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Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mithode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 ■■> ■ ■• ■ i ;ArilV ^ \^ %. ^1 # i -' .«, ^ ft ^ 'V lU THE BRITISH AMEKIOAN ELOCUTIONIST, Ai«D RHETORICAL CONTAINING SELEC KNOWLES'S EL AHO ADDITIONAL PIECES FROM LIVING AUTHORS» ■•h'^ '^■k WITH GENERAL RULES INTERSPERSED AS READING LESSONS. i"^ >* \.* -* I r- V BY SAMUEL PHILLIPS, \-^ Foaiuuu.Y or tbs hioh •chool or hontbbai., avd how fkihcipai. or thb •T. OBBAIM ■TBBST ACADEMY. ^atttrral : PUBLISHED BY CAMPBELL BRYSON, BT. FBAN^OIS XAVIKR STREET. 1850. ■>. PREFACE. The compiler of the following pages having felt in common with others, the want of a class book for reading and reciting, which, whilst it should contain a selection suitable to the require- ments of more advanced Pupils, might from its price be within the reach of all classes of the com- munity, has been induced for the convenience of his own school, and he trusts for the benefit of his fellow laborers in Canada, to edit this publicatioUi which he now ofifers to the notice of Teachers and Scholars generally, with the hope that it may faci- litate the labors of the former and accelerate the progress of the latter. Possessing as it does two decided advantages over works of a similar kind, cheapness in price, and a more extensive and better collection of pieces for Reading and Recitation, he trusts that this effort for the benefit of the rising generation, may not altogether be unappreciated and in vain ; but that IV PREFACE. the result may be a marked improvement in the style of reading, and an increased taste for elegant literature, in every school into which it may be introduced. It was the intention of the compiler to have given rules for Pronunciation, Emphasis and Ges- ture as is generally done by writers on Elocution, but being persuaded that such rules are to the majority of Pupils a dead-^letter, and that few teachers avail themselves of their use, he has deemded it preferable to intersperse some chap- ters on these subjects, as reading lessons in the body of the work, and has thereby been enabled to present a more copious selection to the public. Containing, as most works on Reading and Recitation do, the same pieces, the observant Teacher will perceive, that Knowles^s admirable work on Elocution has formed the basis of the present publication, which circumstance of itself, should be a sufficient inducement for its admission into Schools and Colleges where such a book is required ; and from the additional subjects from the pages of Macau-* lay, Alison, D'Aubign6, Hemans, Dr. Thompson and others, some of which for the first time appear in print, and from the care taken in selecting ei^tracts IL PREPACK. T of a religious or strictly moral tendency, a stronger recommendation is given to ttie Volume. Should this attempt of the Author to promote the publication of Canadian Work« for Educa- tional purposes, be received with that encourage- ment which he hopes for, it is his intention in a forthcoming edition to add, if it seem necefisary, a treatise on the rules of Reading, Recitation and Gesture, though at the same time he is fully of opinion ^ith many of our best Writers, that to read and recite naturally is to read and recite well. 8t. Urbain Stkeet Academy, Montreal, May lat. 1860. CONTENTS. PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS IN PROSE. PAOt Pronunciation 1 On Study Bacon 7 On the Love of Life Goldsmith, 8 On Grieving for the Dead Dr. Adam Smith, 9 On Remorse Ibid. 10 Piscontent the common Lot of all Mankind Johnson 12 On the Sublime in Writing Blair. 15 Reflections in Westminster Ahhey.. Addison 18 Virtue, Man's Highest Interest Harris. 19 The Monk Sterne 21 On Military Glory Marmontel. 23 Liberty and Slavery Sterne. 25 Reynoand Alpin Osaian , 26 Story of the Siegeof Calais Fool of Qualittf. 27 On Living to OneVSelf. Hazlitt. 32 On the Psalms Home. 33 On the Pleasure of Painting Hazlitt. 34 Damon and Pythias Fool of Quality. 36 On the Abuse of Genius, with Re- ference to the Works of Lord Byron .• Knowles 38 Advantages of uniting Gentleness of Manners, with Firmness of Mind Chesterfield. 40 The Elder's Death-bed Wilson 42 On Lord Byron's Lines upon the Field of Waterloo Knowles, 46 The Perfect Orator Sheridan 47 Lord Byron considered as a Moral- ist, and a Poet Knowles 48 The Distressed Father Morningsat Bow-Street. 50 OnShakspeare Hazlitt. 52 Character of Napoleon Bonapaxte^Channing. 56 On Milton Ibid. 59 Wit injures Eloquence Maury, 63 On the Dignity of Human Nature.. CAannin^ 64 The Hill of Science Addison 66 Effects of Sympathy in the Distresses of Others Burke, An Exhortation to the Study of Eloc^uence „.,,,....... .....^.Cipcro, ..,., 70 • •• Vlll CONTENTS. On the Cultivation of the Intel- paue lectual Powers Tat/lor. 73 The Fallen Leaf. ,.. Anonymous. 74 Happiness Ibid 76 The Idiot Blackwood's Magazine.. 77 Emphasis, Pauses, andTones Blair 79 Gestures Ibid. 82 Death of Charles the Second Macaulay 84 Execution of Louis XVI Alison 92 School-days of Napoleon Ibid, 94 Battle of the Pyramids Ibid. 96 Battle of the Nile Ibid. 98 Defeat of the Old Guard at Water- loo Ibid. 102 Effects of Steam Navigation Ibid. 104 Departure of the Reformer Zwingle for Battle D'Aubigne. 106 Death of Zwingle Ibid 107 Execution of Mary Queen of ^oi%..Hobertson 110 Abdication of the Emperor Charlesy..../6t(i 114 PULPIT ELOQUENCE. The Departed Spirits of the Just are Spectators of our Conduct on Earth Finlayson 117 Time and Manner of the Arrival of Death Logan 118 On the Threatened Invasion in 1803.1^// 119 The Christian Mother Kirwan 122 Christ our Consolation and Belief, under the apprehension of being separated by Death from those we Love Logan 123 Infatuation of Mankind, with regard to the Things of Time Kirtvan 124 Danger of Delay in Matters of Re- ligion Logan 125 On the Death of the Princess Char- lotte HaU 127 Ditto Chalmers 132 Ditto Dr. Thomson 136 The Infinite Love of God Ibid. 137 Funeral Sermon on the Death of Dr. Thompson. Chalmers. 138 Sitting in the Chair of the Scornen.Zo^an 139 The Plurality of Worlds not au ar- gument against, the Truth of Revelation Chalmers. 141 Christ's Agony Logan 143 The Deluding Influence of the World Kirwan 145 ^ k CONTENTS. . PAGE There is no Peace to the Wicked... £(Mjfan 147 On the Importance of an Interest in the Divine Favour. Cappe. 149 The melancholy Effects of early Licentiousness in a Sermon preached for the Female Or- phan House Kirwan 151 Beligion, the Distinguishing Quality of our Nature ....Logan..... 153 Of the Internal Proofs of the Chris- tian Religion. Charming. 154 On the Regulation of Temper Montgomery , 157 Character of Ruth ; Fox. 161 The Union of Friendship with Re- ligion recommended Hutton 163 On the Education of Females Montgomery. 167 )i!xhortation to Youth to cultivate a Devotional Spirit Taylor 171 ANCIENT AND MODI;RN ORATORY. Hannibal to his Soldiers. :..Livy..,.. 174 Speech of Lord Chatham, in the House of Peers, against the Ame- rican War, and against employing the Indians in it 176 Cicero against Yerres 179 Invective against Hastings Sheridan 182 Cicero for Milo 185 Lord Chatham's Reply to Sir H. Walpole 190 Caius Marius to the Romans.. StUlust. 191 Demosthenes to the Athenians, ex- citing them to prosecute the War against Philip. 194 Curran for Hamilton Rowan 200 The Beginning of the First Philip- pic of Demosthenes 201 The First Oration of Cicero against Cataline 204 An Extract from Mr. Broughams Speech on Negro Slavery 209 Peroration to Sheridan's Invective against Warren Hastings 210 Panegyric on the Eloquence of Sheridan Burke 211 Dr. MoCrie on promoting Education in Greece 1825 , 212 Against the Union of Professorships with Cure of Souls Chalmers 213 On Slavery Thomson,,... 215 On the Qualifioations of Professors of Divinity Chalmers.. 218 CONTENTS. PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS IN VERSE. PAGB The Battle of Morgarten Hermans 219 The Siege of Constantinople 221 The Cross of the South Hemans 224 On the Destruction of the St. Lewis Theatre at Quebec S. Phillips. 225 The Last Man Campbell. 228 Last Verses of L. E. L 229 The Cameronian's Dream 230 Kossuth's Soliloquy S. Phillips 232 The Flag of England C. S. Mackay. 234 The Soldier's Dream Campbell. 236 Glenara. Ibid. 237 The Death of Marmion Scott. 237 The Burial of Sir John Moore Wolfe 238 The Battle of Hohenlinden Campbell 239 On the Downfall of Poland Ibid 240 Lord Ullin's Daughter Ibid if *'*. The Exile of Erin. Ibid 243 Lochinvar... ....*. Scott. 244 A Beth Gelert ^...Spencer, , 246 Bruce to his Army Burns. 248 The Sailor's Orphan Boy. Mrs. Opie 249 Battle of the Baltic Campbell. 250 The Ocean Byron 252 The Present Aspect of Greece Ibid. 253 The Battle of Blenheim Sout/iey 254 Song of Fitz Eustace Scott..^ 2.57 The Field of Waterloo Byron 257 Outalissi Campbell 259 Outalissi's Death Song. Ibid 261 Lord William Southey 263 The Mariners of England Campbell. 267 Thunder Storm among the Alps Byron 268 Ode to Winter Campbell. , 269 The Arab Maid's Song Moore 271 Flight of O'Connor's Child ; and Death of her Lover Campbell. 272 Ode to Eloquence Anonymous 274 The Sister's Curse Campbell. 275 Alexander's Feast., Dryden 277 The Passions... Collins 280 Childe Harold's Song Byron , 283 Lochiel's Warning Campbell. 285 Gilderoy Ibid. 287 My Mother 288 The Dream of Eugene Aram Hood. 290 TheDea hof Murat .....T. Atkinson. 295 The Spanish Champion .....Hemans 296 Ouglou's Onslaught Motherwell 297 To the Clouds Anonymous 299 CONTENTS. XI The Suicide .... The Last Tree of the Forest. The Voice of Spring The Invocation Mary Queen of Scots. FA6E ,Crabb 300 ..Anonymous 301 Hemana 308 .Hemana 304 .H.G.BeU 305 SACRED EXTRACTS IN VERSE. The Creation Drummond , 309 God is Everywhere HughHutton 310 The Destruction of Sennacherib....£j^(m 311 Who shall separate as from the love of Christ ? Drummond 312 Wisdom sought from God Henty Moore 312 The Dying Christian to his Soul... Pope 313 Confidence in God Addison 314 Charity Drummond 315 The Cross in the Wilderness Hemana 316 David and Goliath Drummond 318 Stanzas on Death... Anonymoua 322 Belshazzar's Feast Drummond 323 The Burial of Moses Anonymous 327 BLANK VERSE. Satan to Beelzebub Milton 328 Satan's reproof of Beelzebub.^ Ibid 329 Satan surveying the horrors of He\l...Ibid 330 Satan arousmg his Legions Ibid 330 Description of the fallen Angels, Wandering through Hell Ibid 331 Evening in Paradise Ibid 331 Satan's Address to the Sun , Ibid . 333 Adam's account of himself with re- gard to his Creation Ibid 335 Contest between Gabriel and Satan Ibid 336 The Good Preacher and the Clerical Coxcomb Cowper 839 On the being of a God Young 340 Dublin Bay, Shipwreck, Deserted Passengers Drummond 341 Address to the Sun Ibid 344 PROMISCUOUS DRAMATIC SELECTIONS. Cardinal Wolsey's Speech to Crom- well Shakspeare 345 Henry V to his Soldiers Ibid 346 Marcellus' Speech to the Mob Ibid 346 Henry V's Speech before the Battle of Agincourt Ibid 347 Douglas' Account of himself. Home 348 Rolla to the Peruvians Sheridan 349 Cato's Soliloqwy on the Immortality of the Soul Addison 350 Xll CONTENTS. PAGE Brutus on the Death of Cessar Shakspeare..... 350 Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death Ibid 351 Mark Antony's Oration Ibid 352 Shylock justifying his Meditated Revenge ; Ibid 355 COMIC PIECES. Lodgings for Single Gentlemen.... Co/man 356 The Chameleon Merrick 357 The Three Black Crows Dr.Byrom 359 Contest between die Eyes and the Nose Cowper 360 The Charitable Barber. Jones 361 Law; AnonyniouM , 363 The Newcastle Apothecary Colman 365 The Three Warnings 367 The Razor Seller Pindar 370 The Case Altered Anonymous 372 MISCELLANEOUS. Song of the Greek Bard 373 The Dying Wizard B. B. Wale 376 Arnold Winkelried Montgomery 377 Caaabianoa. Hemans 378 Landing of the Pilgrims Ibid 379 The Burial of Arnold WiUis 380 The Mariner's Dream. Dimond. 382 DIALOGUES. Cato and Decius., Addison. Corin and Emma's Hospitality Tfumuon. 384 386 Coriolanus and Aufidius.....'. Shakspeare 387 Lady Randolph and Douglas Home 390 Alberto's Exculpation Home. 392 Alfred and Devon returned successful TAomMit 395 Th9 Quarrel of Brutus andGassius...5AaA9eare 396 Orestes delivering his Embassy to Fyrrhus Philips 400 Glenalvon andNorval Home 402 David and Goliath H. More 405 THE ELOCUTIONIST. PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS IN PROSE. Pronunciation. Before we enter upon particular rules, I would advise all who can, to study the art of speaking betimeSy and to practise it as often as possible, before they have contracted any of the common imperfections or vices of speaking j for these may easily be avoided at first, and when they are once learnt, it is extremely difficult to unlearn them. I advise all young persons to be governed in speaking, as in all other things, by reason rather than example, and therefore to have an especial care whom they imitate therein ; and to imitate only what is right in their manner of speaking, not their blemishes and imperfections. The first business of the speaker is, so to speak that he may be heard and understood with ease. In order to this, it is a great advantage to have a clear strong voice : — such at least, as will fill the place where you speak, so as to be heard by every person in it. To strengthen a weak voice, read or speak something aloud, for at least half an hour every morning j but take care not to strain your voice at first ; begin low and raise it by degrees to the height. If you are apt to falter in your speech, read something in private daily, and pronounce every word and syllable so distinctly, that they may all have their full sound and proportion. If you are apt to stammer at such and such particular expressions, take particular care, first, to pronounce tjiem plainly. When you are once able to do this, you may learn to pronounce them more fluently and at your leisure. The chief faults of i PROMISCUOUS SELSCTI0N9 speaking are, the speaking too loud ; this ia disagreeabfe to the hearers, as well as inconvenient to the speaker:^ For they must impute it either to ignorance or afiecta- tion, which is never so inexcusable an in preaching. Every man's voice should indeed fill the place where he speaks; but if it exceeds its natural key, it will neither be sweet, nor soft, nor agreeable, were it only on this account, that he cannot then give every word its proper and distinguishing sound. The speaking too low, i^ of the two, more disagreeable than the former. Take care, therefore, to keep between the extremes, to preserve the key, the command of your voice, and adapt the loudness of it to the place where you are, or the number of persons to whom you speak. In order to this, consider whether your voice be natu- rally loud or low; and if it incline to either extreme, correct this first in your ordinary conversation. If it be too low, converse with those that are deaf; if too loud, with those who speak softly. By speaking in a thick, cluttering manner, some persons mumble, or swallow some words or syllables ; and do not utter the rest articulately or distinctly. This is sometimes owing to a natural defect ; sometimes to a sudden flutter of the spirits, but oftener to a bad habit. To cure this, accustom yourself both in conversation and reading, to pronounce every word distinctly. Observe how full a sound some give to every word, and labour to imitate them. If no other way avail, do as Demosthenes did, who cured himself of this natural defect, by repeating orations every day with pebbles in his mouth. The speaking too fast, is a common fault ; but not a little one, particularly when we speak of the things of God. It may be cured by habituating yourself to attend to the weight, sense, and propriety of every word you speak. The speaking too slow is not a common fault ; and when we are once warned of it, it may be easily avoided. The speaking with an irregular, desultory, and uneven voice, raised or deprest unnaturally or unseasonably. To cure this, you should take care not to begin your periods either too high or too low ; for that would necessarily lead you to an unnatural and improper variation of the voice ; and remember, never 1 I IN PROSE. either to raise or sink your voice without a particular reason, arising either from the length of the period, or the sense or spirit of what you speak. But the greatest and most common fault of all is, speaking with a tone; some have a womanish squeaking tone ; some a singing or canting one ; some an high, swelling, theatrical tone, laying too much emphasis on every sentence ; sassionate accent. Tou may speak a little louder in aying down what you design to prove, and explaining it to your hearers. But you need not speak with any warmth or emotion yet ; it is enough if you speak articulately and distinctly. When you prove your point, and refute your adversary's objections, there is need of more earnestness and extension of voice : and here chiefly it is, that you are to vary your voice according to the rules above recited. A little pause may then precede the conclusion, in which you may gradually rise to the utmost strength of pronunciation, and finish all with a lively, cheerful voice, expressing joy and satisfaction. An exclamation requires a loud and strong voice ; and so does an oath or strong asse^ veratioHf as O, the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! I call God to record upon my soul. In a prosopopoeia, the voice should be varied, according to the characters of the persons introduced ; in an apostrophe^ according to tlie circum- stances of the person or thing to which you address your speedi; which if directed to God, or to inanimate things^ ought to be louder than usnal. In reciting and answering objections, the voice should be varied, as if two persons were speaking ; and so in dialogues, or whenever several persons are introduced, as disputing or talking together. In a climaXy the voice must be gradually raised to answer every step of the figure. In a postopesis, the voice (which was raised to intro- duce it) must be lowered considerably. In an ante- thesis, the points are to be distinguished, and the former to be pronounced with a stronger tone than the latter : but in an anadiplosis, the word repeated is pronounced the second time louder and stronger than the first. Take care never to make a pause in speaking in the middle of a word or sentence ; but only where there is such a pause in the sense, as requires, or at least allows of it. You may make a short pause after every period, and begin the next generally a little lower than you concluded the last ; but on some occasions a little higher, which the nature of the subject will easily determine. I would likewise advise every speaker to IN PROSE. 7 observe those who speak well, that he may not pro- nounce any word in an improper manner ; and in case of doubt, let him not be ashamed to ask how such a word should be pronounced ; as also to desire others that they would inform him whenever they hear him pronounce any word improperly. Lastly, take care not to sink your voice too much at the conclusion of a period ; but pronounce the very last words loud and ■distinctly, especially if they have but a weak and dull «ound of themselves. On Studt^ Studies' serve^ for delighf , for ornament', and for a,bility\ Their chief use for delight', is in privateness' «nd retiring^; for ornament\ is ia discourse'; and for ability, is in the judgment^ and disposition' of business^. For expert^ men can execute', and perhaps judges of particulars, one^ by one'; but the general' counselsx and the plots\ and marshaling' of affairs, come^ besf from those that are learned\ To spend too^ much time' in studies, is sloth^; to use' them too much for orna- ment^, is affectation'; to make judgment wholly^ by their' rules, is the humour^ of a scholar^ They per- fect^ nature', and are perfected' by experience^; for natural^ abilities' are like natural plants\ that need pruning, by stud/t and studies themselves^ do give forth directions^ too much at large', except they be bounded^ in' by experience^. Crafty' men contemn^ fitudies, simple^ men admire' them, and wise' men use^ them : for they teach not their own' use, but that is a wisdom without^ them, and above' them, won' by obser- vation\ Read' — not to contradict and refute', not to believe'^ and take for granted', nor to find talk^ and discourse' — but to weigh' and consider\ Some' books are to be tasted^; others'^, to be swallowed'; and some^ few', to be chewed' and digested^: that is, some' books are to be read only in parts^; others\ to be read^ — but not curiously'; and some^ few', to be read wholl/, and with diligence' and attention'^. Some books also may be read by deputy^, and extracts of them made by others'; but that should be only in the less' important PROMISCUOUS SKLKCTIONii il I : arguments, and the meaner> sort of bookd; else dis- tilled' books^ are like common^ distilled waters' — flashy^ things\ Reading' maketh a full^ man; conference\ a ready' man; and writing', an exact^ man. And, there fore, if a man write' little, he had need have a present' wit^; if he confer^ little, he had need have a good^ memory'; and if he read' little, he had need have much^ cunning' to seem^ to know' that he doth not/ Bacon. On the Love of Life. AoE, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases 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 prevail- ing passion of the mind; and the small remainder of life is taken up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or provide for a continued existence. Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which even the wise are liable! 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 prcsnect in fancied beauty; some happiness, in long per:.^)ective, still beckons me to pursue; and, like a losing gamester, every new disappointment increases my ardour to continue the game. Whence, then, is this increased love of life, v ai(;h grows upon us with our years? Whence coma's it.. that we thus make greater efforts to preserve oui ox'.k- tence, at, a period when it becomes scarce worth the keeping? Is it that Nature, attentive to the preserva- tion of i."iankind, increases our wishes to live, while she le;;seri' ' t enjoyments; and, as she robs the senses of everj piesso- 1, equi^is Imagination in the spoils? Life would ce insupport.ible to an old man, who, loaded IN PROSK. 9 With infirmities, feared death no more than when in the vigour of manhood; the numberless calamities of decaying nature, and the consciousness of surviving every pleasure, would at once 'nduce him, with his own hand, to terminate the scene of misery: but hap- pily the contempt of death for ikes iiini u a time when it could only be prejudicial; and life acquires an ima- ginary value, in proportion as its roal value is no more. Our attachment to every object around us increases, ingeri'Tal from the length of our acquaintance with it. • . 01 •''^ not choose," says a French philosopher, '* tu '366 ab old poet pulled up, with which I had been Ion? (icquainted.^ A mind long habituated to a cer- tain set of objects, insensibly 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 ail its advantages; not because it gives them pleasure, but because they have known it long. Goldsmith, On Grieving for the Dead, We sympathize even with the dead ; and, overlook- ing what is of real importance in their situation — that awful futurity which awaits them — we are chiefly affected by those circumstances which strike our senses, but can have no influence upon their happiness. It is mifierable, we think, to be deprived of the light of the sun; to be shut out from life and conversation; to be laid in the cold grave, a prey to corruption, and the reptiles of the earth; to be no more thought of in this world, but to be obliterated, in a little time, from the affections, and almost from the memory, of their dearest friends and relations. Surely, we imagine, we can never feel too much for those who have suffered so dreadful a calamity. The tribute of our fellow-feeling seems doubly due to them now, when they are in danger of being forgot by every body; and, by the vain honours which we pay to their memory, we endeavour, for our own misery, artificially to keep alive our me* a2 10 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS lancholy remembrance of their misfortune. That our sympathy can afford them no consolation, seems to be an addition to their calamity; and to think that all we can do is unavailing, and that, what alleviates all other distresses — the regret, the love, and the lamentations of friends — can yield no comfort to them, serves only to exasperate our sense of their misery. The happi- ness of the dead, however, most assuredly, is affected by none of these circumstances; nor is it the thought of these things which can ever difcturb the profound security of their repose. The idea of that dreary and endless melancholy, which the fancy naturally ascribes to their condition, arises altogether from our joining, to the change which haa been produced upon them, our own consciousness of that change, from our put- ting ourselves in their situation, and from our lodging — if I may be allowed to say so — our own living souls in their inanimated bodies, and thence conceiving what would be our emotions in this case. It is from this very illusion of the imagination, that the foresight of our own dissolution is .so terrible to us, and that the idea of these circumstances, which undoubtedly can give us no pain when we are dead, makes us miserable while we are alive. And from thence arises one of the most important principles in human nature — the dread of death; the great poison to the happiness, but the great restraint upon the injustice of mankind; which, while it afflicts and mortifies the individual, guards and protects the society. Dr. Adam Smith. On Remorse. * As the greater and more irreparable the evil that is done, the resentment of the sufferer runs naturally the higher; so does likewise the sympathetic indignation of the spectator, as well as the sense of guilt in the agent. Death is the greatest evil which one man can inflict upon another, and excites the highest degree of resentment in those who are immediately connected with the slain. Murder, therefore, is the most atro- cious of all crimes which affect individuals only, in the sight both of mankind, and. of the person who has 1 IN PROSE. 11 /. committed it. To be deprived of that which we are possessed of, is a greater evil than to be disappointed of what we have only the expectation. Breach of property, therefore, theft and robbery, which take from us what we are possessed of, are greater crimes than breach of contract, which only disappoints us of what we expected. The most sacred laws of justice, there- fore — those whose violation seems to call loudest for vengeance and punishment — are the laws which guard the life and person of our neighbour; the next are those which guard his property and possessions; and last of all come those which guard what are called his personal rights, or what is due to him from the promises of others. The violator of the more sacred laws of justice, can never reflect on the sentiments which mankind must entertain with regard to him,^ without feeling all the agonies of shame, and ho£|!0?vi^Li^t$99iternation. When his passion is gratifle< on his past condue motives which in detestable to him, By sympathizing w other men must en measure the object The situation of the tice, now calls upon his oily to reflect none of the ear now as |ther people, ence which m^s in some abhorrence, by his inj US- is gdeved at the thought of it; regrets the unhappy .^^edtfi » of his own conduct; and feels, at the same time, that they have rendered him the proper object of the resentment and indignation of mankind, and of what is the natural consequence of resentment — vengeance and punish- ment. The thought of this perpetually haunts him, and fills him with terror and amazement. He dares no longer look society in the face, but imagines him- self as it were rejected, and thrown out from the affections of all mankind. He cannot hope for the consolation of sympathy, in this his greatest and most dreadful distress: the remembrance of his crimes has shut out all fellow-feeling with him from the hearts of his fellow- creatures. The sentiments which they enter- tain with regard to him, are the very thing which he 12 PBOMISCtrOUS SELECTIONS is most afraid of; every thing seems hostile ; and he would be glad to fly to some inhospitable desert, where he might never more behold the face of a human crea- ture, cor read in the countenance of mankind the condemnation of his crimes. But solitude is still more dreadful than society. His own thoughts can present him with nothing but what is black, unfortunate and disastrous — the melancholy forebodings of incompre- hensible misery and ruin. The horror of solitude drives him back to society; and he comes again into the presence of mankind, astonished to appear before them, loaded with shame, and distracted with fear, in order to supplicate some little protection from the countenance of those very judges, who he knows have already all unanimously condemned him. Such is the nature of that sentiment, which is properly called remorse; of all the sentiments which can enter the human breast, the most dreadful. It is made up — of shame, from the .sense of the impropriety of past con- duct; of grief, for the eifects of it; of pity, for those who suffer by it, and, o^ the dread and terror of punish- ment, from the coniciousness of the justly-provoked resentment of all ratip^rM creatures. , i Dr. Mam Smith. '>*■' Discontentf tht'MmmM Lot of all Mankind, Such is the emptiness of human enjoyment, that we are always impatient of the present. Attainment is followed by neglect, and possession by disgust. Few moments are more pleasing than those in which the mind is concerting measures for a new undertaking. From the first hint that wakens the fancy, to the hour of actual execution, all is improvement and progress, triumph and felicity. Every hour brings additions to the original scheme, suggests some new expedient to secure success, or discovers consequential advantages not hitherto foreseen. While preparations are made and materials accumulated, day glides after day through Elysian prospects, and the heart dances to the song of hope. Such is the pleasure of projecting, that many content ) 4 IN PROSE. 18 ^f themselves with a succession of visionary schemes; and wear out their allotted time in the calm amuse- ment of contriving what they never attempt or hope to execute. Others — not able to feast their imagination with pure ideas — advance somewhat nearer to the grossness of action, with great diligence collect whatever is requisite to their design, and, after a thousand re- searches and consultations, are snatched away by death, as they stand waiting for a proper opportunity to begin. If there were no other end of life, than to find some adequate solace for every day, I know not whether any condition could be preferred to that of the man who involves himself in his own thoughts, and never suffers experience to show him the vanity of speculation : for no sooner are notions reduced to practice, than tran- quillity and confidence forsake the breast ; every day brings its task, and often without bringing abilities to perform it ; difiicuUies embarrass, uncertainty per- plexes, opposition retards, censure exasperates, or ne- glect depresses. We proceed, because we have begun ; we complete our design, that the labour already spent may not be vain: but as expectation gradually dies away, the gay smile of alacrity disappears, we are necessitated to implore severer powers, and trust the event to patience and constancy. When once our labour has begun, the comfort that enables us to endure it is the prospect of its end : for, though in every long work there are some joyous inter- vals of self-applause, when the attention is recreated by unexpected facility, and the imagination soothed by incidental excellencies not comprised in the first plan ; yet the toil with which performance struggles after idea, is so irksome and disgusting, and so frequent is the necessity of resting below that perfection which we imagined within our reach ; that seldom any man obtains more from his endeavours, than a painful con- viction of his defects, and a continual resuscitation of desires which he feels himself unable to gratify. So certainly are weariness and vexation the conco- mitants of our undertakings, that every man, in what- 14 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS ever he is engaged, consoles himself with the hope of change. He that has made his way by assiduity and vigilance to public employment, talks among his friends of nothing but the delight of retirement: he whom the necessity of solitary application secludes from the world, listens with a beating heart to its distant noises, longs to mingle with living beings, and resolves, when he can regulate his hours by his own choice, to take his fill of merriment and diversion, or to display his abilities on the universal theatre, and enjoy the plea- sures of distinction and applause. Every desire, however innocent or natural, grows dangerous, as by long indulgence it becomes ascendant in the mind. When we have been much accustomed to consider any thing as capable of giving happiness, it is not easy to restrain our ardour ; or to forbear some precipitation in our advances, and irregularity in our pursuits. He that has long cultivated the tree, watched the swelling bud and opening blossom, and pleased himself with computing how much every sun and shower added to its growth ; scarcely stays till the fruit has obtained its maturity, but defeats his own cares by eagerness to reward them. When we have diligently laboured for any purpose, we are willing to believe that we have attained it ; and, because we have already done much, too suddenly conclude that no more is to be done. All attraction is increased by the approach of the attracting body. We never find ourselves so desirous to finish, as in the latter part of our work ; or so im- patient of delay, as when we know that delay cannot be long. Part of this unseasonable importunity of discontent may be justly imputed to languor and weari- ness — which must always oppress us more, as our toil has been longer continued : but the greater part usually proceeds from frequent contemplation of that ease which we now consider as near and certain ; and which, when it has once flattered our hopes, we cannot r suffer to be longer withheld. Joh?ii>on. IN PROSE. 15 (^ On the iS 'hlime in Writing. It is, generally speaking, among the most ancient au- thors, that we are to look for the most striking in- stances of the sublime. The early ages of the world, and the rude unimproved state of society, are pecu- liarly favourable to the strong emotion of sublimity. The genius of men is then much turned to admiration and astonishment. Meeting with many objects, to them new and strange, their imagination is kept glow- ing, and their passions are often raised to the utmost. They think and express themselves boldly, and with- out restraint. In the progress of society, the genius and manners of men undergo a change more favourable to accuracy, than to strength or sublimity. Of all writings, ancient or modern, the Sacred Scriptures afford us the highest instances of the sublime. The descriptions of the Deity, in them, are wonderfully noble, both from the grandeur of the object, and the manner of representing it. What an assemblage, for instance, of awful and sublime ideas is presented to us, in that passage of the XVIIIth Psalm, where an appearance of the Almighty is des- cribed : " In my distress I called upon the Lord ; he heard my voice out of his temple, and my cry came before him. Then the earth shook and trembled ; the foundations also of the hills were moved, because he was wroth. He bowed the heavens and came down, and darkness was under his feet : and he did ride U()on a cherub, and did fly ; yea, he did fly upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness his secret place; his pavilion round about him were dark waters, and thick clouds of the sky." We see with what propriety and success the circum'stances of darkness and terror are applied for heightening the sublime. So, also, the prophet Habakkuk, in a similar passage : " He stood, and measured the earth ; he beheld, and drove asunder the nations. The everlasting mountains were scatter- ed ; the perpetual hills did bow. His ways are ever- lasting. The mountains saw thee, and they trembled; the overflowing of the water passed by; the deep uttered his voice, and lifted up his hands on high." 16 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS The noted iristance given by Longinus from Moses — " God said, let there be light ; and there was light" — is not liable to the censure, which was passed on some of his instances, of being foreign to the subject. It belongs to the true sublime ; and the sublimity of it arises from the strong conception it gives of an exer- tion of power, producing its effect with the utmost speed and facility. A thought of the same kind is magnificently amplified in the following passage of Isaiah (chap. xliv. 24, 27, 28): " Thus saith the Lord, thy Redeemer, and he that formed thee from the womb ; I am the Lord that maketh all things, that stretcheth forth the heavens alone, that spreadeth abroad the earth by myself — that saith to the deep, Be dry, and I will dry up thy rivers ; that saith of Cyrus, He is my Shepherd, and shall perform all my pleasure ; even saying to Jerusalem, Thou shalt be built ; and to the temple. Thy foundations shall be laid." There is a passage in the Psalms, which deserves to be mentioned under this head : " God," says the Psalmist, " stilleth the noise of the seas, the noise of their waves, and the tumults of the people. The joining together two such grand objects, as the raging of the waters, and the tumults of the people, between which there is such resemblance as to form a very natural association in the fancy, and the representing them both as subject, at one moment, to the command of God, produces a noble effect. Homer is a poet, who, in all ages, and by all critics, has been greatly admired for sublimity ; and he owes much of his gfandeur to that native and unaffected simplicity, which characterizes his manner. His des- cription of hosts engaging ; the animation, the fire, the rapidity, which he throws into his battles, present, to every reader of the Iliad, frequent instances of sublime writing. His introduction of the gods, tends often to heighten, in a striking degree, the majesty of his war- like scenes. Hence Longinus bestows such high and just commendations on that passage, in the XVth Book of the Iliad, where Neptune, when preparing to issue forth into the engagement, is described as shaking the mountains with his steps, and driving his chariot IN PKOtJE. 17 along the ocean. Minerva arming herself for fighf, in the Vth Book; and Apollo, in the XVth, leading on the Trojans, and flashing terror with his a3gis on the face of the Greeks ; are similar instances of great sub- limity, added to the description of battles, by the appearance of those celestial beings. In the XXth Book, where all the gods take part in the engagement, according as they severally favour either the Grecians or the Trojans, the poet's genius is signally displayed, and the description rises into the most awful magnificence. All nature is represented as in commotion ; Jupiter thunders in the heavens; Neptune strikes the earth with his trident ; the ships, the city, and the mountains shake ; the earth trembles to its centre ; Pluto starts from his throne in dread, lest the secrets of the infernal regions should be laid open to the view of mortals. The works of Ossian abound with examples of the sublime. The subjects of which that author treats, and the manner in which he writes, are particularly favourable to it. He possesses all the plain and vene- rable manner of the ancient times. He deals in no superfluous or gaudy ornaments ; but throws forth his images with a rapid conciseness, which enables them to strike the mind with the greatest force. Among poets of more polished times, we are to look for the graces of correct writing : for just proportion of parts, and skilfully-connected narration. In the midst of smiling scenery and pleasurable themes, the gay and beautiful will appear, undoubtedly, to more advantage; but amidst the rude scenes of nature and of society, such as Ossian describes — amidst rocks, and torrents, and whirlwinds, and battles — dwells the sublime ; and na- turally associates itself with the grave and solemn spirit which distinguishes the author of Fingal. " As autumn's dark storms pour from two echoing hills, 60 towards each ether approached the heroes. As two dark streams from high rocks meet, and mix, and roar on the plain ; loud, rough, and dark — in battle, met Lochlin and Innis-fail. Chief mixed his strokes with chief, and man with man. Steel clanging founded on steel. Helmets are cleft on high; blood bursts, and smokes around. As the troubled noise of the ocean. 18 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS when roll the waves on high; as the last peal of the thun- der of heaven; sunh is the noise of battle. As roll a thou- sand waves to the rock, so Svvaran's host came on ; as meets a rock a thousand waves, so Innis-fail met Swaran. Death raises all his voices around, and mix«s with the sound of shields. The field echoes from wing towing, as a hundred hammers that fall by turns on the red sun of the furnace. As a hundred winds on Morven, as the streams of a hundred hills, as clouds fly successive over the heavens, or as the dark ocean assaults the shore of the desert — so roaring, so vast, so terrible, the armies mixed on Lena's echoing heath. The groan of the people spread over the hills. It was like the thun- der of night, when the clouds burst on Cona, and a thousand ghosts shriek at once on the hollow wind." Never were images of more awful sublimity employed to heighten the terror of battle. Blair. Reflections in Westminster Jihhey. When I am in a serious humour, I very often walk by myself in Westminster Abbey; where the gloominess of the place, and the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity of the building, and the condition of the people who lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. I yesterday passed the whole afternoon in the church-yard, the cloisters, and the church; amusing myself with the tomb-stones and inscriptions that I met with in those several regions of the dead. Most of them recorded nothing else of the buried per- son, but that he was born upon one day, and died upon another — the whole history of his life being com- prehended in those two circumstances, that are common to all mankind. I could not but look upon these regis- ters of existence — whether brass or marble — as a kind of satire upon the depart '1 persons; who had left no other memorial of them, but that they were born, and that they died. Upon my going into the church, I entertained myself with the digging of a grave; and saw in Qs^ry shovel- full of it that was thrown up, the fragments of a bone or skull — intermixed with a kind of a fresh mouldering ,i 1 IN PROSE. 19 i earth, that some time or other had a place in the com- position of a human body. Upon this, I began to con- sider with myself what innumerable multitudes of people lay confused together, under the pavement of that ancient cathedral; — how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and soldiers, monks and preben- daries, were crumbled amongst one another, and blended together in the same common mass ; — how beauty, strength, and youth ; with old age, weakness, and deformity, lay undistinguished in the same promiscuous heap of matter ! I know that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise dark and dismal thoughts in timorous minds, and gloomy imaginations: but, for my own part, though I am always serious, I do not know what it is to be melancholy; and can therefore take a view of Nature in her deep and solemn scenes, with the same pleasure as in her most gay and delightful ones. By this means I can improve myself with objects which others con- sider with terror. When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every inordinate desire goes out: When I meet with the grief of parents upon a tomb-stone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow : When I see kings lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men that divided the world with their con- test and disputes — I reflect, with sorrow and astonish- ment, o" the little competitions, factions, and debates of mankind : When I read the several dates of the tombs — of some that died yesterday, and some six hundred years ago —I consider that great day when we shall all of us be contemporaries, and make our appear- ance together! Addison. Virtue, Man's Highest Interest. I FIND myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded every way by an immense unknown expansion. — Where am I? What sort of a place do I inhabit? Is 20 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS it exactly accommodated, in every instance, to my con- venience? Is tliere no excess of cold, none of heat, to offend me? Am I never annoyed by animals, eiUier of my own kind, or a different? Is every thing sub- servient to me, as though I had ordered all myself? — No — nothing like it — the farthest from it possible. The world appears not, then, originally made for the private convenience of me alone? — It does not. But is it not possible so to accommodate it, by my own par- ticular industry? — If to accommodate man and beast, heaven and earth — if this be beyond me — it is not possible. What consequence then follows? or can there be any other than this? — If I seek an interest of my own, detached from that of others, I seek an inter- est which is chimerical, and can never have existence. How, then, must I determine? Have I no interest at all? If I have not, I am a fool for staying here : 'tis a smoky house, and the sooner out of it the better. But why no interest? Can I be contented with none, but one separate and detached? Is a social interest, joined with others, such an absurdity as not to be admitted? The bee, the beaver, and the tribes of herd- ing animals, are enough to convince me that the thing is somewhere at least possible; how, then, am I assured that it is not equally true of man? Admit it; and what follows? If so, then honour and justice are my interest; then the whole train of moral virtues are my interest : without some portion of which, not even thieves can maintain society. But farther still — I stop not here — I pursue this social interest as far as I can trace my several relations. I pass from my own stock, my own neighbourhood, my own nation, to tlie whole race of mankind, as dispersed throughout the earth — Am I not related to them all, by the mutual aids of commerce, by the general intercourse of arts and let- ters, by that common nature of which we all partici- pate? Again — I must have food and clothing. Without a proper genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I not related, in this view, to the very earth itself? to the distant sun, from whose beams I derive vigour? to that stupendous course and order of the infinite host of ' f IN PllOSE. 21 heaven, by which the times and seasons ever uniformly pass on? Were this order once confounded, I could not probably survive a moment; so absolutely do I depend on this a)mmon general welfare. What, then, have I to do, but to enlarge virtue into piety? Not only honour and justice, and what I owe to man, is my interest; but gratitude also, acquiescence, resignation, adoration, and all I owe to this great polity, and its greater Governor — our common Parent. Harris. The Monk. A POOR Monk of the order of St. Francis, came into the room to beg something for his convent. The mo- ment I cast my eyes upon him, I was determined not to give him a single sous; and accordingly I put my purse into my pocket — buttoned it up — set myself a little more upon my centre, and advanced up gravely to him. There was something, I fear, forbidding in my look : I have his figure this moment before my eyes, and think there was that in it which deserved better. The monk, as I judged from the break in his ton- sure — a few scattered white hairs upon his temples being all that remained of it — might be about seventy; but from his eyes, and that sort of fire which was in them — which seemed more tempered by courtesy than years — could be no more than sixty. Truth might lie between — He was certainly sixty-five: and the general air of his countenance — notwithstanding some- thing seemed to have been planting wrinkles in it befoi e their time — agreed to the account. It was one of those i>eads which Guido has often painted — mild, pale — penetrating; free from all com- mon-place ideas of fat-contented ignorance looking downwards upon the earth — It looked forwards; but looked — as if it looked at something beyond this world. How one of his order came by it, Heaven above, who let it fall upon a monk's shoulders, best knows: but it would have suited a Bramin; and had I met it upon the plains of Indostan, I had reverenced it. The rest of his outline may be given in a few 23 PKOMISCUOUS SELECTIONS strokes ; one might put it into the hands of any one to design; for it was neither elegant nor otherwise, but as character and expression made it so. It was a thin, spare form, something above the common si A —if it lost not the distinction by a bend forwards in the figure — but it was the attitude of entreaty; and, as it now stands present in my imagination, it gained more than it lost by it. When he had entered ths room three paces, he stood still; and laying his left hand upon his breast — a slen- der white staff with which he journeyed being in his right — when I had got close up to him, he introduced himself with the little story of the wants of his con- vent, and the poverty of his order — and did it with so simple a grace — and such an air of deprecation was there in the whole cast of his look and figure — I was bewitched not to have been struck with it — A better reason was, I had predetermined not to give him a single sous. 'Tis very true, said I — replying to a cast upwards with his eyes, with which he had concluded his address — *tis very true ; and heaven be their resource who have no other than the charity of the world ; the stock of which, I fear, is no way sufficient for the many great claims which are hourly made upon it. As I pronounced the words " great claims^*'' he gave a slight glance with his eyes downward upon the sleeve of his tunic — I felt the full force of the appeal. I acknowledge it, said I ; a coarse habit, and that but once in three years, with meagre diet — are no great matters : but the true point of pity is, as they can be earned in the world with so little industry, that your order should wish to procure them by pressing upon a fund which is the property of the lame, the blind, the aged, and the infirm. The captive who lies down counting over and over again the days of his affliction, languishes also for his share of it ; and had you been of the order of mercy, instead of the order of St. Francis, poor as I am — continued I, pointing at my portmanteau — full cheerfully should it have been open- ed to you for the ransom of the unfortunate. The monk made me a bow — but, resumed 1, the unfortunate of our IN I'llOSE. 23 1 t own country surely have the first right; and I have left thousands in distress upon the English shore. The monk gave a cordial wave with his hand — as much as to sayi " No doubt there is misery enough in every corner of the world, as well as within our convent." But we distinguish, said I — laying my hand upon the sleeve of his tunic, in return for his appeal — we dis- tinguish, my good father, betwixt those who wish only to eat the bread of their own labour ; and those who eat the bread of other people's, and have no other plan in life, but to get through it in sloth and ignorance,ybr the love of God — The poor Franciscan made no reply. A hectic of a moment passed across his cheek, but could not tarry. Nature seemed to have done with her resentments in him: he showed none — but letting his staff fall within his arms he pressed both his hands with resignation upon his breast — and retired. My heart smote me the moment he shut the door — "Pshaw!" said I, with an air of carelessness, three several times. — But it would not do! Everjr ungra- cious syllable I had uttered crowded back into my ima- gination. I reflected I had no right over the poor Franciscan, but to deny him; and that the punishment of that was enough to the disappointed, without the addition of unkind language — I considered his gray hairs — his courteous figure seemed to re-enter; and gently ask me what injury he had done me, and why I could use him thus? — I would have given twenty livres for an advocate-^" I have behaved very ill," said I within myself; "but I have only just set out on my travels, and shall learn better manners as I get along." . Sterne. On Military Glory. " You will grant me, however," interposed Tiberius, " that there are refined and sensible delights, in their nature proper for the gratification of a monarch, which are always sure to give rational enjoyment, without the danger of disgusting by repetition?" — "As for instance?" says Belisarius. — " The love of glory, for 24 PROMISCUOUS SELKCTIONS instance," replied the young man. — "But what sort of glory?" — " Why, of all the various classes of glory, renown in arms must hold the foremost place." — Very well; that is your position: and do you think the plea- sure that springs from conquest has a sincere and last- ing charm in it? Alas! when millions are stretched in mangled heaps upon the field of battle, can the mind in that situation taste of joy? I can make no allow- ance for those who have met danger in all its shapes: They may be permitted to congratulate themselves, that they have escaped with their lives; but, in the case of a king born with sensibility of heart, the day that spills a deluge of human blood, and bids the tears of natural affection flow in rivers round the land; that cannot be a day of true enjoyment. I have more than once traversed over a field of battle; I would have been glad to have seen a Nero in my place: the tears of humanity must have burst from him. I know there are princes who take the pleasure of a campaign, as they do that of hunting; and who send forth their people to the fray, as they let slip their dogs: but the rage of conquest is like the unrelenting temper of avarice, which torments itself, and is to the last insa- tiable. A province has been invaded, it has been sub- dued, it lies contiguous to another not yet attempted. Desire begins to kindle, invasion happens after inva- sion, ambition irritates itself to new projects; till at length comes a reverse of fortune, which exceeds, in the mortification it brings, all the pride and joy of former victories. But, to give things every flattering appearance, let us suppose a train of uninterrupted success: yet, even in that case, the conqueror pushes forward, like another Alexander, to the limits of the world, and then, like him, re-measures back his course; fatigued with triumphs, a burden to himself and man- kind, at a loss what to do with the immense tracts which he has depopulated, and melancholy with the reflection, that an acre of his conquests would suflice to maintain him, and a little pit-hole to hide his re- mains from the world. In my youth I saw the sepul- chre of Cyrus; a stone bore this inscription : */ am CyruSy he who subdued the Persian empire. Friend^ IN PROSE. 2S whoever thou arty or wherever thy native country^ envy me not the scanty space that covers my clay-cold ashes.* " Alas I" said I, turning asitie from the mournful epi- taph, " is it worth while to be a conqueror 1" Tiberius interrupted him with astonishment: " Can these be the sentiments of Belisarius!" — " Yes, young man, thus thinks Belisarius: he is able to decide upon the subject. Of all the plagues which the pride of man has engendered, the rage of conquest is the most destruetive." MarmonteL Liberty and Slavery, Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, Slavery! still thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all ages, have been made to drink of thee, thou art no les9 bitter on that account. It is thou. Liberty! thrice sweet and gracious goddess! whom all, in public or in private, worship; whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till Nature herself shall change. No tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chemic power turn thy sceptre into iron. With thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch; from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven! grant me but health, thou great bestower of it ! and give me but this fair goddess as my companion 1 and shower do\i^n thy mitres, if it seem good unto thy divine Providence, upon those heads which are aching for them! Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close by my table; and, leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my ima- gination. I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow- creatures, born to no inheritance but slavery; but find- ing, however afiecting the picture was, that I coul<|, not bring it near me, and that the multitude of sa4 groups in it did but distract me — I took a single cap- tive; and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture. u r 26 PROMISCUOUS SEf.ECTIONg I beheld his body half wasted away with long expec-' tation and confinement; and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it is which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish. Iw tliirty years, the western breeze had not once fanned his blood — he had seen no sun, no moon in all that time — nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice. His children — but here my heart began to bleed — and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait. He was sitting upon the ground, upon a little straw in the farthest corner of his dungeon, whieh was alter- nately his chair and bed. A little kalendar of small sticks was laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there. He had one of these little sticks in his hand; and, with a rusty nail, he was etching another day of misery, to add to' the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door — then cast it down— shook his head — and went on with his work of affliction. I hetfrd his chains npon his legs* as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. — He gave a deep sigh — I saw the iron enter into his soul. — I burst into tears. — I could not sustain the pic- ture of confinement which my fancy had drawn. Sterne. Reyno and »dlpin. Ret/no. The wind and rain are over; calm is the noon of day. The clouds are divided in heaven; over the green hills flies the inconstant sun; red, through the stony vale, comes down the stream of the hill.- — Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream ! but more sweet is the voice I hear. — It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song, mourning for the dead. — Bent is his head of age, and red his tearful eye. — Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill? Why complainest thou as a blast in the wood — as a wave on the lonely shore? Alpin. My tears, O Reyno I are for the dead — my voice for the inhabitants of the grave. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the sons of the plain — But IN PROSE. 27 thou shalt fall like Morar; and the mourner shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more, thy bow shall lie in the hall unstrung. Thou wert swift, O Morar I as a roe on the hill — terrible as a meteor of fire.-^ Thy wrath was as the storm — thy sword, in battle, as lightning in the field. Thy voice was like a stream after rain — like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm — they were consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return from war, how peaceful was thy brow! Thy face was like the sun after rain — like the moon in the silence of night — calm as the breast of the lake, when the loud wind is hushed into repose. Narrow is thy dwelling now — dark the place of thine abode. With three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before S Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee. A tree, with scarce a leaf — long grass whistling in the wind — mark, to the hunter's eye, the grave of the mighty Morar! — Morar I thou art low indeed: thou hast no mother to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love: dead is she that brought thee forth; fallen is the daughter of Morglan. — Who, on his staff, is this? who this, whose head is white with age, whose eyes are galled with tears, who quakes at every step? It is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son, but thee. Weep, thou father of Morar! weep; but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of the dead — low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy voice — no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the grave, to bid the slumberer awake? — Farewell! thou bravest of men: thou conqueror in the field: but the field shall see thee no more; nor the gloomy wood be lightened with the splendour of thy steel. — —Thou hast left no son — but the song shall preserve thy name. Ossian. Story of the Siege of Calais. Edwabd III. after the battle of Cressy, laid siege to Calais. He had fortified hie camp in so impregnable a manner, that all the efforts of France proved ineffectual mm I H 88 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS to raise the siege, or throw succours into the city. The citizens, under Count Vienne, their gallant gover- nor, made an admirable defence. France had. now put the sickle into her second harvest, since Edward, wiih his victorious army, sat down before the town. The eyes of all Europe were intent on the issue. At length, famine did more for Edward than arms. After suffer- ing unheard-of calamities, they resolved to attempt the enemy's camp. They boldly sallied forth; the English joined battle; and, after a long and desperate engagement. Count Vienne was taken prisoner, and the citizens who survived the slaughter retired within their gates. The command devolving upon Eustace St. Pierre, a man of mean birth, but of exalted virtue, he offered to capitulate with Edward, provided he per- mitted them to depart with life and liberty. Edward, to avoid the inoputation of cruelty, consented to spare the bulk of the plebeians, provided they delivered up to him six of their principal citizens with halters about their necks, as victims of due atonement for that spirit of rebellion with which they had inflamed the vulgar. When his messenger, Sir Walter Mauny, delivered the terms, consternation and pale dismay were impressed on every countenance. To a long and dead silence, deep sighs and groans succeeded, till Eustace St. Pierre, getting up to a little eminence, thus addressed the assembly: — " My friends, we are brought to great straits this day. We must either yield to the terms of our cruel and ensnaring conqueror, or give up our tender infants, our wives, and daughters, to the bloody and brutal lusts of the violating soldiers. Is there any expedient left, whereby we may avoid the guilt and infamy of delivering up those who have suffered every misery with you, on the one hand, or the deso- lation and horror of a sacked city, on the other? There is one expedient left! — a gracious, an excellent, a god- like expedient left! Is there any here to whom virtue is dearer than life? Let him offer himself an oblation for the safety of his people! He shall not fail of a blessed approbation from that Power who offered up his only Son for the salvation of mankind." — He spoke ;--tp but a universal silence ensued. Each man looked IN PROSE. 29 around for the example of that virtue and magnanimity which all wished to approve in themselves, though they wanted the resolution. At length St. Pierre resumed: "I doubt not but there are many here as ready, nay, more zealous of this martyrdom than I can be; though the station to which I am raised by the captivity of Lord Vienne, imparts a right to be the first in giving my life for your sakes. I give it freely? I give it cheerfully. Who comes next?" — " Your son," exclaimed a youth not yet come to maturity. — "Ah! my child!" cried St. Pierre; "I am then twice sacrificed. — But no; I have rather begotten thee a second time. Thy years are few, but full, my son. The victim of virtue has reached the utmost purpose and goal of mortality I Who next, my friends? This is the hour of heroes." — " Your kinsman," cried John de Aire. — " Your kinsman," cried James Wissant. — "Your kinsman," cried Peter Wissant. — "Ah!" exclaimed Sit Walter Mauny, bursting into tears, " why was not I a citizeii of Calais?" The sixth victim was still wanting, but was quickly supplied by lot, from numbers who were cow emulous of so ennobling an example. The keys of the city were then delivered to Sir Walter. He took the six prisonners into his custody; then ordered the gates to be opened, and gave charge to his attend- ants to conduct the remaining citizens, with their fami- lies, through the camp of the English. Before they departed, however, they desired permission to take the last adieu of their deliverers. What a parting! what a scene! they crowded with their wives and children about St. Pierre and his felloW-prisoners. They em* braced; they clung around; they fell prostrate before them: they groaned; they wept aloud; and the joint clamour of their mourning passed the gates of the city, and was heard throughout the English camp. The English, by this time, were apprized of what passed within Calais. They heard the voice of lamen- tation, and their souls were touched with compassion. Each of the soldiers prepared a portion of his own victuals, to welcome and entertain the half- famished inhabitants; and they loaded them with as much as 30 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS i their present weakness was able to bear, in order to supply them with sustenance by the way. At length, St. Pierre and his fellow-victims appeared, under the conduct of Sir Walter and a guard. All the tents of the English were instantly emptied. The soldiers poured from all parts, and arranged themselves on each side, to behold, to contemplate, to admire, this little band of patriots, as they passed. They bowed to them on all sides; they murmured their applause of that virtue which they could not but revere, even in enemies; and they regarded those ropes, which they had voluntarily assumed about their necks, as ensigns of greater dignity than that of the British garter. As soon as they had reached the presence, " Mauny,** says the monarch, " are these the principal inhabitants of Calais?" — " They are," says Mauny: " they are not only the principal men of Calais, they are the principal men of France, my Lord, if virtue has any share in the act of ennobling." — " Were they delivered peacea- bly?" says Edward: "Was there no resistance, no commotion among the people?" — "Not in the least, my Lord: the people would all have perished, rather than have delivered the least of these to your Majesty. They are self-delivered, . self-devoted; and come to offer up their inestimable heads as an ample equivalent for the ransom of thousands." I-Cdward was secretly piqued at this reply of Sir Walter; but he knew the privilege of a British subject, and suppressed his re- sentment. " Experience," says he, " has ever shown, that lenity only serves to invite people to new crimes. Severity, at times, is indispensably necessary to compel subjects to submission by punishment and example. — Go," he cried to an officer, '*lead these men to execu- tion." At this instant, a sound of triumph was heard throughout the camp. The Queen had just arrived with a powerful reinforcement of gallant troops. Sir Walter Mauny flew to risceive Her Majesty, and briefly informed her of the particulars respecting the six vic- tims. As soon as she had been welcomed by Edward and his court, she desired a private audience — " My Lord,* IN PKOStt. ^1 »» said she, "the question I am to enter upon, is not •touching the lives of a few mechanics — it respects the honour of the English nation; it respects the glory of my Edward, my husband, my king. You think you have sentenced six of your enemies to death. No, my Lord, they have sentenced themselves^ ami their exe- cution would be the CKecution of their own orders, -not ilie orders of Edward. The stage on which they would suffer, would be to thera a stage of lionour; but a stage of shame to Edward — a reproach to his coii- ■quests — an indelible disgrace to his name. Let us rather disappoint these haughty burghers, who wish to invest themselves with glory at our expense. We cannot wholly deprive them of the merit of a sacrifice 60 nobly intended; but we may cut them short of their desires. In the place of that death by which their ^lory would be consummated, let us bury them under gifts; let us put them to confusion with applauses. We shall thereby defeat them of that popular opinion which never fails to attend those who suffer in the cause of virtue." — "I am conviaced: you have pre- vailed. Be it so," replied Edward: "prevent the exe- cution: have them instantly before us." They came: when the Queen, with an aspect and accents diffusing sweetness, thus bespoke them: — "Natives of France and inhabitants of Calais, ye have put us to a vast -expense of blood and treasure, in the recovery of our just and natural inheritance; but you have acted up to the best of an erroneous judgment, and we admire and honour in you that valour and virtue, by which we -are so long kept out of our rightful possessions. You noble burghersi you excellent citizens! though you were tenfold ;< he enemies of our person and our throne, we can feel nothing, on our part, save respect and affection for you. You have been sufficiently tested. We loose your chains; we snatch you from the scaffold; .and we thank you for that lesson of humiliation which you teach us, when you show us, that excellence is not of blood, of title, or station; that virtue gives a 4iignity superior to that of kings; and that those whom •the Almighty informs with sentiments like yours, are justly and eminently raised above all human distinc- 32 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS tions. You are now free to depart to your kinsfolk, your countrymen — to all those whose lives and liber- ties you have so nobly redeemed — provided you refuse not the tokens of our esteem. Yet we would rather bind you to ourselves by every endearing obligation; and, for this purpose, we offer to you your choice of the gifts and honours that Edward has to bestow. Rivals for fame, but always friends to virtue, we wish that England were entitled to call you her sons." — " Ah, my country!" exclaimed Pierre; " it is now that I tremble for you. Edward only wins our cities; but Philippa conquers our hearts." Fool of Quality, On Living to One* s- Self, "What I mean by living to one's-self, is living in the world, as in it, not of it: it is as if no one knew there was such a person, and you wished no one to know it: it is to be a silent spectator of the mighty scene of things, not an object of attention of curiosity in it; to take a thoughtful, anxious interest in what is passing in the wotld, but not to feel the slightest inclination to make or meddle with it. It is such a life as a pure spirit might be supposed to lead, and such an interest as it might take in the affairs of men — calm, contem- plative, passive, distant, touched with pity for their sor- rows, smiling at their follies without bitterness, sharing their affections, but not troubled by their passions, not seeking their notice, nor once dreamed of by them. He who lives wisely to himself and to his own heart, looks at the busy world through the loop-holes of retreat, and does not want to mingle in the fray. " He hears the tumult, and ij still." He is not able to mend it, nor wil- ling to mar it. He sees enough in the universe to interest him, without putting himself forward to try what he can do to fix the eyes of the universe upon him. Vain the attempt! He reads the clouds, he looks at the stars, he watches the return of the seasons — the falling leaves of autumn, the perfumed breath of spring — starts with delight at the note of a thrush in a copse near him, sits by the fire, listens to the moaning of the wind, pored upon a book, or discourses the freezing hours IN PaOSE. 38 sawAy, or melts down hours to minutes in pleasing .thought. All this while, he is taken up with other things, forgetting himself- He relishes an author^s style, without thinking of tur.iing author. He is fond of looking at a print from an '•' " picture in the room, without teasing himself to copy it. He does not fret himself to death with trying to be what he is not, or to do what he cannot He hardly knows what he is capable of, and is not in the least ccxicerned, whether he shall ever make a ^g^re in the world. He feels the truth of the lines — " The man whose eye is ever on himself^ Doth look on one, the least of nature's works: One who might move the wise man to that scora Which wisdom holds unlawful ever." He looks out of himself at the wide extended prospect of nature, and takes an interest beyond his narrow pretensions in general humanity. He is free as air, and independent as the wind. Wo be to him when he iirst begins to think what others say of him. While a man is connected with himself and his own resources, all is well. When he undertakes to play a part on the €tage, and to persuade the world to think more about him than they do about themselves; he is got into a a track where he will find nothing but briars and thorns, vexation and disappointment. Hazlitt. On the Psalms. Besides the figure, supplied by the history of Israel, and by the law; there is another set of images often employed in the Psalms, to describe the blessings of redemption. These are borrowed from the natural world, the manner of its original production, and the operations continually carried on in it. The visible works of God are formed to lead us, under the direc- tion of his word, to a knowledge of those which are invisible; they give us ideas, by analogy, of a new creation rising gradually, like the old one, out of dark- ness and deformity, until at length it arrives at the perfection of glory and beauty: so that r/hile we praise the Lord for all the wonders of his power, wisdom, «2 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS find love, displayed in a system which is to wax old and perish; we may therein contemplate, as in a glass, those new heavens, and that new earth, of whose dura- tion there shall be no end.* The sun, that fountain of life, and heart of the world, that bright leader of the armies of heaven, enthroned in glorious mtijesty; the moon shining with a lustre borrowed from his beams; the stars glittering by night in the clear firma- tnent; the air giving breath to all things that live and move; the intv^rchanges of hght and darkness; the course of the year, and the sweet vicissitude of sea- sons; the rain and the dew descending from above, and the fruitfulness of the earth caused by them; the bow bent by the hands of the ]\Iost High, which compas- seth the heavens about with a glorious circle; the awful voice of thunder, and the piercing power of lightning; the instincts of animals, and the qualities of vegetables and minerals; the great and wide sea, **ith its unnumbered inhabitants — all these are ready to instruct us in the mysteries of faith, and the duties of morality. " They speak their maker as they can. But want and ask the tongue of man." The advantages of Messiah's reign are represented in some of the Psalms, under images of this kind. We behold a renovation of all things; and the world, as it were, new created, breaks forth into singing. The earth is clothed with sudden verdure and fertility: the field is joyful, and all that is in it ; the trees of the wood rejoice before the Lord; the floods clap their hands in concert, and ocean fills up the mighty chorus, to celebrate the advent of the great king. Home, On the Pleasure of Painting. To give one instance more, and then I will have done with this rambling discourse. One of my first attempts was a picture of my father, who was then in a green old age, with strong-marked features, and * Bead nature; nature is a friend to truth; Nature is Christian, preaches to mankind ; And bids dead matter aid us in our creed. ! IN PROtl. 32 t \ scarred with the small-pox. I drew it with a broad light crossing the face, looking down, with spectacles on, reading. The book was Shaftesbury's Character* istics, in a fine old binding, with Gribelin's etchings. My father would as lieve it had been any other book ; but for him to read was to be content — was " riches fineless." The sketch promised well ; and I set to work to finish it, determined to spare no time nor pains. My father was willing to sit as long as I pleased ; for there is a natural desire in the mind of man to sit for one's picture, to be the object of con- tinued attention, to have one's likeness multiplied: and, besides his satisfaction in the picture, he had some pride in the artist — though he would rather I should have written a sermon, than painted like Rembrandt or like Raphael. Those winter days, with the gleams of sunshine coming through the cha()€l windows, and cheered by the notes of the robin-redbreast in our garden — that " ever in the haunch of winter sings" — as my afternoon's work drew to a close, were among the happiest of my life. When I gave the effect I in- tended to any part of the picture for which 1 had pre- pared my colours, wlien I imitated the roughness of the skin by a lucky stroke of the pencil, when I hit the clear pearly tone of a vein, when I gave the ruddy complexion of health — the blood circulating under the Jbroad shadows of one side of the face — I thought my fortune made ; or rather, it was already more than made, in my fancying that I might one day be able to say with Corregio, *' I also am a painter !" It was an idle thought, a boy's conceit; but it did not make me less happy at the time. I used regularly to set my work in the chair, to look at it through the long evenings ; and many a time did I return to take leave of it, before I could go to bed at night. I remember sending it with a throbbing heart to the exhibition, and seeing it hung up there by the side of one of the Ho- nourable Mr. SkefRngton (now Sir George.) There was nothing in common between them, but that they were the portraits of two very good-natured men. I think,. but am not sure, that I finished this portrait (or another afterwards) on the same day that the news of I 36 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS the battle of Aiisterlitz came. I walked out in the afternoon, and, as I returned, saw the evening-star set over a poor man's cottage, with other thoughts and feelings than I shall ever have again. Oh, for the re- volution of the great Platonic year, that those times might come over again ! I could sleep out the three hundred and sixty-five thousand intervening years very contentedly! — The picture is left; the table, the chair, the window where I learned to construe Livy, the chapel where my father preached, remain where they were; but he himself is gone to rest, full of years, of faith, of hope, and charity ! Hazlitt. Damon and Pythias. When Damon was sentenced by Dionysius of Syra- cuse to die on a certain day, he begged permission, in the interim, to retire to his own country, to set the af- fairs of his disconsolate family in order. This the king intended peremptorily to refuse, by granting it, as he conceived, on the impossible condition of his pro- curing some one to remain as hostage for his return, under equal forfeiture of life. Pythias heard the con- ditions, and did not wait for an application on the part of Damon. He instantly oflPered himself as security for his friend ; which being accepted, Damon was im- mediately set at liberty. The king and all the cour- tiers were astonished at this action ; and, therefore, when the day of execution drew near, his majesty had the curiosity to visit Pythias, in his confinement. After some conversation on the subject of friendship, in which the king delivered it as his opinion, that self- interest was the sole mover of human actions ; as for virtue, friendship, benevolence, love of one's country, and the like, he looked upon them as terms invented by the wise, to keep in awe and impose upon the weak. " My lord," said Pythias, with a firm voice and noble aspect, " I would it were possible that I might suffer a thousand deaths, rather than my friend should fail in any article of his honour. He cannot fail therein, my lord. I am as confident of his virtue, as I am of my own existence. But I pray, I beseech 1 IN PROSE. 37 the gods, to preserve the life and integrity of my Da- mon together. Oppose him, ye winds ! prevent the eagerness and impatience of his honourable endeavours, and suffer him not to arrive, till, by my death, I shall have redeemed a life a thousand times of more conse- quence, of more value, than my own ; more estimable to his lovely wife, to his precious little innocents, to his friends, to his country. O leave me not to die the worst of deaths in my Damon !'* Dionysius was awed and confounded by the dignity of these sentiments, and by the. manner in which they were uttered: he felt his heart struck by a slight sense of invading truth ; but it served rather to perplex than undeceive him. The fatal day arrived. Pythias was brought forth, and walked amidst the guards with a serious, but satis- fied air, to the place of execution. Dionysius was al- ready there; he was exalted on a moving throne, that was drawn by six white horses, and sat pensive, and attentive to the prisoner. Pythias came; he vaulted lightly on the scafibid, and, beholding for some time the apparatus of death, he turned with a placid coun- tenance, and addressed the spectators : " My prayers are heard," he cried, " the gods are propitious ! You know, my friends, that the winds have been contrary till yesterday. Damon could not come ; he could not conquer impossibilities 'le will be here to-morrow, and the blood which is shed to day shall have ransomed the life of my friend O could I erase from your bosom every doubt, every mean suspicion, of the ho- nour of the man for whom I am about to suffer, I should go to my death, even as I would to my bridal. Be it sufficient, in the mean time, that my friend will be found noble ; that his truth is unimpeachable ; that he will speedily prove it ; that he is now on his wav hur- rying on, accusing himself, the adverse elements, and the gods : but I hasten to prevent his speed. Execu- tioner, do your ofiice." As he pronounced the last words, a buzz began to rise among the remotest of the people — a distant voice was heard — the crowd caught the words, and, " Stop, stop the execution," was re- peated by the whole assembly. A man came at full speed — the throng gave way to his approach : he was 38 PROMISCUOUS 8SLECTI0NS mounted on a steed of foam: in an instant, he was off his horse, on the scaffold, and held Pythias straitly era* braced. "You are safe," he cried, "you are safe. My friend, my beloved friend, the gods be praised, you are safe! I now have nothing but death to suffer, and am delivered from thei anguish of those reproaches which I gave myself, for having endangered a life so much dearer than my own." Pale, cold, and half- speechless, in the arms of his Damon, Pythias replied, in broken accents — •* Fatal haste I — Cruel impatience! What envious powers have wrought impossibilities in your favour ? — But I will not be wholly disappointed. — Since I cannot die to save, I will not survive you." Dionysius heard, beheld, and considered all with as- tonishment. His heart was touched ; he wept ; and, leaving his throne, he ascended the scaffold. " Live, live, ye incomparable pair I" he cried, " ye have borne unquestionable testimony to the existence of virtue ! and that virtue equally evinces the existence of a God to reward it. Live happy, live renowned ; and, oh ! form me by your precepts, as ye have invited me by your example, to be worthy the participation of so sa- cred a friendship." Fool of Quality. On the Abuse of Genius^ with reference to (he tVorks of Lord Byron. I HAVE endeavoured to show, that the intrinsic value of genius is a secondary consideration, compared with the use to which it is applied ; that genius ought to be estimated chiefly by the character of the subject upon which it is employed, or of the cause which it advo- cates — considering it, in fact, as a mere instrument, a Wi^apon, a sword, which may be used in a good cause, or in a bad one ; may be wielded by a patriot, or a highwayman; may give protection to the dearest inte- rests of society, or may threaten those interests with the irruption of pride, and profligacy, and folly — of all the vices which compose the curse and degradation of oar species. I am the more disposed to dwell a little upon this subject, because I am persuaded that it is not sufficiently attended to— ^nay, that in ninoty-nine in- IN PR08K. 98 I stances out of a hundred, it is not attended to at all I That works of imagination are perused, for the sake of the wit which they display; which wit not only recon- ciles us to, but endears to us, opinions, and feelings, and habits, at war with wisdom and morality — to say nothing of religion. In short, that we admire the polish, the temper, and shape of the sword, and the dexterity with which it is wielded ; though it is the property of a lunatic, or of a bravo; though it is bran- dished in the face of wisdom and virtue; and, at every wheel, threatens to inflict a wound, that will disfigure some feature, or lop some member; or, with masterly adroitness, aims a death- thrust at the heart ! 1 would deprive genius of the worship that is paid to it, for its own sake. Instead of allowing it to dictate to the \^orld, I would have the world dictate to it — dictate to it, so far as the vital interests of society are affected. I know it is the opinion of many, that the moral of mere poetry is of little avail; that we are charmed by its melody and wit, and uninjured by its levity and profaneness; and hence, many a thing has been allowed in poetry, which would have been scouted, deprecated, reviled, had it appeared in prose : as if vice and folly were less pernicioMs, for being introduced to us with an elegant and insinuaiir>g address ; or, as if the graceful folds and polished scales of a serpent, were an antidote against the venom of its sting. There is not a more prolific source of human error, than that railing at the world, which obtrudes itself so frequently upon our attention, in the perusing of Lord Byron's poems — that sickness of disgust, which begins its indecent heavings, whensoever the idea of the spe- cies forces itself upon him. The species is not perfect; but it retains too much of the image of its Maker, pre- serves too many evidences of the modelling of the hand that fashioned it, is too near to the hovering providence of its disregarded, but still cherishing Author, to ex- cuse, far less to call for, or justify, desertion, or dis- claiming, or revilings, upon the part of any one of its members. I know not a more pitiable object, than the man, who, standing upon the pigmy eminence of his own «elf-iraportance, look* round upon the species, with 40 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS an eye that never throws a beam of satisfaction on the prospect, but visits with a scowl, whatsofever it lights upon. The world is not that reprobate world, that it should be cut off from the visitation of charity; that 't should be represented, as having no alternative, but to inflict or bear. Life is not .one continued scene of wrestling with our fellows. Mankind are not for ever grappling one another by the throat. There is such a thing as the grasp of friendship, as the outstretched hand of benevolence, as an interchange of good offices, as a mingling, a crowding, a straining together, for the relief, or the benefit of our species. The moral he thus inculcates, is one of the most baneful tendency. The principle of self-love — implanted in us for the best, but capable of being perverted to the worst of purposes — by a fatal abuse, too 'often disposes us to in- dulge in this sweeping depreciation of the species, founded upon some fallacious idea of superior value in ourselves; with which imaginary excellence we conceive the world to be at war. A greater source of error cannot exist. We are at once deprived of the surest prop of virtue — distrust of our own pretensions, and compound, as it were, with our fellows, for an in- terchange of thwartings and jostlings ; or else, with- drawing from ail intercourse with them, commune with rocks, and trees, and rivers; fly from the moral region of sublimity and beauty, to the deaf, voiceless, sight- less, heartless department of the merely physical one. Knowles. Advantages of uniting Gentleness of Manners, with Firmness of Mind. I MENT[ONED to you, some time ago, a sentence which I would most earnestly wish you always to retain in your thoughts, and observe in your conduct ; it is suaviter in modOf fortiter in re. I do not know any one rule so unexceptionably useful and necessary in every part of life. The suaviter in modo, alone, would degenerate and sink into a mean, timid complaisance, and passiveness, if not supported and dignified by the fortiter in re ; IN PROSE. 41 icli in is ny in nd ss, which woukl also run into impetuoisily and brutality, if not tempered and softened by the suaviter in modo: Ji)owever, they are seldom united. The warm, choleric man, with strong animal spirits, despises the suaviter in modo, and thinks to carry all before him by the fortiter in re. He may, possibly, by great accident, now and then succeed, when he has only weak and timid people to deal with ; but his general fate will be, to shock, offend, be hated, and fail. On the other hand, the cunning, crafty man, thinks to gain all his ends by the suaviter in modo only : he becomes all things to all men ; he seems to have no opinion of his own, and servilely adopts the present opinion of the present person ; he insinuates himself only into the esteem of fools, but is soon detected, and surely de- spised by every body else. The wise man — who dif- fers as much from the cunning, as from the choleric man — : rejoins i\i% suaviter in modo with \\\q fortiter in re. If you are in authority, and have a right to com- mand, your commands, delivered suaviter in modo, will be willingly, cheerfully, and — consequently — well obeyed ; whereas, if given only fortiter, that is, bru- tally, they will rather, as Tacitus says, be interpreted than executed. For my own part, if I bade my foot- man bring me a glass of wine, in a rough, insulting manner, I should eipect, that, in obeying me, he would contrive to Spill some of it upon me ; and, I am sure, I should deserve it. A cool, steady resolution should show, that, where you have a right to command, you will be obeyed ; but, at the same time, a gentle- ness in the manner of enforcing that obedience, should make it a cheerful one, and soften, as much as possible, the mortifying consciousness of inferiority. If you are to ask a favour, or even to solicit your due, you must do it suaviter in modo, or you will give those, who have a mind to refuse you either, a pretence to do it, by resenting the manner ; but, on the other hand, you must, by a steady perseverance, and decent tenaciousness, show the fortiter in re. In short, this precept is the only way I know in tho world, of being loved, without being despised ; and feared, without rr i 42 PItOMISCDOU3 SELECTIONS bein^ hated. It constitutes that dignity of character which every wise man must endeavour to establish. If, therefore, you find, that you have a hastiness in your temper, which unguscdedly breaks rut into indis- creet sallieF, or rough expressions, to eiuier your su- periors, you equals, or your inferiors ; watch it nar- rowly, check it carefully, and call the suaviter *'?» modo to your assistance : at the first impulse of passion, be silent, till you can be soft. Labour even to get the command of your countenance so well, that those emotions may not be read in it — a most unspeakable advantage in business ! On the other hand, let no complaisance, no gentleness of * »mper, no weak desire of pleasing, on your part ; no wheedling, coaxing, nor flattery, on other people's ; make you recede one jot from any point, that reason and prudence have bid you pursue : but, return to the charge, persist, persevere ; &nd you will find most things attainable, that are pos- sible. A yielding, timid meekness, is always abused and insulted, by the unjust and tlie unfeeling; but, meekness, when sustained by the fortiter in re, is al- ways respected, commonly successful. In your friend- ships and connections, as well as in your enmities, this rule is particularly useful — let your firmness and vigour preserve and invite attachments to you ; but, at the same time, let your manner prevent the enemies of your friends and dependants from becoming yours; let your enemies be disarmed by the gentleness of your manner; but, let them feel, at the same time, the steadiness of your just resentment ; for, there is a great difierence bjetween bearing malice — which is al- ways ungenerous — and a resolute self-defence — which is always prudent and justifiable. I conclude with this observation, That gen..eness of manners, with firmness of mind, is a short, but full, description of human p3rfection, on this side of reli- gious and moral duties. Chesterfield. The Elder's Death-bed. " Jamie, thy own father has forgotten thee in thy in- fancy, and me in my old age ; but, Jamie, forget not IN PROSE. 43 111- not thou thy father, nor thy mother; for that thou knowest and feelest, is the commandment of God." The broken-hearted boy could give no reply. He had gradually stolen closer and closer unto the loving old man ; and now was lying, worn out with sorrow, drenched and dissolved in tears, in his grandfather's bosom. His mother had sunk down on her knees, and hid her face with her hand. " Oh ! if my husband knew but of this — he would never, nevtr desert his dying father I" And I now knew, that the Slder was praying on his death-bed for a disobedient and wicked 8on. At this affecting time, the Minister took the Family- Bible on his knees, and said, " Let us sing to the praise and glory of God, part of the fifteenth psalm;" and he read, with a tremulous and broken voice, those beauti- ful verses, " Within thy tabernacle, Lord, Who shall abide with thee? And in thy high und holy hill, Who shall a dweller be ? — •• The man that walketh uprightly. And worketh righteousness. And as he thinketh in his heart. So doth he truth express." Ere the psalm was yet over, the door was opened, and a tall, fine looking man entered, but with a lower- ing and dark countenance, seemingly in sorrow, in misery, and remorse. Agitated, confounded, and awe- struck by the melancholy and dirge-like music, he sat down on a chair and looked with a ghastly face to- wards his father's bed. When the psalm ceased, the Elder said, with a solemn voice, ** My son — thou art come in time to receive thy father's blessing. May the remembrance of what will happen in this room, before the morning again shine over the Hazel-glen, win thee from the error of thy ways ! Thou art here to witness the mercy of thy God and thy Saviour, whom thou hast forgotten." The Minister looked, if not with a stern, yet with an upbraiding countenance, on the young man, who had not recovered his speech, and said, " William ! for 44 PROMISCUOUS Selections three years past your shadow has not darkened the door of the house of God. They who fear not the thunder, may tremble at the still small voice — Now is the hour for repentance — that your father's spirit may carry up to Heaven tidings of a contrite soul saved from the company of sinners !" The young man, with much effort, advanced to the bed-side, and at last found voice to say, " Father — I am not without the affections of nature — and I hurried home the moment I heard that the minister had beeid seen riding towards our house. I hope that you will yet recover; and, if I have ever made you unhappy, I ask your forgiveness — for, though I may not think as you do on matters of religion, I have a human heart. Father I I may have beeti unkind, but I am not cruel. I ask your forgiveness." " Come near to me, William ; kneel down by the bed-side, and let my hand feel the head of my beloved son — for blindness is coming fast upon me. Thou wert my first-born, and thou art my only living son. All thy brothers and sisters are lying in the church-yard, beside her whose sweet face thine own, William, did once so much resemble. Long wert thou the joy, the pride of my soul, — ay, too iP'ich the pride ! for there was not in all the parish such a man, such a son, as my own William. If thy heart has since been changed, God may inspire it again with right thoughts. I have sorely wept for thee— 'ay, William, when there was none near me — even as David wept for Absalom — for thee, my son, my son !" A long deep groan was the only reply; but the whole body of the kneeling man was convulsed ; and it was easy to see his sufferings, his contrition, his remorse, and his despair. The Pastor said, with a sterner voice, and auslerer countenance than were natural to him, " Know you whose hand is now lying on your rebellious head ? But what signifies the word father to him who has denied God, the Father of us all ?" " Oh ! press him not too hardly," said his weeping wife, coming forward from a dark corner of the room, where she. tried to conceal herself in grief, fear, and shame. " Spare, oh ! spare my husband— He has 111 I: IN PROSK. iA mole was lorse, Vner to rouf Uher ill?" ping )om, and has ever been kind to me;*' and, with that, she knelt down beside him, with her long soft white arms mournfully, and affectionately laid across his neck. *' Go thou, likewise, ray sweet little Jamie," said the Elder, " go even out of my bosom, and kneel down beside thy father and thy mother, so that I may bless you all at once, and with one yearning prayer." The child did as the solemn voice commanded, and knelt down some- what timidly by his father's side ; nor did the unhappy man decline encircling with his arm, the child too much neglected, but still dear to him as his own blood, in spite of the deadening and debasing influence of infi- delity. '* Put the word of God into the hands of my son, and let him read aloud to his dying father, the 25th, 26th, and 27th .verses of the eleventh chapter of the Gospel according to St. John." The Pastor went up to the kneelers, and, with a voice of pity, condolence, and pardon, said, ** There was a time when none, William, could read the Scriptures better than couldst thou — can it be that the son of my friend hath forgot- ten the lessons of his youth ?" He had not forgotten them — There was no need for the repentant sinner to lift up his eyes from the bed-side. The sacred stream of the Gospel had worn a channel in his heart, and the waters were again flowing. With a choked voice he said, " Jesqs said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life : And whosoever liveth, and believeth in me, £fhall never di^. Believest thou this ? She said unto him, Yea, Lord : I believe thou art the Christ, the Son of God, which should come into the world." *• That is not an unbeliever's voice," said the dying man, triumphantly ; '^ nor, William, hast thou an un- believer's heart. Say that thou believest in what thou hast now read, and thy father \irill die happy ?" " I do believe; and as thou forgivest me, so may I be forgiven by my Father who is in heaven." The Elder seemed like a man suddenly inspired with a new life. Hi» faded eyes kindled — his pale cheeks glowed — his palsied hand seemed to wax strong — and his voice was clear as that of manhood in its prime. " Into thy hands, O God I I commit my spirit ;" and, so saying, he gently ill I! I r ' 1 1 46 I'llOMISCUOUa SELECTIONS sunk back on his pillow; and I thought I heard a sigh. — There was then a long deep silence ; and the father, the mother, and the child, rose from their knees. The eyes of us all were turned towards the white placid face of the figure now stretched in everlasting rest ; and, without lamentations — save the silent lamentations of the resigned soul — we stood around the Death- hed OF THE Elder. Wilson. On Lord Byron's Lines upon the Field of Waterloo. Here is the very cunning of the poet — one train of ideas excited to prepare you for receiving, in its full force, the shock of their opposite. The ball-room thrown open to you; beauty and chivalry, in all the splendour that should grace the festive iiour, presented to you; the voluptuous swell of music awakened for you ; your senses, your imagination, and your affections, environed with scenes and images of sweetness, and grace, and loveliness, and joy — to strike you aghast with alarm, to bring trepidation and terror before you, in their most appalling shapes and attitudes. The whole scene, as by the waving of an enchanter's wand, changed in a moment! For smiles, tears; for blushes, paleness; for meetings, partings; for the assembly, the muster; for the dance, the march; for the music, the cannon; for the ball-room, the battle-field! This is one of the most favourite feats of poetry, and occurs frequently in the works of all great masters. It is a means by which they provoke that agitation and hurry of spirits, which enable them to take possession of their readers; and which consists in bringing contraries into sudden collision. The luxuriant valley opens upon the sterile heath; the level plain borders upon the rugged mountain; you walk in imagined security, and find yourself upon the brink of an abyss; you fall asleep with the languor of the calm, and awaken with the fury of the tempest! Campbell soothes the apprehen' sions of Gertrude — places Albert and his interesting family in their lighted bower, prolonging the joy of converse — when Outalissi rushes in to tell them, that " The mammoth comes! the foe! the monster Brandt, With all his howHnjT— desolating band!" 1 I ' IN PKOS£. 47 Thomson avails himself of the serenity of a placid summer's day, and the security and calm of requited, happy, communing love — to introduce the tempest, whose lightning strikes Amelia to the earth, a black- ened corse! Milton works up his infernal hero to the highest pitch of demoniac exultation, to prepare his ear for the dismal, universal hiss, that aptly gratulates his triumph— extends, expands him into the full dimensions of monarchal pride, to throw him down, a reptile, upon the iloor of Pandemonium ! Shakspeare prepares a feast for the reception of the ghost of Ban- quo — brings the exultation and the agony of trium- phant guilt, into immediate contact— exhibits to us, at the same moment, and in the same person, the tower- ing king, and the grovelling murderer! — or, in the tragedy of Hamlet, makes the grave-digger's carol, the prelude to the dirge of Ophelia! Knowles. The perfect Orator. Imagine to yourselves a Demosthenes, addressing the most illustrious assembly in the world, upon a point whereon the fate of the most illustrious of nations depended — How awful such a meeting! how vast the subject! — Is man possessed of talents adequate to the great occasion? — Adequate! Yes, superior. By the power of his eloquence, the augustness of the assembly is lost in the dignity of the orator; and the importance of the subject, for a while, superseded by the admira- tion of his talents. — With what strength of argument, with what powers of the fancy, with what emotions of the heart, does he assault and subjugate the whole roan; and, at once, captivate his reason, his imagina- tion and his passions!— —To effect this, must be the utmost effort of the most improved state of human nature. — Not a faculty that he possesses, is here unem- ployed; not a faculty that he possesses, but is here exerted to its highest pitch. All his internal powers are at work; all his external, testify their energies. Within, the memory, the fancy, the judgment, the passions, are all busy: without, every muscle, every nerve is exerted; not a feature, not a limb, but speaks. 48 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS The organs of the body, attuned to the exertions of Cue mind, through the kindred organs of the hearers, instantaneously vibrate those enei^ies from soul to soul. Notwithstanding the diversity of minds in such a multitude; by the lightning of eloquence, they are melted into one mass — the whole assembly, actuated in one and the same way, become, as it were, but one man, and have but one voice. — The universal cry is — Let us march against Philip, let us fight for OUR li^srties — LET US CONQUER OR DIE ! Sher0a.n. Lord Byron considered as a Moralist^ and a Poet. As a moralist, Lord Byron is most exceptionable. There is not a more prolific source of positive virtue, than the habit of feeling benevolently towards our fellow-creatures. This he endeavours to cut up by the root. There is nothing of benignity, or even of urbanity, in his writings; all his sourness and harsh- ness, a perpetual dreariness, sterility, that puts forth no medicinal shoot or cheering flower. So far as the kindly movements of the heart are concerned, among his species. Lord Byron is a rock; and among rocks only, a man. His works are not absolutely destitute of touches of virtuous emotion; but those that occur, are never of the social kind, unless you allow some few traits of merely animal affection. Lord Byron's morality counsels you to relax the grasp of friendship, to withhold the trust of confidence, to shut out your fellow from your heart, and lock it .upon him. But, putting aside the tone of misanthropy which pervade^ his writings, how chaotic an idea does he give you of the government of his own mind, when he dedicates to his daughter the song in which he celebrates his mis* tress; when he can find no more fitting office for th^ hand of a parent, than that of imprinting upon thQ mind of a daughter, the indulgent position, that i^ woman may surrender her honour, and preserve her purity! We do not pretend to scan the real character of Lord Byron. We know nothing of him, but what we learn from his works; and it is they that are to blame, if we do not profess the most exalted opinion IN PROSB. 4» ?rona of him. We slight him upon the warrant of his own hand. There is something perfectly puerile in the sketch that he so repeatedly gives us of his own cha- racter — a man whining forth his private discontents and dislikings, vending them, as it were, in every village, town, and city of the empire; making them as notorious, as if they had been committed to the oratory of the town-sergeant. A father, professing the most passionate tenderness for his offspring ; and making her, in the fervour of his love, a gift of the public record of his weakness, caprices, passions, and vices, collected, drawn up, and authenticated by his own paternal hand. As a poet, Lord Byron is the most easy, the most nervous, and — with the exception perhaps of Words- worth — the most original of the day. His verses possess all the flowing property of extemporaneous eloquence. His diction seems to fall into numbers, rather than to be put into them. He reminds us of one who has written down his ideas just as they occurred, and finds that he has expressed himself in rhyme. No ekeing out of the verse; no accommodating of the sense to the sound; nothing that indicates a looking out for materials; every thing at hand, to be had only for the reaching, and fitting at the first trial. It would savour too much of pedantry, to point out errors of a merely grammatical description; but, it is somewhat singular, that so classical a writer should abound more in solecisms, than all his cotemporaries put together. This may be readily pardoned, however, if we take into consideration the rapidity with which he is reputed to compose. ' In all other respects, Lord Byron is seldom incongruous, rarely redundant, never vapid; often pathetic, frequently sublime, always eloquent. If once he lays hold of your attention — unless, indeed, it be by some sudden start of displeasure — the chances are against your getting loose again, until he is satis- fied to let you go. Knowles. ■m 50 PROMISCUOUS SELECTIONS The Distressed Father. \i M i Henrt Newberry, a lad of thirteen years, and Ed- ward Chidley, nged seventeen, were fully committed for trial, charged with stealing a silver tea-pot from the hoase of a gentleman, in Grosvenor- place. There was nothing extraordinary in the circamstances of the robbery. The younger lad was observed to go down into the area of the house, whilst his companion kept watch, and they were caught endeavouring to conceal the tea-pot under some rubbish in the Five-fields: but the case was made peculiarly interesting by the unso- phisticated distress of Newberry's father. The poor old man, who it seems had been a soldier, and was at this time a joarneyman pavier, refused at first to believe that his son had committed the crime imputed to him, and was very clamorous against the witnesses; but, as their evidence proceeded, he himself appeared to become gradually convinced. He listened with intense anxiety to the various details; and when they were finii^hed, he fixed his eyes in bilence, for a second or two, upon his son ; and tnrning to the magis- trate, with his eyes swimming in tears, he exclaimed — " I have carried him many a score miles on my knap- sack, your honour!" There was something so deeply pathetic in the tone with which this fond reminiscence was uttered by the old soldier, that every person present, even the very gaoler himself, was affected by it. " I have carried him many score miles on my knapsack, your honour," repeated the poor fellow, whilst he brushed away the tears from his cheek with his rough unwashed hand, "but it's all over now! — He has done — and — so have I!" The magistrate asked him something of his story. He said he had formerly driven a stage-coach, in the north of Ireland, and had a small share in the proprie- torship of the coach. In this time of his prosperity, he married a young woman with a little property, but failed in business, and, after enduring many troubles, enlisted as a private soldier in the 18th, or Royal Irish Regiment of Foot; and went on foreign service, taking IN THOSE. 51 ed )ra jre the wn ept :eal but nao- aier, jd at irime it the mself tened when for a agis- ed— knap- story. in the )roprie- [sperity, Irty, hut Irouhlea, ral Irish J, taking with him his wife and four children. Henry (the prisoner) was his second son, and his darling pride." At the end of nine years he was discharged, in this country, without a pension, or a friend in the world; and coming to London, he, with some trouble, got employed as a pavier, by *' the gentlemen who manage the streets at Mary-la-bonne." — " Two years ago, your honour," he continued, " my poor wife was wearied out with the world, and she deceased from me, and I was left alone with the children; and every night, after I had done work, I washed their faces, md put them to bed, and washed their little bits o' things, and hanged them o' the line to dry, myself — for I'd no money, your honour, and so I could not have a hous< - keeper to do for them, you know. But, your honour, I was as happy as I well could be, considering my wife was deceased from me, till some bad people came to live at the back of us, and they were always strivinpj to get Henry amongst them; and I was terribly afraid something bad would come of it, as it was but poorly I could do for him; and so I'd made up my mind to take all my children to Ireland. If he had only held up another week, your honour, w^e should have gone, and he would have been saved. But now ! " Here the poor man looked at his boy again, and wept; and when the magistrate endeavoured to console him by observing that his son would sail for Botany Bay, and probably do well there; he replied, somewhat impatiently, — " Aye, it's fine talking, your •wots' 'p: I pray to the great God he may never sail any where, unless he sails with me to Ireland!" and then, after a moment's thought, he asked, in the humblest tone ima- ginable, " Doesn't your honour think a little bit of a petition might help him?" The magistrate replied, it possibly might; and added, " If you attend his trial at the Old Bailey, and plead for him as eloquently in word and action as you have done here, I think it would help him still more." " Aye, but then pou wont be there, I suppose, will you?" asked the poor fellow, with that familiarity which is in some degree sanctioned by extreme dis- tress; and when his worship replied that he certainly 52 PKOMISCUOU8 SKLECTIONS should not be present, he immediately rejoined, " Then — what's the use of it? There will be nobody there who knows me; and what stranger will listen to a poor old broken-hearted fellow, who can't speak for crying?" The prisoners were now removed from the bar, to be conducted to prison; and his son, who had wept incessantly all the time, called wildly to him, " Father, father!" as if he expected that his father could snatch him out of the iron grasp of the law: but the old man remained rivetted, as it were, to the spot on which he stood, with his eyes fixed on the lad; and, when the door had closed upon him, he pat on his hat, uncon- scious where he was; and, crushing it down over his brows, he began wandering round the room in a state of stupor. The officers in waiting reminded him that he should not wear his hat in the presence of the ma- gistrate, and he instantly removed it: but he still seemed lost to every thing around him; and, though one or two gentlemen present put money into his hands, he heeded it not, but slowly sauntered out of the office, apparently reckless of every thing. Mornings at Bow-street. On Skakspeare. The four greatest names in English poetry ^re almosf the four first we come to — Chaucer, Spenser, Shak- speare, and Milton. There are no olliers that can really be put in competition with these. The two last have had justice done them by the voice of common fame. Their names are blazoned in the very firma- ment of reputation; while the two first (though "the fault has been more in their stars than in themselves that they are underlings") either never emerged far above the horizon, or were too soon involved in the obscurity of time. The three first of these are exclu- ded from Dr. Johnson's Lives of the Poets, (Shak- speare, indeed, is so from the dramatic form of his compositions); and the fourth, Milton, is admitted with a reluctant and churlish welcome. In comparing these four writers together, it might f IN PROSE. 53 be said, that Chaucer excels as the poet of manners, or of real life; Spenser, as the poet of romance; Shak- speare, as the poet of nature (in the largest use of the