality, I returned to receive my money; and, with my knapſack on my back, and a ſtaff in my hand, I bid adieu, with tears in my eyes, to my old benefactor. I had not gone far from the houſe, when I heard behind me the cry of Stop [180] thief! but this only increaſed my diſpatch; it would have been fooliſh to ſtop, as I knew the voice could not be levelled at me. But hold—I think I paſſed thoſe two months at the curate's without drinking. Come, the times are dry; and may this be my poiſon, if ever I ſpent two more pious, ſtupid months in all my life!

"Well, after travelling ſome days, whom ſhould I light upon but a company of ſtrolling players? The moment I ſaw them at a diſtance, my heart warmed to them; I had a ſort of natural love for every thing of the vagabond order: they were employed in ſettling their baggage, which had been overturned in a narrow way. I offered my aſſiſtance, which they accepted; and we ſoon became ſo well acquainted, that they took me as a ſervant. This was a paradiſe to me; they ſung, danced, drank, eat, and travelled, all at the ſame time. By the blood of the Mirabels, I thought I had never lived till then; I grew as merry as a grig, and laughed at every word that was ſpoken. They liked me as much as I liked them; I was a very good figure, as you ſee; and, though I was poor, I was not modeſt.

"I love a ſtraggling life above all things in the world; ſometimes good, ſometimes bad; to be warm to-day, and cold to-morrow; to eat when one can get it, and drink when (the tankard is out) it ſtands before me. We arrived that evening at [181] Tenterden, and took a large room at the Greyhound; where we reſolved to exhibit Romeo and Juliet, with the funeral proceſſion, the grave and the garden ſcene. Romeo was to be performed by a gentleman from the Theatre-Royal in Drury-lane; Juliet by a lady who never appeared on any ſtage before; and I was to ſnuff the candles: all excel⯑lent in our way. We had figures enough, but the difficulty was to dreſs them. The ſame coat that ſerved Romeo, turned with the blue lining outwards, ſerved for his friend Mercutio: a large piece of crape ſufficed at once for Juliet's petticoat and pall: a peſtle and mortar, from a neighbouring apothecary's, anſwered all the purpoſes of a bell; and our landlord's own family, wrapped in white ſheets, ſerved to fill up the proceſſion. In ſhort, there were but three figures among us that might be ſaid to be dreſſed with any propriety: I mean the nurſe, the ſtarved apothecary, and myſelf. Our performance gave univerſal ſatisfaction: the whole audience were enchanted with our powers; and Tenterden is a town of taſte.

"There is one rule by which a ſtrolling-player may be ever ſecure of ſucceſs; that is, in our the⯑atrical way of expreſſing it, to make a great deal of the character. To ſpeak and act as in common life, is not playing; nor is it what people come to ſee: natural ſpeaking, like ſweet wine, runs glibly over the palate, and ſcarce leaves any taſte behind it; but being high in a part reſembles vinegar, [182] which grates upon the taſte, and one feels it while he is drinking. To pleaſe the town or country, the way is, to cry, wring, cringe into attitudes, mark the emphaſis, ſlap the pockets, and labour like one in the falling ſickneſs: that is the way to work for applauſe, that is the way to gain it.

"As we received much reputation for our ſkill on this firſt exhibition, it was but natural for me to aſcribe part of the ſucceſs to myſelf: I ſnuffed the candles, and, let me tell you, that, without a candle-ſnuffer, the piece would loſe half its em⯑belliſhments. In this manner we continued a fort⯑night, and drew tolerable houſes; but the evening before our intended departure, we gave out our very beſt piece, in which all our ſtrength was to be exerted. We had great expectations from this, and even doubled our prices; when, behold, one of the principal actors fell ill of a violent fever. This was a ſtroke like thunder to our little com⯑pany: they were reſolved to go, in a body, to ſcold the man for falling ſick at ſo inconvenient a time, and that, too, of a diſorder that threatened to be expenſive: I ſeized the moment, and offered to act the part myſelf in his ſtead. The caſe was deſpe⯑rate; they accepted my offer; and I accordingly ſat down, with the part in my hand and a tankard before me (Sir, your health), and ſtudied the cha⯑racter, which was to be rehearſed the next day, and played ſoon after.

[183]"I found my memory exceſſively helped by drinking: I learned my part with aſtoniſhing ra⯑pidity, and bid adieu to ſnuffing candles ever after. I found that Nature had deſigned me for more noble employments, and I was reſolved to take her when in the humour. We got together in order to rehearſe, and I informed, my compa⯑nions, maſters now no longer, of the ſurpriſing change I felt within me. Let the ſick man, ſaid I, be under no uneaſineſs to get well again; I'll fill his place to univerſal ſatisfaction; he may even die if he thinks proper; I'll engage that he ſhall never be miſſed. I rehearſed before them, ſtrutted, ranted, and received applauſe. They ſoon gave out that a new actor of eminence was to appear, and immediately all the genteel places were beſpoke. Before I aſcended the ſtage, how⯑ever, I concluded within myſelf, that, as I brought money to the houſe, I ought to have my ſhare in the profits. Gentlemen, ſaid I, addreſſing our company, I don't pretend to direct you; far be it from me to treat you with ſo much, ingratitude: you have publiſhed my name in the bills, with the utmoſt good-nature; and, as affairs ſtand, cannot act without me: ſo, gentlemen, to ſhew you my gratitude, I expect to be paid for my acting as much as any of you, otherwiſe I declare off; I'll brandiſh my ſnuffers, and clip candles as uſual. This was a very diſagreeable propoſal; but they found that it was impoſſible to refuſe it; it was ir⯑reſiſtible, it was adamant: they conſented, and I [184] went on in king Bajazet. My frowning brows, bound with a ſtocking ſtuffed into a turban, while on my captiv'd arms I brandiſhed a jack-chain. Nature ſeemed to have fitted me for the part; I was tall, and had a loud voice; my very entrance excited univerſal applauſe; I looked round on the audience with a ſmile, and made a moſt low and graceful bow, for that is the rule among us. As it was a very paſſionate part, I invigorated my ſpirits with three full glaſſes (the tankard is al⯑moſt out) of brandy. By Alla! it is almoſt in⯑conceivable how I went through it; Tamerlane was but a fool to me; though he was ſometimes loud enough too, yet I was ſtill louder than he: but then, beſides, I had attitudes in abundance: in general I kept my arms folded up thus, upon the pit of my ſtomach; it is the way at Drury-Lane, and has always a fine effect. The tankard would ſink to the bottom before I could get through the whole of my merits: in ſhort, I came off like a prodigy; and ſuch was my ſucceſs, that I could raviſh the laurels even from a ſirloin of beef. The principal gentlemen and ladies of the town came to me after the play was over, to compli⯑ment me upon my ſucceſs; one praiſed my voice, another my perſon: Upon my word, ſays the 'ſquire's lady, he will make one of the fineſt ac⯑tors in Europe; I ſay it, and I think I am ſome⯑thing of a judge.—Praiſe in the beginning is agreeable enough, and we receive it as a favour; but, when it comes in great quantities, we regard [185] it only as a debt, which nothing but our merit could extort: inſtead of thanking them, I inter⯑nally applauded myſelf. We were deſired to give our piece a ſecond time; we obeyed, and I was applauded even more than before.

"At laſt we left the town, in order to be at a horſe-race at ſome diſtance from thence. I ſhall never think of Tenterden without tears of grati⯑tude and reſpect. The ladies and gentlemen there, take my word for it, are very good judges of plays and actors. Come, let us drink their healths, if you pleaſe, Sir. We quitted the town, I ſay; and there was a wide difference between my coming in and going out: I entered the town a candle-ſnuffer, and I quitted it an hero!—Such is the world! little to-day, and great to-morrow. I could ſay a great deal more upon that ſubject; ſomething truly ſublime upon the ups and downs of fortune; but it would give us both the ſpleen, and ſo I ſhall paſs it over.

"The races were ended before we arrived at the next town, which was no ſmall diſappointment to our company; however, we were reſolved to take all we could get. I played capital charac⯑ters there too, and came off with my uſual bril⯑liancy. I ſincerely believe I ſhould have been the firſt actor of Europe, had my growing merit been properly cultivated; but there came an unkindly froſt which nipped me in the bud, and levelled me [186] once more down to the common ſtandard of hu⯑manity. I played Sir Harry Wildair; all the country ladies were charmed: if I but drew out my ſnuff-box, the whole houſe was in a roar of rapture; when I exerciſed my cudgel, I thought they would have fallen into convulſions.

There was here a lady who had received an edu⯑cation of nine months in London; and this gave her pretenſions to taſte, which rendered her the indiſputable miſtreſs of the ceremonies wherever ſhe came. She was informed of my merits; every body praiſed me; yet ſhe refuſed at firſt going to ſee me perform: ſhe could not conceive, ſhe ſaid, any thing but ſtuff from a ſtroller; talked ſomething in praiſe of Garrick, and amazed the ladies with her ſkill in enunciations, tones, and ca⯑dences. She was at laſt, however, prevailed upon to go; and it was privately intimated to me what a judge was to be preſent at my next exhibition: however, no way intimidated, I came on in Sir Harry, one hand ſtuck in my breeches, and the other in my boſom, as uſual at Drury-Lane; but, inſtead of looking at me, I perceived the whole audience had their eyes turned upon the lady who had been nine months in London; from her they expected the deciſion which was to ſecure the ge⯑neral's truncheon in my hand, or ſink me down into a theatrical letter-carrier. I opened my ſnuff-box, took ſnuff—the lady was ſolemn, and ſo were the reſt. I broke the cudgel on alderman Smug⯑gler's [187] back—ſtill gloomy, melancholy all; the lady groaned and ſhrugged her ſhoulders. I at⯑tempted, by laughing myſelf, to excite at leaſt a ſmile;—but the devil a cheek could I perceive wrinkled into ſympathy: I found it would not do; all my good-humour now became forced; my laughter was converted into hyſteric grinning; and, while I pretended ſpirits, my eye ſhewed the agony of my heart. In ſhort, the lady came with an intention to be diſpleaſed, and diſpleaſed ſhe was; my fame expired; I am here, and—(the tan⯑kard is no more!".) ESSAY 21.

BEAUTY.

A DESIRE of becoming more beautiful than Nature made us, is ſo harmleſs a vanity, that I not only pardon, but approve it. A deſire to be more excellent than others is what actually makes us ſo; and, as thouſands find a livelihood in ſo⯑ciety by ſuch appetites, none but the ignorant in⯑veigh againſt them. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 7.

HUMAN CURIOSITY.

HUMAN curioſity, though at firſt ſlowly ex⯑cited, being at laſt poſſeſſed of leiſure for indul⯑ging its propenſity, becomes one of the greateſt amuſements of life, and gives higher ſatisfactions [188] than what even the ſenſes can afford. A man of this diſpoſition turns all nature into a magnificent theatre, replete with objects of wonder and ſurpriſe, and fitted up chiefly for his happineſs and entertain⯑ment: he induſtriouſly examines all things, from the minuteſt inſect to the moſt finiſhed animal; and, when his limited organs can no longer make the diſquiſition, he ſends out his imagination upon new enquiries. HIST. OF THE EARTH, p. 2.

CONNEXION OF WITS.

IN the connexion of wits, intereſt has very lit⯑tle ſhare; they have only pleaſure in view, and can ſeldom find it but among each other. LIFE OF PARNELL, p. 19.

CONTEMPLATION OF CELESTIAL MAGNIFICENCE.

AN uſe, hitherto not much inſiſted upon, that may reſult from the contemplation of celeſtial magnificence, is, that it will teach us to make an allowance for the apparent irregularities we find below. Whenever we can examine the works of the Deity at a proper point of diſtance, ſo as to take in the whole of his deſign, we ſee nothing but uniformity, beauty, and preciſion. The hea⯑vens preſent us with a plan, which, though in⯑expreſſibly magnificent, is yet regular beyond the power of invention. Whenever, therefore, we [189] find any apparent defects in the earth, which we are about to conſider, inſtead of attempting to reaſon ourſelves into an opinion that they are beautiful, it will be wiſe to ſay, that we do not behold them at the proper point of diſtance, and that our eye is laid too cloſe to the objects to take in the regularity of their connexion. In ſhort, we may conclude, that God, who is regular in his great productions, acts with equal uniformity in the little.

SECRECY.

A POET has a right to expect the ſame ſecrecy in his friend as in his confeſſor; the ſins he diſco⯑vers are not divulged for puniſhment, but pardon. LIFE OF PARNNEL, p. 19.

ASEM, THE MAN-HATER.

WHERE Tauris lifts its head above the ſtorm, and preſents nothing to the ſight of the diſtant traveller, but a proſpect of nodding rocks, falling torrents, and all the variety of tremendous nature; on the bleak boſom of this frightful mountain, ſecluded from ſociety, and deteſting the ways of men, lived Aſem the Man-hater.

[190] Aſem had ſpent his youth with men, had ſhared in their amuſements, and had been taught to love his fellow-creatures with the moſt ardent affection: but, from the tenderneſs of his diſpoſition, he ex⯑hauſted all his fortune in relieving the wants of the diſtreſſed. The petitioner never ſued in vain; the weary traveller never paſſed his door: he only de⯑ſiſted from doing good when he had no longer the power of relieving.

From a fortune thus ſpent in benevolence, he expected a grateful return from thoſe he had for⯑merly relieved; and made his application with confidence of redreſs. The ungrateful world ſoon grew weary of his importunity; for pity is but a ſhort-lived paſſion. He ſoon, therefore, began to view mankind in a very different light from that in which he had before beheld them: he perceived a thouſand vices he had never before ſuſpected to exiſt: wherever he turned, ingratitude, diſſimula⯑tion, and treachery, contributed to increaſe his de⯑teſtation of them. Reſolved therefore to continue no longer in a world which he hated, and which repaid his deteſtation with contempt, he retired to this region of ſterility, in order to brood over his reſentment in ſolitude, and converſe with the only honeſt heart he knew; namely, with his own.

A cave was his only ſhelter from the inclemency of the weather; fruits gathered with difficulty from the mountain's ſide, his only food; and his drink [191] was fetched with danger and toil from the head⯑long torrent. In this manner he lived, ſequeſtered from ſociety, paſſing the hours in meditation, and ſometimes exulting that he was able to live inde⯑pendently of his fellow-creatures.

At the foot of the mountain, an extenſive lake diſplayed its glaſſy boſom; reflecting, on its broad ſurface, the impending horrors of the mountain. To this capacious mirror he would ſometimes de⯑ſcend, and, reclining on its ſleep bank, caſt an eager look on the ſmooth expanſe that lay before him. ‘"How beautiful," he often cried, "is na⯑ture! how lovely, even in her wildeſt ſcenes! How finely contraſted is the level plain that lies beneath me, with yon awfull pile that hides its tremendous head in clouds! But the beauty of theſe ſcenes is no way comparable with their utility; from hence an hundred rivers are ſupplied, which diſtribute health and verdure to the various countries through which they flow. Every part of the univerſe is beautiful, juſt, and wiſe, but man: vile man is a ſoleciſm in nature; the only monſter in the crea⯑tion. Tempeſts and whirlwinds have their uſe; but vicious, ungrateful man is a blot in the fair page of univerſal beauty. Why was I born of that deteſted ſpecies, whoſe vices are almoſt a reproach to the wiſdom of the divine Creator! Were men intirely free from vice, all would be uniformity, harmony, and order. A world of moral rectitude ſhould be the reſult of a perfectly moral agent. [192] Why, why then, O Alla! muſt I be thus confined in darkneſs, doubt, and deſpair?"’

Juſt as he uttered the word Deſpair, he was go⯑ing to plunge into a lake beneath him, at once to ſatisfy his doubts, and put a period to his anxiety; when he perceived a moſt majeſtic being walking on the ſurface of the water, and approaching the bank on which he ſtood. So unexpected an ob⯑ject at once checked his purpoſe; he ſtopped, con⯑templated, and fancied he ſaw ſomething awful and divine in his aſpect.

‘"Son of Adam," cried the Genius, "ſtop thy raſh purpoſe; the Father of the Faithful has ſeen thy juſtice, thy integrity, thy miſeries, and hath ſent me to afford and adminiſter relief. Give me thine hand, and follow, without trembling, where⯑ever I ſhall lead; in me behold the Genius of Con⯑viction, kept by the great prophet, to turn from their errors thoſe who go aſtray, not from curioſity, but a rectitude of intention. Follow me, and be wiſe."’

Aſem immediately deſcended upon the lake, and his guide conducted him along the ſurface of the water; 'till, coming near the centre of the lake, they both began to ſink; the waters cloſed over their heads; they deſcended ſeveral hundred fa⯑thoms, 'till Aſem, juſt ready to give up his life as inevitably loſt, found himſelf with his celeſtial [193] guide in another world, at the bottom of the waters, where human foot had never trod before. His aſtoniſhment was beyond deſcription, when he ſaw a ſun like that he had left, a ſerene ſky over his head, and blooming verdure under his feet.

‘"I plainly perceive your amazement," ſaid the Genius; "but ſuſpend it for a while. This world was formed by Alla, at the requeſt, and under the inſpection, of our great prophet, who once entertained the ſame doubts which filled your mind when I found you, and from the conſequence of which you were ſo lately reſcued. The rational inhabitants of this world are formed agreeable to your own ideas; they are abſolutely without vice. In other reſpects it reſembles your earth, but dif⯑fers from it in being wholly inhabited by men who never do wrong. If you find this world more agreeable than that you ſo lately left, you have free permiſſion to ſpend the remainder of your days in it; but permit me, for ſome time, to at⯑tend you, that I may ſilence your doubts, and make you better acquainted with your company and your new habitation."’

‘"A world without vice! Rational beings with⯑out immorality!" cried Aſem, in a rapture; "I thank thee, O Alla, who haſt at length heard my petitions; this, this indeed will produce happi⯑neſs, extaſy, and eaſe. O for an immortality! to ſpend it among men who are incapable of ingra⯑titude, [194] injuſtice, fraud, violence, and a thouſand other crimes, that render ſociety miſerable."’

‘"Ceaſe thine acclamations," replied the Ge⯑nius. "Look around thee; reflect on every ob⯑ject and action before us, and communicate to me the reſult of thine obſervations. Lead wherever you think proper; I ſhall be your attendant and inſtructor."’ Aſem and his companion travelled on in ſilence for ſome time, the former being entirely loſt in aſtoniſhment; but, at laſt, recovering his former ſerenity, he could not help obſerving, that the face of the country bore a very near reſem⯑blance to that he had left, except that this ſub⯑terranean world ſtill ſeemed to retain its primaeval wildneſs.

‘"Here," cried Aſem, "I perceive animals of prey, and others that ſeem only deſigned for their ſubſiſtance; it is the very ſame in the world over our heads. But, had I been permitted to inſtruct our prophet, I would have removed this defect, and formed no voracious or deſtructive animals, which only prey on the other parts of the crea⯑tion."’ ‘"Your tenderneſs for inferior animals is, I find, remarkable," ſaid the Genius, ſmiling. But, with regard to meaner creatures, this world exactly reſembles the other; and, indeed, for ob⯑vious reaſons: for the earth can ſupport a more conſiderable number of animals, by their thus be⯑coming food for each other, than if they had lived [195] entirely on the vegetable productions; ſo that animals of different natures, thus formed, inſtead of leſſening their multitude, ſubſiſt in the greateſt number poſſible. But let us haſten on to the in⯑habited country before us, and ſee what that offers for inſtruction."’

They ſoon gained the utmoſt verge of the foreſt, and entered the country inhabited by men without vice; and Aſem anticipated, in idea, the rational delight he hoped to experience in ſuch an innocent ſociety. But they had ſcarce left the confines of the wood, when they beheld one of the inhabi⯑tants flying with haſty ſteps, and terror in his countenance, from an army of ſquirrels that cloſely purſued him. ‘"Heavens!" cried Aſem, "why does he fly? What can he fear from animals ſo contemptible?"’ He had ſcarce ſpoke, when he perceived two dogs purſuing another of the human ſpecies, who, with equal terror and haſte, at⯑tempted to avoid them. ‘"This," cried Aſem to his guide, "is truly ſurpriſing; nor can I con⯑ceive the reaſon for ſo ſtrange an action."’ ‘"Every ſpecies of animals," replied the Genius, "has of late grown very powerful in this country; for the inhabitants, at firſt, thinking it unjuſt to uſe ei⯑ther fraud or force in deſtroying them, they have inſenſibly increaſed, and now frequently ravage their harmleſs frontiers."’ ‘"But they ſhould have been deſtroyed," cried Aſem; "you ſee the conſe⯑quence of ſuch neglect."’ ‘"Where is then that [196] tenderneſs you ſo lately expreſſed for ſubordinate animals?" replied the Genius, ſmiling: "you ſeem to have forgot that branch of juſtice."’ ‘"I muſt acknowledge my miſtake," returned Aſem; "I am now convinced that we muſt be guilty of tyranny and injuſtice to the brute creation, if we would enjoy the world ourſelves. But let us no longer obſerve the duty of men to theſe irrational creatures, but ſurvey their connexions with one another."’

As they walked farther up the country, the more he was ſurpriſed to ſee no veſtiges of handſome houſes, no cities, nor any mark of elegant deſign. His conductor perceiving his ſurpriſe, obſerved, That the inhabitants of this new world were per⯑fectly content with their ancient ſimplicity; each had an houſe, which, though homely, was ſuffi⯑cient to lodge his little family; they were too good to build houſes, which would only increaſe their own pride, and the envy of the ſpectator; what they built was for convenience, not for ſhew. ‘"At leaſt, then," ſaid Aſem, "they have neither architects, painters, or ſtatuaries, in their ſociety; but theſe are idle arts, and may be ſpared. How⯑ever, before I ſpend much more time here, you ſhould have my thanks for introducing me into the ſociety of ſome of their wiſeſt men: there is ſcarce any pleaſure to me equal to a refined con⯑verſation; there is nothing of which I am ſo ena⯑moured as wiſdom."’ ‘"Wiſdom!" replied his [197] inſtructor, "how ridiculous! We have no wiſdom here, for we have no occaſion for it; true wiſdom is only a knowledge of our own duty, and the duty of others to us: but of what uſe is ſuch wiſdom here? Each intuitively performs what is right in himſelf, and expects the ſame from others. If, by wiſdom, you ſhould mean vain curioſity and empty ſpeculation, as ſuch pleaſures have their origin in vanity, luxury, or avarice, we are too good to purſue them."’ ‘"All this may be right," ſays Aſem; but, methinks, I obſerve a ſolitary diſpoſition prevail among the people; each family keeps ſeparately within their own precincts, with⯑out ſociety, or without intercourſe."’ ‘"That, indeed, is true," replied the other; "here is no eſtabliſhed ſociety; nor ſhould there be any: all ſocieties are made either through fear or friend⯑ſhip; the people we are among, are too good to fear each other; and there are no motives to private friendſhip, where all are equally meritorious."’ ‘"Well, then," ſaid the ſceptic, "as I am to ſpend my time here, if I am to have neither the polite arts, nor wiſdom, nor friendſhip, in ſuch a world, I ſhould be glad, at leaſt, of an eaſy com⯑panion, who may tell me his thoughts, and to whom I may communicate mine."’ ‘"And to what purpoſe ſhould either do this?" ſays the Genius: "flattery or curioſity are vicious motives, and never allowed here; and wiſdom is out of the queſtion."’

[198] ‘"Still, however," ſaid Aſem, "the inhabitants muſt be happy; each is contented with his own poſſeſſions, nor avariciouſly endeavours to heap up more than is neceſſary for his own ſubſiſtence; each has, therefore, leiſure to pity thoſe that ſtand in need of his compaſſion."’ He had ſcarce ſpoken, when his ears were aſſaulted with the lamentations of a wretch who ſat by the way-ſide, and, in the moſt deplorable diſtreſs, ſeemed gently to murmur at his own miſery. Aſem immediately ran to his relief, and found him in the laſt ſtage of a con⯑ſumption. ‘"Strange," cried the ſon of Adam,that men who are free from vice ſhould thus ſuffer ſo much miſery without relief!"’ ‘"Be not ſurpriſed," ſaid the wretch who was dying; "would it not be the utmoſt injuſtice for beings, who have only juſt ſufficient to ſupport themſelves, and are content with a bare ſubſiſtence, to take it from their own mouths to put it into mine? They never are poſſeſſed of a ſingle meal more than is neceſſary; and what is barely neceſſary, cannot be diſpenſed with."’ ‘"They ſhould have been ſupplied with more than is neceſſary," cried Aſem; "and yet I contradict my own opinion but a moment before: all is doubt, perplexity, and confuſion. Even the want of ingratitude is no virtue here, ſince they never received a favour. They have, however, another excellence, yet be⯑hind; the love of their country is ſtill, I hope, one of their darling virtues."’ ‘"Peace, Aſem!" replied the guardian, with a countenance not leſs [199] ſevere than beautiful, "nor forfeit all thy preten⯑ſions to wiſdom; the ſame ſelfiſh motives by which we prefer our own intereſt to that of others, in⯑duce us to regard our country preferable to that of another. Nothing leſs than univerſal benevo⯑lence is free from vice, and that you ſee is prac⯑tiſed here."’ ‘"Strange!" cries the diſappointed pilgrim, in an agony of diſtreſs; "what ſort of a world am I now introduced to? There is ſcarce a ſingle virtue, but that of temperance, which they practiſe; and in that they are no way ſuperior to the very brute creation. There is ſcarce an amuſe⯑ment which they enjoy; fortitude, liberality, friend⯑ſhip, wiſdom, converſation, and love of country, all are virtues entirely unknown here; thus it ſeems, that to be unacquainted with vice, is not to know virtue. Take me, O my Genius, back to that very world which I have deſpiſed: a world which has Alla for its contriver, is much more wiſely formed than that which has been projected by Ma⯑homet. Ingratitude, contempt, and hatred I can now ſuffer, for perhaps I have deſerved them. When I arraigned the wiſdom of Providence, I only ſhewed my own ignorance; henceforth let me keep from vice myſelf, and pity it in others."’

He had ſcarce ended, when the Genius, aſ⯑ſuming an air of terrible complacency, called all his thunders around him, and vaniſhed in a whirl⯑wind. Aſem, aſtoniſhed at the terror of the ſcene, looked for his imaginary world; when, caſting his [200] eyes around, he perceived himſelf in the very ſituation, and in the very place, where he firſt began to repine and deſpair; his right foot had been juſt advanced to take the fatal plunge, nor had it been yet withdrawn; ſo inſtantly did Pro⯑vidence ſtrike the truths juſt imprinted on his ſoul. He now departed from the water-ſide in tranquil⯑lity, and, leaving his horrid manſion, travelled to Segeſtan, his native city; where he diligently applied himſelf to commerce, and put in practice that wiſdom he had learned in ſolitude. The fru⯑gality of a few years ſoon produced opulence; the number of his domeſtics increaſed; his friends came to him from every part of the city; nor did he receive them with diſdain; and a youth of mi⯑ſery was concluded with an old-age of elegance, affluence, and eaſe. ESSAY 16.

ENTERTAINMENT IN THE STUDY OF TRIFLES.

TO a philoſopher, no circumſtance, however trifling, is too minute; he finds inſtruction and entertainment in occurrences which are paſſed over by the reſt of mankind as low, trite, and in⯑different; it is from the number of theſe particu⯑lars, which, to many, appear inſignificant, that he is at laſt enabled to form general concluſions. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 126.

CEREMONY.

CEREMONIES are different in every country, but true politeneſs is every where the ſame. Ceremonies, which take up ſo much of our atten⯑tion, are only artificial helps which ignorance aſ⯑ſumes, in order to imitate politeneſs, which is the reſult of good ſenſe and good-nature. A perſon poſſeſſed of thoſe qualities, though he had never ſeen a court, is truly agreeable; and, if without them, would continue a clown, though he had been all his life a gentleman uſher.

How would a Chineſe, bred up in the formali⯑ties of an eaſtern court, be regarded, ſhould he carry all his good manners beyond the Great Wall? How would an Engliſhman, ſkilled in all the deco⯑rums of weſtern good-breeding, appear at an eaſt⯑ern entertainnent? Would he not be reckoned more fantaſtically ſavage than even his unbred footman?

Ceremony reſembles that baſe coin which circu⯑lates through a country by the royal mandate; it ſerves every purpoſe of real money at home, but is entirely uſeleſs if carried abroad; a perſon who ſhould attempt to circulate his native traſh in ano⯑ther country, would be thought either ridiculous or culpable. He is truly well-bred who knows when to value and when to deſpiſe thoſe national [202] peculiarities which are regarded by ſome with ſo much obſervance. A traveller of taſte at once per⯑ceives that the wiſe are polite all the world over; but that fools are polite only at home. IBID. v. 1. p. 163.

LITERARY REPUTATION.

EVERY writer is now convinced that he muſt be chiefly indebted to good fortune for finding readers willing to allow him any degree of repu⯑tation. It has been remarked, that almoſt every character which has excited either attention or pity, has owed part of its ſucceſs to merit, and part to an happy concurrence of circumſtances in its favour. Had Caeſar or Cromwell exchanged countries, the one might have been a ſerjeant, and the other an exciſeman. So it is with wit, which generally ſucceeds more from being happily ad⯑dreſſed, than from its native poignancy. A jeſt calculated to ſpread at a gaming-table, may be received with perfect indifference ſhould it happen to drop in a mackarel-boat. We have all ſeen dunces triumph in ſome companies, where men of real humour were diſregarded, by a general com⯑bination in favour of ſtupidity. To drive the ob⯑ſervation as far as it will go, ſhould the labours of a writer who deſigns his performances for readers of a more refined appetite, fall into the hands of a devourer of compilations, what can he expect but contempt and confuſion? If his merits are to [203] be determined by judges who eſtimate the value of a book from its bulk, or its frontiſpiece, every rival muſt acquire an eaſy ſuperiority, who, with perſuaſive eloquence, promiſes four extraordinary pages of letter-preſs, or three beautiful prints, curiouſly coloured from nature.

ALLUREMENTS OF QUALITY.

QUALITY and title have ſuch allurements, that hundreds are ready to give up all their own importance, to cringe, to flatter, to look little, and to pall every pleaſure in conſtraint, merely to be among the great, though without the leaſt hopes of improving their underſtanding or ſharing their generoſity: they might be happy among their equals; but thoſe are deſpiſed for company, where they are deſpiſed in turn. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 132.

MAGNIFICENCE OF THE DEITY.

THOUGH we ſee the greatneſs and wiſdom of the Deity in all the ſeeming worlds that ſurround us, it is our chief concern to trace him in that which we inhabit. The examination of the earth, the wonders of its contrivance, the hiſtory of its advantages, or of the ſeeming defects in its for⯑mation, are the proper buſineſs of the Natural Hiſtorian. A deſcription of this earth, its ani⯑mals, vegetables, and minerals, is the moſt delight⯑ful [204] entertainment the mind can be furniſhed with, as it is the moſt intereſting and uſeful.

REMEMBRANCE.

TO be mindful of an abſent friend in the hours of mirth and feaſting, when his company is leaſt wanted, ſhews no ſlight degree of ſincerity. LIFE OF PARNEL, p. 18.

THE STORY OF ALCANDER AND SEP⯑TIMIUS, TAKEN FROM A BYZANTINE HISTORIAN.

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

In this city, and about this period, Alcander and Septimius were fellow ſtudents together; the one, the moſt ſubtle reaſoner of all the Lyceum; the other, the moſt eloquent ſpeaker in the academic grove. Mutual admiration ſoon begot a friend⯑ſhip. Their fortunes were nearly equal, and they [205] were natives of the two moſt celebrated cities in the world; for Alcander was of Athens, Septimius came from Rome.

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

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

During this illneſs, Alcander watched him with all the anxiety of fondneſs, and brought his mi⯑ſtreſs [206] to join in thoſe amiable offices of friendſhip. The ſagacity of the phyſicians, by theſe means, ſoon diſcovered that the cauſe of their patient's diſorder was love; Alcander, being appriſed of their diſcovery, at length extorted a confeſſion from the reluctant dying lover.

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

In the mean time, Alcander not only felt the pain of being ſeparated from his friend and his miſtreſs, but a proſecution was alſo commenced againſt him, by the relations of Hypatia, for having baſely given up his bride, as was ſuggeſted, for money. His innocence of the crime laid to his charge, and even his eloquence in his own defence, were not able to [207] withſtand the influence of a powerful party. He was caſt, and condemned to pay an enormous fine. However, being unable to raiſe ſo large a ſum at the time appointed, his poſſeſſions were confiſcated, he himſelf was ſtripped of the habit of freedom, expoſed as a ſlave in the market-place, and ſold to the higheſt bidder.

A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaſer, Alcander, with ſome other companions of diſtreſs, was carried into that region of deſolation and ſteri⯑lity. His ſtated employment was to follow the herds of an imperious maſter, and his ſucceſs in hunting was all that was allowed him to ſupply his precarious ſubſiſtence. Every morning waked him to a renewal of famine or toil, and every change of ſeaſon ſerved but to aggravate his un⯑ſheltered diſtreſs. After ſome years of bondage, however, an opportunity of eſcaping offered; he embraced it with ardour; ſo that, travelling by night, and lodging in caverns by day, to ſhorten a long ſtory, he at laſt arrived in Rome. The ſame day on which Alcander arrived, Septimius ſat ad⯑miniſtering juſtice in the forum, whither our wan⯑derer came, expecting to be inſtantly known, and publicly acknowledged, by his former friend. Here he ſtood the whole day amongſt the crowd, watching the eyes of the judge, and expecting to be taken notice of; but he was ſo much altered by a long ſucceſſion of hardſhips, that he continued unnoticed among the reſt; and, in the evening, [208] when he was going up to the praetor's chair, he was brutally repulſed by the attending lictors. The attention of the poor is generally driven from one ungrateful object to another; for night com⯑ing on, he now found himſelf under a neceſſity of ſeeking a place to lie in, and yet knew not where to apply. All emaciated and in rags, as he was, none of the citizens would harbour ſo much wretch⯑edneſs; and ſleeping in the ſtreets might be at⯑tended with interruption or danger: in ſhort, he was obliged to take up his lodging in one of the tombs without the city, the uſual retreat of guilt, poverty, and deſpair. In this manſion of horror, laying his head upon an inverted urn, he forgot his miſeries for a while in ſleep; and found, on his flinty couch, more eaſe than beds of down can ſupply to the guilty.

As he continued here, about midnight, two robbers came to make this their retreat; but, hap⯑pening to diſagree about the diviſion of their plun⯑der, one of them ſtabbed the other to the heart, and left him weltering in blood at the entrance. In theſe circumſtances he was found next morning, dead, at the mouth of the vault. This naturally inducing a further enquiry, an alarm was ſpread; the cave was examined; and Alcander being found, was immediately apprehended, and accuſed of rob⯑bery and murder. The circumſtances againſt him were ſtrong, and the wretchedneſs of his appear⯑ance confirmed ſuſpicion. Misfortune and he were [209] now ſo long acquainted, that he at laſt became re⯑gardleſs of life. He deteſted a world where he had found only ingratitude, falſehood, and cruelty; he was determined to make no defence; and thus, lowering with reſolution, he was dragged, bound with cords, before the tribunal of Septimius. As the proofs were poſitive againſt him, and he offered nothing in his own vindication, the judge was pro⯑ceeding to doom him to a moſt cruel and ignomi⯑nious death, when the attention of the multitude was ſoon divided by another object. The robber, who had been really guilty, was apprehended ſell⯑ing his plunder, and, ſtruck with a panic, had confeſſed his crime. He was brought bound to the ſame tribunal, and acquitted every other per⯑ſon of any partnerſhip in his guilt. alcander's in⯑nocence therefore appeared, but the ſullen raſhneſs of his conduct remained a wonder to the ſurround⯑ing multitude; but their aſtoniſhment was ſtill fur⯑ther increaſed, when they ſaw their judge ſtart from his tribunal to embrace the ſuppoſed criminal. Septimius recollected his friend and former bene⯑factor, and hung upon his neck with tears of pity and of joy. Need the ſequel be related? Alcander was acquitted; ſhared the friendſhip and honours of the principal citizens of Rome; lived afterwards in happineſs and eaſe; and left it to be engraved on his tomb, That no circumſtances are ſo deſpe⯑rate, which Providence may not relieve. ESSAY 2.

CONTEMPT OF THE IGNORANT.

THERE are ſome of ſuperior abilities who re⯑verence and eſteem each other; but then mutual admiration is not ſufficient to ſhield off the con⯑tempt of the crowd. The wife are but few, and they praiſe with a feeble voice; the vulgar are many, and roar in reproaches. The truly great ſeldom unite in ſocieties, have few meetings, no cabals; the dunces hunt in full cry till they have run down a reputation, and then ſnarl and fight with each other about dividing the ſpoil. ^* Here you may ſee the compilers, and the book-anſwerers of every month, when they have cut up ſome re⯑ſpectable name, moſt frequently reproaching each other with ſtupidity and dullneſs; reſembling the wolves of the Ruſſian foreſt, who prey upon veni⯑ſon, or horſe-fleſh, when they can get it; but, in caſes of neceſſity, lying in wait to devour each other. While they have new books to cut up, they make a hearty meal; but if this reſource ſhould unhappily fail, then it is that critics eat up critics, and compilers rob from compilations. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 73.

PLEASURES OF RURAL RETIREMENT.

WHEN I reflect on the unambitious retire⯑ment in which I paſſed the earlier part of my life in the country, I cannot avoid feeling ſome pain [211] in thinking that thoſe happy days are never to re⯑turn. In that retreat, all nature ſeemed capable of affording pleaſure: I then made no refinements on happineſs, but could be pleaſed with the moſt aukward efforts of ruſtic mirth; thought croſs-purpoſes the higheſt ſtretch of human wit, and queſtions and commands the moſt rational way of ſpending the evening. Happy could ſo charming an illuſion ſtill continue! I find that age and knowledge only contribute to ſour our diſpoſitions. My preſent enjoyments may be more refined, but they are infinitely leſs pleaſing. The pleaſure the beſt actor gives, can no way compare to that I have received from a country wag who imitated a Quaker's ſermon. The muſic of the fineſt ſinger is diſſonance to what I felt when our old dairy-maid ſung me into tears with Johnny Armſtrong's Laſt Good Night, or the Cruelty of Barbara Allen.

Writers of every age have endeavoured to ſhew that pleaſure is in us, and not in the objects of⯑fered for our amuſement. If the ſoul be happily diſpoſed, every thing becomes capable of afford⯑ing entertainment; and diſtreſs will almoſt want a name. Every occurrence paſſes in review like the figures of a proceſſion; ſome may be aukward, others ill-dreſſed; but none but a fool is for this enraged with the maſter of the ceremonies.

I remember to have once ſeen a ſlave in a forti⯑fication in Flanders, who appeared no way touched [212] with his ſituation. He was maimed, deformed, and chained; obliged to toil from the appearance of day till night-fall; and condemned to this for life: yet, with all theſe circumſtances of apparent wretchedneſs, he ſang, would have danced but that he wanted a leg, and appeared the merrieſt, hap⯑pieſt man of all the garriſon. What a practical philoſopher was here! An happy conſtitution ſup⯑plied philoſophy; and, though ſeemingly deſtitute of wiſdom, he was really wiſe. No reading or ſtudy had contributed to diſenchant the fairy-land around him: every thing furniſhed him with an opportunity of mirth; and, though ſome thought him, from his inſenſibility, a fool, he was ſuch an ideot as philoſophers ſhould wiſh to imitate; for all philoſophy is only forcing the trade of happi⯑neſs, when nature ſeems to have denied the means.

They who, like our ſlave, can place themſelves on that ſide of the world in which every thing ap⯑pears in a pleaſing light, will find ſomething in every occurrence to excite their good-humour. The moſt calamitous events, either to themſelves or others, can bring no new affliction; the whole world is to them a theatre, on which comedies only are acted. All the buſtle of heroiſm, or the rants of ambition, ſerve only to heighten the ab⯑ſurdity of the ſcene, and make the humour more poignant. They feel, in ſhort, as little anguiſh at their own diſtreſs; or the complaints of others, as the undertaker, though dreſſed in black, feels ſorrow at a funeral.

[213]Of all the men I ever read of, the famous Car⯑dinal de Retz poſſeſſed this happineſs of temper in the higheſt degree. As he was a man of gallantry, and deſpiſed all that wore the pedantic appearance of philoſophy, wherever pleaſure was to be ſold, he was generally foremoſt to raiſe the auction. Be⯑ing an univerſal admirer of the fair ſex, when he found one lady cruel, he generally fell in love with another, from whom he expected a more fa⯑vourable reception: if ſhe, too, rejected his ad⯑dreſſes, he never thought of retiring into deſerts, or pining in hopeleſs diſtreſs: he perſuaded him⯑ſelf, that, inſtead of loving the lady, he only fan⯑cied that he had loved her; and ſo all was well again. When Fortune wore her angrieſt look, and he at laſt fell into the power of his moſt deadly enemy, Cardinal Mazarine, (being confined a cloſe priſoner in the caſtle of Valenciennes,) he never at⯑tempted to ſupport his diſtreſs by wiſdom or phi⯑loſophy, for he pretented to neither. He only laughed at himſelf and his perſecutor, and ſeemed infinitely pleaſed at his new ſituation. In this manſion of diſtreſs, though ſecluded from his friends, though denied all the amuſements, and even the conveniences, of life, he ſtill retained his good-humour; laughed at all the little ſpite of his enemies; and carried the jeſt ſo far, as to be revenged, by writing the life of his gaoler.

All that the wiſdom of the proud can teach, is to be ſtubborn or ſullen under misfortunes. The [214] Cardinal's example will inſtruct us to be merry in circumſtances of the higheſt affliction. It matters not whether our good-humour be conſtrued by others into inſenſibility, or even ideotiſm; it is happineſs to ourſelves, and none but a fool would meaſure his ſatisfaction by what the world thinks of it. For my own part, I never paſs by one of our priſons for debt, that I do not envy that feli⯑city which is ſtill going forward among thoſe peo⯑ple, who forget the cares of the world by being ſhut out from its ambition.

The happieſt ſilly fellow I ever knew, was of the number of thoſe good-natured creatures that are ſaid to do no harm to any but themſelves. Whenever he fell into any miſery, he uſually called it, Seeing Life. If his head was broke by a chairman, or his pocket picked by a ſharper, he comforted himſelf by imitating the Hibernian dia⯑lect of the one, or the more faſhionable cant of the other. Nothing came amiſs to him. His in⯑attention to money matters had incenſed his father to ſuch a degree, that all the interceſſion of friends in his favour was fruitleſs. The old gentleman was on his death-bed. The whole family, and Dick among the number, gathered around him. ‘"I leave my ſecond ſon, Andrew," ſaid the ex⯑piring miſer, "my whole eſtate, and deſire him to be frugal."’ Andrew, in a ſorrowful tone, as is uſual on theſe occaſions, prayed Heaven to pro⯑long his life and health to enjoy it himſelf. ‘"I [215] recommend Simon, my third ſon, to the care of his elder brother, and leave him, beſide, four thou⯑ſand pounds."’ ‘"Ah! father," cried Simon (in great affliction, to be ſure), "May Heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourſelf."’ At laſt, turning to poor Dick, ‘"As for you, you have al⯑ways been a ſad dog; you'll never come to good; you'll never be rich; I'll leave you a ſhilling to buy an halter."’ ‘"Ah! father," cries Dick, with⯑out any emotion, "may Heaven give you life and health to enjoy it yourſelf!"’ This was all the trouble the loſs of fortune gave this thoughtleſs imprudent creature. However, the tenderneſs of an uncle recompenſed the neglect of a father; and my friend is now not only exceſſively good-hu⯑moured, but competently rich.

Yes, let the world cry out at a bankrupt who appears at a ball; at an author who laughs at the public, which pronounces him a dunce; at a ge⯑neral who ſmiles at the reproach of the vulgar, or the lady who keeps her good-humour in ſpite of ſcandal; but ſuch is the wiſeſt behaviour that any of us can poſſibly aſſume; it is certainly a better way to oppoſe calamity by diſſipation, than to take up the arms of reaſon or reſolution to oppoſe it: by the firſt method, we forget our miſeries; by the laſt, we only conceal them from others: by ſtrug⯑gling with misfortunes, we are ſure to receive ſome wounds in the conflict; but a ſure method to come off victorious, is by running away. ESSAY 3.

BENEFITS ARISING FROM LUXURY.

THOSE philoſophers, who declaim againſt luxury, have but little underſtood its benefits; they ſeem inſenſible, that to luxury we owe not only the greateſt part of our knowledge, but even or our virtues.

It may ſound fine in the mouth of a declaimer, when he talks of ſubduing our appetites, of teach⯑ing every ſenſe to be content with a bare ſufficiency, and of ſupplying only the wants of nature; but is there not more ſatisfaction in indulging thoſe ap⯑petites, if with innocence and ſafety, than in re⯑ſtraining them? Am not I better pleaſed in enjoy⯑ment, than in the ſullen ſatisfaction of thinking that I can live without enjoyment?

The more various our artificial neceſſities, the wider is our circle of pleaſure; for all pleaſure conſiſts in obviating neceſſities as they riſe: luxu⯑ry, therefore, as it increaſes our wants, increaſes our capacity for happineſs.

CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 35.

In whatſoever light we conſider luxury, whether as employing a number of hands naturally too feeble for more laborious employment; as finding a variety of occupation for others who might be totally idle; or as furniſhing out new inlets to happineſs, without incroaching on mutual pro⯑perty; [217] in whatever light we regard it, we ſhall have reaſon to ſtand up in its defence: and the ſentiment of Confucius ſtill remains unſhaken; That we ſhould enjoy as many of the luxuries of life as are conſiſtent with our own ſafety, and the pro⯑ſperity of others; and that he who finds out a new pleaſure, is one of the moſt uſeful members of ſociety. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 37.

MODESTY.

THERE is not, perhaps, a more whimſical figure in nature, than a man of real modeſty, who aſſumes an air of impudence; who, while his heart beats with anxiety, ſtudies eaſe, and affects good-humour. In this ſituation, however, every unexperienced writer finds himſelf. Impreſſed with the terrors of the tribunal before which he is going to appear, his natural humour turns to pertneſs, and for real wit he is obliged to ſubſtitute vivacity. ESSAY 1.

GENEROSITY.

GENEROSITY is the part of a ſoul raiſed above the vulgar. There is in it ſomething of what we admire in heroes, and praiſe with a degree of rapture.

In paying his debts a man barely does his duty, and it is an action attended with no ſort of glory. Should Lyſippus ſatisfy his creditors, who would be at the pains of telling it to the world? Gene⯑roſity is a virtue of a very different complexion. It is raiſed above duty, and, from its elevation, attracts the attention and the praiſes of us little mortals below. ESSAY 6.

MISPLACED VIRTUES.

AMONG men long converſant with books, we too frequently find miſplaced virtues. We find the ſtudious animated with a ſtrong paſſion for the great virtues, as they are miſtakenly called, and utterly forgetful of the ordinary ones. The de⯑clamations of philoſophy are generally rather ex⯑hauſted on thoſe ſupererogatory duties, than on ſuch as are indiſpenſibly neceſſary. A man, there⯑fore, [219] who has taken his ideas of mankind from ſtudy alone, generally comes into the world with an heart melting at every fictitious diſtreſs. Thus he is induced, by miſplaced liberality, to put him⯑ſelf into the indigent circumſtances of the perſon he relieves. ESSAY 6.

PRIDE OF THE ENGLISH.

THE Engliſh ſeem as ſilent as the Japaneſe, yet vainer than the inhabitants of Siam. Conde⯑ſcend to addreſs them firſt, and you are ſure of their acquaintance; ſtoop to flattery, and you con⯑ciliate their friendſhip and eſteem. They bear hunger, cold, fatigue, and all the miſeries of life, without ſhrinking; danger only calls forth their fortitude; they even exult in calamity: but con⯑tempt is what they cannot bear. An Engliſhman fears contempt more than death; he often flies to death as a refuge from its preſſure, and dies when he fancies the world has ceaſed to eſteem him.

Pride ſeems the ſource not only of their national vices, but of their national virtues alſo. An Eng⯑liſhman is taught to love his king as his friend, but to acknowledge no other maſter than the laws which himſelf has contributed to enact. He de⯑ſpiſes thoſe nations, who, that one may be free, are all content to be ſlaves; who firſt lift a tyrant into terror, and then ſhrink under his power, as if delegated from heaven. Liberty is echoed in all [220] their aſſemblies, and thouſands might be found ready to offer up their lives for the ſound, though perhaps not one of all the number underſtands its meaning. The loweſt mechanic, however, looks upon it as his duty to be a watchful guardian of his country's freedom, and often uſes a language that might ſeem haughty, even in the mouth of the great emperor who traces his anceſtry to the moon.

REPUTATION.

THE great are ſolicitous only of raiſing their own reputations; while the oppoſite claſs, alas! are ſolicitous of bringing every reputation down to a level with their own. IBID. p. 75.

PICTURE OF A CRITIC.

A CRITIC is often guided by the ſame motives that direct his author. The author endeavours to perſuade us, that he has written a good book: the critic is equally ſolicitous to ſhew that he could write a better, had he thought proper. A critic is a being poſſeſſed of all the vanity, but not the genius, of a ſcholar; incapable, from his native weakneſs, of lifting himſelf from the ground, he applies to contiguous merit for ſupport, makes the ſportive ſallies of another's imagination his ſerious employment, pretends to take our feelings under [221] his care, teaches where to condemn, where to lay the emphaſis of praiſe, and may with as much juſtice be called a man of taſte, as the Chineſe who meaſures his wiſdom by the length of his nails.

If, then, a book, ſpirited or humorous, hap⯑pens to appear in the republic of letters, ſeveral critics are in waiting to bid the public not to laugh at a ſingle line of it, for themſelves had read it; and they know what is moſt proper to excite laugh⯑ter. Other critics contradict the fulminations of this tribunal, call them all ſpiders, and aſſure the public, that they ought to laugh without reſtraint. Another ſet are in the mean time quietly employed in writing notes to the book, intended to ſhew the particular paſſages to be laughed at: when theſe are out, others ſtill there are who write notes upon notes. Thus a ſingle new book employs not only the paper-makers, the printers, the preſs-men, the book binders, the hawkers, but twenty critics, and as many compilers. In ſhort, the body of the learned may be compared to a Perſian army, where there are many pioneers, ſeveral ſutlers, number⯑leſs ſervants, women and children in abundance, and but few ſoldiers. CIT. OF THE WORLD, v. 1. p. 75.

FORTUNE THE ONLY REPRESENTATIVE OF LOVE AND AFFECTION AMONG THE MODERNS.

THE formalities, delays, and diſappointments, that precede a treaty of marriage ^* here, are uſually as numerous as thoſe previous to a treaty of peace. The laws of this country are finely calculated to promote all commerce, but the commerce between the ſexes. Their encouragements for propagating hemp, madder, and tobacco, are indeed admira⯑ble! Marriages are the only commodity that meets with diſcouragement.

Yet, from the vernal ſoftneſs of the air, the verdure of the fields, the tranſparency of the ſtreams, and the beauty of the women, I know few countries more proper to invite to courtſhip. Here Love might ſport among painted lawns and warbling groves, and revel amidſt gales wafting at once both fragrance and harmony. Yet it ſeems he has forſaken the iſland; and when a couple are now to be married, mutual love, or an union of minds, is the laſt and moſt trifling conſideration. If their goods and chattels can be brought to unite, their ſympathetic ſouls are ever ready to guarantee the treaty. The gentleman's mort⯑gaged lawn becomes enamoured of the lady's mar⯑riageable grove; the match is ſtruck up; and both parties are piouſly in love—according to act of parliament.

[223]Thus, they who have fortune, are poſſeſſed at leaſt of ſomething that is lovely; but I actually pity thoſe who have none. I am told there was a time, when ladies, with no other merit but youth, virtue, and beauty, had a chance for huſbands, at leaſt amongſt our clergymen and officers. The bluſh and innocence of ſixteen was ſaid to have a powerful influence over theſe two profeſſions. But of late, all the little traffic of bluſhing, ogling, dimpling, and ſmiling, has been forbidden by an act in that caſe wiſely made and provided. A lady's whole cargo of ſmiles, ſighs, and whiſpers, is declared utterly contraband, till ſhe arrives in the warm latitude of twenty-two, where commo⯑dities of this nature are too often found to decay. She is then permitted to dimple and ſmile, when the dimples begin to forſake her; and, when per⯑haps grown ugly, is charitably intruſted with an unlimited uſe of her charms. Her lovers, how⯑ever, by this time, have forſaken her; the captain has changed for another miſtreſs; the prieſt him⯑ſelf leaves her in ſolitude, to bewail her virginity, and ſhe dies even without benefit of clergy.

Thus you find the Europeans diſcouraging love with as much earneſtneſs as the rudeſt ſavage of Sofala. The Genius is ſurely now no more. In every region there ſeem enemies in arms to oppreſs him. Avarice in Europe, jealouſy in Per⯑ſia, ceremony in China, poverty among the Tar⯑tars, and luſt in Circaſſia, are all prepared to op⯑poſe [224] his power. The Genius is certainly baniſhed from earth, though once adored under ſuch a va⯑riety of forms. He is no where to be found; and all that the ladies of each country can produce, are but a few trifling reliques, as inſtances of his former reſidence and favour.

‘"The Genius of Love," ſays the Eaſtern Apo⯑logue, "had long reſided in the happy plains of Abra, where every breeze was health, and every ſound produced tranquillity. His temple at firſt was crowded, but every age leſſened the number of his votaries, or cooled their devotion. Perceiv⯑ing, therefore, his altars at length quite deſerted, he was reſolved to remove to ſome more propitious region; and he appriſed the fair ſex of every country, where he could hope for a proper recep⯑tion, to aſſert their right to his preſence among them. In return to this proclamation, embaſſies were ſent from the ladies of every part of the world to invite him, and to diſplay the ſuperiority of their claims.’

‘"And, firſt, the beauties of China appeared. No country could compare with them for modeſty, either of lock, dreſs, or behaviour; their eyes were never lifted from the ground; their robes, of the moſt beautiful ſilk, hid their hands, boſom, and neck, while their faces only were left unco⯑vered. They indulged no airs that might expreſs looſe deſire, and they ſeemed to ſtudy only the [225] graces of inanimate beauty. Their black teeth and plucked eye-brows were, however, alledged by the Genius againſt them; but he ſet them en⯑tirely aſide, when he came to examine their little feet.’

‘"The beauties of Circaſſia next made their ap⯑pearance. They advanced, hand in hand, ſing⯑ing the moſt immodeſt airs, and leading up a dance in the moſt luxurious attitudes. Their dreſs was but half a covering; the neck, the left breaſt, and all the limbs were expoſed to view; which, after ſome time, ſeemed rather to ſatiate than inflame deſire. The lily and the roſe contended in form⯑ing their complexions; and a ſoft ſleepineſs of eye added irreſiſtible poignance to their charms: but their beauties were obtruded, not offered, to their admirers; they ſeemed to give, rather than receive courtſhip; and the Genius of Love diſ⯑miſſed them as unworthy his regard, ſince they exchanged the duties of love, and made themſelves not the purſued, but the purſuing ſex.’

‘"The kingdom of Kaſhmire next produced its charming deputies. This happy region ſeemed peculiarly ſequeſtered by Nature for his abode. Shady mountains fenced it on one ſide from the ſcorching ſun; and ſea-born breezes, on the other, gave peculiar luxuriance to the air. Their com⯑plexions were of a bright yellow, that appeared almoſt tranſparent, while the crimſon tulip ſeemed [226] to bloſſom on their cheeks. Their features and limbs were delicate beyond the ſtatuary's power to expreſs; and their teeth whiter than their own ivory. He was almoſt perſuaded to reſide among them, when, unfortunately, one of the ladies talked of appointing his ſeraglio.’

‘"In this proceſſion the naked inhabitants of Southern America would not be left behind: their charms were found to ſurpaſs whatever the warm⯑eſt imagination could conceive; and ſerved to ſhew, that beauty could be perfect, even with the ſeeming diſadvantage of a brown complexion. But their ſavage education rendered them utterly un⯑qualified to make the proper uſe of their power, and they were rejected as being incapable of uni⯑ting mental with ſenſual ſatisfaction. In this man⯑ner the deputies of other kingdoms had their ſuits rejected: the black beauties of Benin, and the tawny daughters of Borneo, the women of Wida with ſcarred faces, and the hideous virgins of Ca⯑fraria; the ſquab ladies of Lapland, three feet high, and the giant fair-ones of Patagonia.’

‘"The beauties of Europe at laſt appeared; grace in their ſteps, and ſenſibility ſmiling in every eye. It was the univerſal opinion, while they were ap⯑proaching, that they would prevail; and the Ge⯑nius ſeemed to lend them his moſt favourite at⯑tention. They opened their pretenſions with the utmoſt modeſty; but unfortunately, as their ora⯑tor [227] proceeded, ſhe happened to let fall the words, 'Houſe in Town, Settlement, and Pin-money.' Theſe ſeemingly harmleſs terms had inſtantly a ſurpriſing effect: the Genius, with ungovernable rage, burſt from amidſt the circle; and, waving his youthful pinions, left this earth, and flew back to thoſe aetherial manſions from whence he de⯑ſcended.’

‘"The whole aſſembly was ſtruck with amaze⯑ment; they now juſtly apprehended that female power would be no more, ſince love had forſaken them. They continued ſome time thus in a ſtate of torpid deſpair, when it was propoſed by one of the number, that, ſince the real Genius of Love had left them, in order to continue their power, they ſhould ſet up an idol in his ſtead; and that the ladies of every country ſhould furniſh him with what each liked beſt. This propoſal was inſtantly reliſhed and agreed to. An idol of gold was formed by uniting the capricious gifts of all the aſſembly, though no way reſembling the departed Genius. The ladies of China furniſhed the mon⯑ſter with wings; thoſe of Kaſhmire ſupplied him with horns; the dames of Europe clapped a purſe into his hand; and the virgins of Congo furniſhed him with a tail. Since that time, all the vows ad⯑dreſſed to Love, are, in reality, paid to the idol; while, as in other falſe religions, the adoration ſeems moſt fervent, where the heart is leaſt ſincere.’ ESSAY 23.

COUNTENANCE TO THE VULGAR.

WHATEVER may become of the higher or⯑ders of mankind, who are generally poſſeſſed of collateral motives to virtue, the vulgar ſhould be particularly regarded, whoſe behaviour in civil life is totally hinged upon their hopes and fears. Thoſe who conſtitute the baſis of the great fabric of ſociety, ſhould be particularly regarded; for, in policy as in architecture, ruin is moſt fatal when it begins from the bottom. ESSAY 14.

OPINION OF THE GENIUS OF VOLTAIRE.

BETWEEN Voltaire and the diſciples of Con⯑fucius there are many differences; however, be⯑ing of a different opinion does not in the leaſt di⯑miniſh my eſteem. I am not diſpleaſed with my brother, becauſe he happens to aſk our father for favours in a different manner from me. Let his errors reſt in peace; his excellencies deſerve admi⯑ration: let me, with the wiſe, admire his wiſdom; let the envious and the ignorant ridicule his foi⯑bles; the folly of others is ever moſt ridiculous to thoſe who are themſelves moſt fooliſh. IBID. p. 187.