IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)
1.0
I.I
UilM 175
ut lU |2.2
•" 140
u
12.0
||Lg 1 ^ 1 1^
^
6"
►
p
/i
0%
/.
w ^Z
'/
w
Photographic
Sciences
Corporation
33 WIST MAIN STMIT
WIUTM.N.Y. MSIO
(71«) •73-4S03
l/.A
CIHM/ICMH
Microfiche
Series.
CIHM/ICIVIH
Collection de
microfiches.
Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques
>
Technical and Bibliographic Notes/Notes techniques et bibliographiques
Th& Institute has attempted to obtain the best
original copy available for filming. Features of this
copy which may be bibliographically unique,
which may alter any of the images in the
reproduction, or which may significantly change
the usual method of filming, are checked below.
□
D
D
D
D
D
D
Coloured covers/
Couverture de couleur
I I Covers damaged/
Couverture endommag6e
Covers restored and/or laminated/
Couverture restaurie et/ou pelliculAe
I I Cover title missing/
Le titre de couverture manque
I I Coloured maps/
Cartes g^ographlques en couleur
Coloured init (i.e. other than blue or blacit)/
Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire)
I I Coloured plates and/or illustrations/
Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur
Bound with other material/
ReliA avec d'autres documents
Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion
along interior margin/
La re liure serr^e peut causer de I'ombre ou de la
distortion le long de la marge intirieure
Blank leaves added during restoration may
appear within the text. Whenever possible, these
have been omitted from filming/
II se peut que certaines pages blanches aJout6es
lors d'une restauration apparaissent dans le texte,
mais. lorsque cela Atait possible, ces pages n'ont
pas 4t4 fiimies.
Additional comments:/
Commentaires supplimentaires:
L'Institut a microfilm^ le meilleur exemplaire
qu'il lui a At4 possible de se procurer. Les dtttails
de cet exemplaire qui sont peut-Atre uniques du
point de vue bibliographique, qui peuvent modifier
tine image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une
modification dans la mithode normale de filmage
sont indiquAs oi-dessous.
I I Coloured pages/
D
D
Pages de couleur
Pages damaged/
Pages endommagAes
Pages restored and/oi
Pages restaur6es et/ou peliiculAes
Pages discoloured, stained or foxe(
Pages d6color6es, tachet6es ou piqudes
I — I Pages damaged/
I I Pages restored and/or laminated/
I 1 Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/
□ Pages detached/
Pages d6tach6es
EShowthrough/
Transparence
Transparence
Quality of prir
Qualiti in^gale de I'impression
Includes supplementary materii
Comprend du matikriel supplAmentaire
r~| Quality of print varies/
I I Includes supplementary material/
Only edition available/
Seule Edition disponible
Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata
slips, tissues, etc., have been refilmci to
ensure the best possible image/
Les pages totalement ou partiellement
obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure,
etc., ont M filmAes A nouveau de fapon A
obtenir la meilleure image possible.
This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/
Ce document est fllmA au taux de reduction indiqu* ci-dessout.
10X 14X 18X 22X
26X
30X
y
ikx
lex
20X
24X
28X
32X
laii'e
B details
:|ues du
It modifier
iger une
e filmage
The copy filmed here has been reproduced thanlcs
to the generosity of:
National Library of Canada
The images appearing here are the best quality
possible considering the condition and legibility
of the original copy and in keeping with the
filming contract specifications.
L'exemplaire film* fut reprodult grflce A la
ginirosit* de:
Bibiiothique nationale du Canada
Las images suivantes ont H6 reproduites avec le
plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et
de la nettet6 de rexemplaire fiimi, et en
conformity avec les conditions du contrat da
filmage.
1/
u6e8
Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed
beginning with the front cover and ending on
the last page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All
other original copies are filmed beginning on the
first page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, and ending on the last page with a printed
or illustrated impression.
Les exempiaires originaux dont la couverture en
papier est imprimie sont filmAs en commenpant
par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la
dernlAre page qui comporte une empreinte
d'impression ou d'illustration, soit par le second
plat, salon le cas. Tous les autres exempiaires
originaux sont filmAs en commen9ant par la
premiere pege qui comporte une empreinte
d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par
la derniire page qui comporte une telle
empreinte.
The last recorded frame on each microfiche
shell contain the symbol -^ (meaning "CON-
TINUED"), or the symbol y (meening "END"),
whichever applies.
Un des symboles suivants apparaltra sur la
dernlAre imege de cheque microfiche, selon le
cas: le symbols — ^ signifie "A SUIVRE ", le
symbols V signifie "FIN".
lire
l\/leps, plates, charts, etc., mey be filmed at
different reduction retios. Those too lerge to be
entirely included in one exposure are filmed
beginning in the upper left hend corner, left to
right and top to bottom, as many frames es
required. The following diegrems illustrate the
method:
Les cartes, pienches, tableaux, etc., peuvent Atre
f!lm68 A des teux de reduction diffirents.
'..orsque le document est trop grand pour Atre
reprodult en un seul cliche. 11 est film* A partir
de Tengie supArieur gauche, de gauche A droite,
et de heut en bes, en prenant le nombre
d'images nicesseire. Les diagrammes suivants
illustrant le mithode.
by errata
K>i to
snt
jne pelure,
af on h
1
2
3
32X
1
2
3
4
5
6
EN
PIECI
SELE
TO ASSIST yoi
TO in
TO INCULl
AN INTRO
ILL1
Revised, a
BY 1
Corresponding^ J
of tko Improve
J A: A. M'
MURRAY'S
ENGLISH READER;
un,
PIECES m PROSE AND POETRY,
SELECTED FROM THE BEST WRITERS.
DESIGNED
TO AKSI8T YOUNG PERSONS TO READ WITH PROPRIETY' AND EFFECT;
TO IMPROVE THEIR LANGUAGE AND SENTIMENTS;
AND
TO INCULCATE SOME OF THE MOST IMPORTANT PRINCIPLES
OF PIETY AND VIRTI'B.
J-
■ 'A
PRECEDED BY
AN INTRODUCTION TO WALKER'S SYSTEM OF
THE INFLECTION^.
ILLUBTUATED BY SUITABLE EXAMPLES.
Revised, and interepei'sed with many new Pieces,
BY THE REV. JOHN DAVIS, A. M.
CortMponding Member of the Orammatiral Society of Paris; Editor
cftke Improved Editions of Murray' a Orammara, Ooldtmith't
England^ Walker's Dictionary^ ^c. Sfc.
Slercotgpc Qrbition.
SAINT JOHN, N. B.:
J. k. A. M'MILLAN, PRINCE WILLIAM STRBET.
i-fi
Many seleci
efit of youn
utility, that
prove the y
the writer r
sufficiently
The prese
of three obj
liorate theii
the most im
The piece
emotions, a
but contain
versified, pi
this nature
read with pi
variety and
fully observ
another, wi
leachine th<
constructio]
and the voi
well, are of
reading sue
Apply that h
more compl
different.
The langi
carefully rf
instances, e
tracted fror
From the 8(
may expect
portant and
trite or evt
naturally u
and to prod
ment and a
That this
piety and v
which placi
mend a gre
nature, and
exhibited it
the attentif
sions on th
The Com
•entiment t
Sree, offenc
e peculiar
«At of yout
ment in ed
PREFACE.
Mamy eelectlons of excellent matter have been made for the ben-
elit of young persons. Performances of this kind are of so great
utility, that fresh productions of them, and new attempts to im-
prove the young mind, will scarcely be deemed superfluous, if
the writer make his compilntion instructive and interesting, and
jiufliciently distinct from others.
The present work, as the title expresses, aims at the attainment
of three objects: to improve youth in the art of reading; to me-
liorate their language and sentiments: and to inculcate some of
the most important principles of piety and virtue.
The pieces selected, not only give exercise to a great variety of
emotions, and the correspondent tones and variations of voice,
but contain sentences, and members of sentences, which are di-
versified, proportioned, and pointed with accuracy. Exercises of
this nature are, it is presumed, well calculated to teach youth tc
read with propriety and efl^ect. A selection of sentences, in which
variety and proportion, with exact punctuation, have been care-
fully observed, in all their parts, as well as with respect to one
another, will probably have a much greater efl'ect in properly
teaching the art of reading, than Id coniiaonly imagined. In such
constructions, every thing is accommodated to the understanding
and the voice; and the common difficulties in learning to read
well, are obviated. When the learner has acquired a habit of
reading such sentences with justness and facility, he will readily
apply that habit, and the improvements he has made, to sentencet
more complicated and irregular, and of a construction entirely
different.
The language of the pieces chosen for this collection, ha« been
carefully regarded. Purity, propriety, perspicuity, and, in many
instances, elegance of diction, distinguiish them. They are ex-
tracted from the w^^rks of the most correct and elegant writeri.
From the sources whence thn sentiments are drawn, the reader
may expect to And them connected and regular, sufficiently im-
portant and impressive, and divested of everytt^ing that is either
trite or ecce.itric. The frequent perusal of such composition
naturally tends to infuse a VisUi for this species of excellence;
and to produce a habit of thinking, and of composing, with judg-
ment and accuracy.
That this collection may also nerve the purpose of promoting
piety and virtue, the (Jnmpiler has introduced many extracts,
which place religion in the most amiable light, and which recom-
mend a great variety of moral duties, by the excellence of their
nature, and the happy effects they produce. These subjects are
exhibited in a style and manner, which are calculated to arrest
the attention of vouth,and to make strong and durable impres-
sions on their minds.
The Compiler has been careAil to avoid every expression an4
•entiment that might gratify a corrupt mind, or, in the least de-
gree, off'end the eye or ear of innocence. This he conceives to
be peculiarly incumbent on every person who writes for the ben-
efit of youth. It would, indeed,' be a great and happy improve-
ment in education, if no writings were allowed to come under
5
f
. %
IV
PREFACE AND ADVERTISEMENT.
their notice, but such as are perfectly innocent; and if, on all
pioper occasions, they were encouraged to peruse those which
tend to inspire a due reverence for virtue, and an abhorrence of
vice, as well as to animate them with sentiments of piety and
Ifoodness. Such impressions deeply engraven on their minds,
and connected with all their attainments, could scarcely fail of
attending them through life; and of |)roducing a solidity of princi-
ple and character, that would be able to resist the danger arising
from future intprcourse with the world.
The reader will perceive, ttiiitthe Compiler has been solici'ous
to rewOmmotid t<> vouiig per.sons, the perusal of the Sacred Scrip-
tures, by inter.spcrsing through his work, some of the most beau-
tiful anil interes;,ing passages of those invaluable writings. To
excite an early taste and veneration for this great rule of life, is
a point of so high importance, as to warrant the attempt to pro-
mote it on every proper occasion.
To improve the young mind, and to afford some assistance to
tutors, in tb? arduous and importani work of education, were the
motives which led to this production. If the Author should be so
Ruccessful as to accomplish these ends, even m a small degree, he
will think that his time and pains have been well employed, and
will deem himself amply rewarded.
ADVERTISEMENT TO THE IMPROVED EDITION.
The Evfflish Reader, as it proceeded from the hands of Lindi^ey
Murray, is well calculated to further the important objects which
that eminently useful writer had in view in its compilation. The
pervading style of .the work is, in the highest degree, pure and
perspicuous; and the sentiments contained in it are never unfa-
vourable to the acquisition of the besr moral and religious prin*;!-
ples. An objection, however, has been made by some intt'lligent
persons, that its character is rather sombre and monotonous, bovh
as respects the ideas, and the language in which they are clother .
This objection the present Editor of the Reader has endeavoured
to obviate, by leaving out some of Mu nay's pieces, and introduc-
ing others of a more varied kind, selected from the writings of
several of the most distinguished authors of the present day.
But, while these passages are thought to be somewhat more live-
ly, and much more eloquent, than those which have been omitted,
it is presumed that they will be found in unison with the spirit
and the plan of the original Compiler.
By stereotyping the work, and putting the lines a little closer,
the Editor has been enabl«;d to insert nearly one hundred pieces
more than were contained in any of the York editions.
In order to kcpp pace with thi; pr<'senl advanced state of the
art of reading, it has also been deemed proper to omit Murray's
Introductory Observations, and ijisert in their place a synopsis of
Walker's admirable system of the Intlections of the voice.
The subject, however, is so fully treated, that no observation or
rule has been withheld that might be useful in the attainment of
a branch of learning now justly considered so necessary both to
good reading and correct recitation. Still farther to illustrate the
system, each chapter is commenced with a piece marked with the
principal inflections.
*V Th» piecfg marked*' have been introduced by the preteni Editor.
Bblpast, April, 1832.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION.
Page
INFLECTIONS OF THE VOICE 7
Table of the Inflections 8 \
Circumflexes and Monotone 9
KULE8 FOR INFLECTING SENTENCES, OR PARTS OF
SENTENCES.
Rule I.— Complete and Independent Sense 9
II.— Negative Sentencets, or Members of Sentences 10
III.— Direct Period ib.
Exception to the First and Third Rule ib.
INTEiTROGATION.
IV.— Questions usked by Verbs 11
.Exception.— Long Interrogative Sentence ib.
V.—Questions commencing with Pronouns or Adverbs* • ib.
VI.— Interrogative Sentences, connected by the Conjunc-
tion or ib.
VII.— Questions followed by Annwers 12
PARENTHESIS.
VIII.— The manner of Pronouncing the Parenthesis 13
Note 1 . — Short Intervening Members 13
-. s. Note 2. — Longer Intervening Mv?mbcrs ib.
Exception.— Parenthesis ending with an Emphatical
Word ib.
SERIES.
Explanation of the Series 1.1
Table of the Inflections of the Simple Series 14
Examples of the Simple Series ib.
IX.— Commencing Compound Series ib.
X. — Concluding Compound Series . -la
Note.— Series of Series' ib.
HARMONIC INFLECTION.
XI.— This Inflection fklls on Words forming the most
agreeable Cadence 10
Observations end Examples ib.
EXCLAMATION.
XII.— Word repeated in form of an Exclamation 17
ACCENT.
XIII.— Words the same in part of their Elements 17
EMPHASIS 4 18
Single Empiiasis 10
Double Emphasis ib.
Treble Emphasis ib.
General Emphasis ib.
RHETORICAL PUNCTUATION fO
DIRECTIONS FOR REAPING VERSE.
llULE I.— How to begin ^ Poem SI
II.— Verse the same as Prose, in respect to Accent and
Emphasis lb.
III.— The Vowel, when cutoif, preserved in Pronunciation ib.
IV. — The Cfesura and Demi-CKsura S3
v.— A Pause at the end of Lines ib.
VI.— How to form a Cadence S3
VIl.-The Simile lb.
VIII.— The Inflection, when no Pause in the Sense at the
end of the Verse ib.
Note.— Rising Inflection in Verse ai. in Proae ib.
IX.— Sublime Descriptions in Poetry S4
2 CONTENTS.
PART I.
PIECES IN PROSE.
Page
Chap. I. — Select Sentences and Paragraphs. 35
Chap. II. — Narrative Pieces.
Sect.
1. No Rank or Possessions can make the Guilty Mind Happy 35
2. Haman; or, the Misery of Pride 3ft
3. Lady .lane Gr«>y • 37
4. Ortogrul; or, the Vanity of Riches 40
5. The Hill of Science 49
6. The Journey of a Day, a Picture of Human Life 45
7. La Roche 40
Chap. III. — Didactic Pieces. t
1. The Folly of Mispending Time 51
2. The Importance of a Good Education 52
3. On Forgiveness 64
4. Comforts of Religion 55
5. On the Importance of Order in the Distribution of our Time 56
6. Moderation in our Wishes recommended 58
7. The Omniscience and Omnipresence of the Deity, the
Source of Consolation to Good Men 59
8. On retirement and Meditation 63
9. The Elements subservient to the Wants of Man ib.
10. The improvement of the Mind, the principal Source of
Happiness 65
11. The Misery of Infidelity 66
12. Christ, the Desire of all Nations 68
13. To a Young Man on the Choice of Friends 69
14. The Insignificance of the World 70
J5. Equal Distribution of Enjoyment 73
16. ITncertiiinty of Human Expectations 74
17. On Character 75
18. Chiist, the Image and Glory of God 76
19. On Gentleness and Modesty 77
20. The Philanthropy of the Gospel 79
Chap. \Y .^—Argumentative Pieces. .,, ^^, ,
1. Happiness is founded in Rectitude of Conduct • •' 80
2. Virtue and Piety, Msm's Highest Interest 81
3. The Misfortunes of Men mostly chargeable on themselves 82
4. On the Immorality of the Soul 85
5. The same Subject 87
Chap. V. — Descriptive Pieces.
1. On the Dissolution of Nature 88
2. The Seasons 89
3. The Cataract of Niagara, in Canada 90
4. The Grotto of Antiparos 91
5. Earthquake at Catanea 93
6. Creation 94
7. Charity 95
8. On the Beauties of the Psalms 96
9. Character of AJfr(>d King of England 97
10. Character of Queen ^''.lizabeth 98
11. On England , 100
12. The Christian Mother 101
15. On the Dissolution of all Visible Things 102
CONTENTS.
S
Sect. Pag«
14. The Puritans 102
15. The Intellectual Character of Milton 10ft
16. On Day and Night, and the Seasons 106
17. Rural Life in England • 107
18. On Poetry 110
19. On Westminster Abbey 112
20. On the Advantages of the Telescope and Microscope 114
21. The Divine Character lift
22. On the Greatness of Bpnaparte 110
Chap. VI. — Pathetic Pieces.
l.The Good Man's Comfort in Affliction 119
2. An Eminent Instance of True Fortitude ib.
3. The Close of Life 121
4. The Clemency and Amiable Character of the Patriarch
Joseph 122
5. The Elder's Deathbed 125
6. War, a Fragment • 128
7. Comal and Galvina 129
8. The widow and her Son 130
9. The same, continued 133
10. The Head-stone 136
11. The Village Teacher 140
C H A p . VII. — Dialogues,
1. Christianity defended against Scepticism. — Locke and
Bayle 142
2. The Vices and Follies of Men should excite Compassion
rather than ridicule. — Democritus and Heraclitus 147
S. The Glory of a Wise and Peaceful King is more solid than
that of an Unjust Conqueror. — Romulus and \uma
Pompilius 149
4. On the Death of Morar. — Reyno and Alpin 152
5. Moderate Wishes the Source of Happiness. — Menalc i
Eschinus 158
0. Beauty and Utility combined in the Productions of Nuu.
— Theron and Aspasio 154
Chap. VIII. — Public Speeches,
1. The Apostle Paul's noble Defence before Festus and
Agrippa 15?
2. Cicero against Verres 15!»
8. Lord Mansfield's Speech in the House of Peers, 1770, on
the Rill for Preventing the Delays of .lustice, by claim-
ing the Privilege of Parliament 162
4. An Address to Young Persons 166
5. Speech of Lord Chatham against the American War, and
against employing the Indians in it 169
6. Grattan on the Declaration of Rights 172
7. Curran for Hamilton Rowan 174
8. Pitt on the African Slave Trade 176
9. On the same Subject 178
10. Rolla to the Peruvians • 180
11. Funeral Eulogium on Dr. Franklin 181
Chap. IX. — Promiscuous Pieces,
1. Excellence of the Holy Scriptures 182
2. Earthquake at Calabria, in the year 1638 183
3. Letter fVom Pliny to Marcellinus, on the Death of an Ami-
able Young Woman 186
CONTENTS.
Sect. Page
4. On the Government of our Thoughts - - - 187
5. Reflections on Christ's Sermon on the Mount - - 189
6. Schemes of Life often Illusory - - . • 190
7. The Influence of Devotion on the Happiness of Life - 192
8. Virtue, when deeply rooted, is not subject to the influence
of Fortune ...._. 194
9. What are the real and solid Enjoyments of Human Life - 195
10. The Speech of Fabricus to King Pyrrhus - - 197
11. The Pleasures resulting from a Proper Use of our Faculties 198
12. Character of James I. King of England - - - ih.
13. On Charles V.'s resigning his Dominions - - 199
14. Feelings excited by a long Voyage .... - 202
15. Address to the Sea - 204
A Morning in the Highlands - . . . . 205
Maternal Affection 207
The Virtues of Irreligious Men, an Aggravation of their
Guilt 208
10. On Happiness 209
20. On Autumn - - - - - - - 210
91. On the Beauty and Force of the English Language - 211
22. Arguments in favour of the Planets being inhabited - 213
23. St. Paul at Athens 215
24. The folly of Ambition 216
25 The Resurrection of Christ - - - - 219
26. Omnipresence of the Deity - . . - . 220
27. On Genius and Fame ..... 222
28. War 223
29. On Humility 224
30. Remarks on Homer, the Bible, Dante, and Ossian - 227
31. The Last Day 231
16.
17.
18.
PART II.
PIECES !N POETRY.
Chap. I. — Short and Easy Pieces*
Sect.
1. To the Butterfly - . . - .
2. On the Sensitive Plant ....
3. The Setting Sun ....
4. Saturday Night - . . . .
!i. The Day of Life
«. On Truth
7. A Receipt for Happiness ...
8. The Daisy
9. Morning U/mn for Children ...
10. Evening Hymn for Children ...
11. The Condescension of God . . . .
Chap. II. — Narrative Pieces,
1. The Bears and the Bees ...
5. The Nightingale and the Glow-worm
3. The Youth and the Philosopher
4. The Bee, the Lily of the Valley, and the Tulip .
ft. The Stranger and his Friend ...
6. Diicourse between Adam and Eve retiring to rest
Page
- 2?5
ib.
. 236
ib.
- 237
ib.
. 238
ib
. 239
ib.
. 240
. 241
ib
. 243
244
.246
247
10. Nothing forn
CONTENTS.
Page
187
- 189
190
- 192
iience
Life -
ulti«s
their
194
195
197
198
ih.
190
202
204
205
207
208
209
210
211
213
215
216
219
220
222
223
224
227
231
Page
- 2»5
ib.
- 236
ib.
- 2r
ib.
.238
ib
. 239
ib.
. 240
. 241
ib
. 242
344
.246
247
Sect. Page
Chap. III. — Sacred Pieces. ' *'■
1. The Glorifis of Creation - - - - -250
2. The Creation required to praise ita Author - - 251
3. Hymn - - - - - - - - 258
4. God Visible in his Works ----- 254
5. Sunday Morning ------ 255
6. Sunday Evening --_.-. 256
7. The Power of God 258
8. An Address to the Deitv ----- 259
9. The Dwelling-place of God - - - - -260
10. Di>votion --...--261
11. A Morning Hymn - - - - - - ib.
!2. An Evening Service - - - - - 263
13. The Nativity - - - - - - - 264
14. On Prayer 265
15. Grave of a Christian - - - - - -266
16. Lines written on the first Page of a Bible - - 267
17. The Goodness of God ----- 268
18. On Life ib.
19. The Influence of Hope at the Close of Life - . 260
Chap. IV. — Didactic Pieces.
1 Indignant Sentiments on National Prejudices and Hatred,
and on Slavery ..... JJ71
2 On True Dignity . -272
3 Cruelty to Brutes censurad ... 273
4 A Paraphrase on the latter part of the Sixth Chapter of St.
Matthew -274
5 Reflections on a Future State, from a Review of Winter 275
f) On Pride -276
7 On Procrastination • . ♦ . . 277
S On Taste -278
9 Whatsoever ye would that Men fbould do to you, do ye
even so to them . , . . 279
10. Nothing formed in Vain .... 280
Chap. V. — Descriptive Pieces.
1 The Morning in Summer .... 281
2 Rural Sounds, as well as Rural Sights, delightful 282
3 Liberty and Slavery contrasted • ib.
4 True Happiness • . . . . 283
5 Picture of a Good Man • • . -284
6 The Sabbath Morning -285
7 The Pleasure and Benefit of an improved and well-direct-
ed Imagination .... 286
8 The Rainbow • . • .287
9 The Field of Waterloo . . • -289
1 10 Night . • . • 291
11 On Rome • . • -292
12 On the Plain of Marathon • > • .294
113 The Covenanter's Sabbath . -205
Chap. VI. — Pathetic Pieces.
I Elegy on Pity .997
> Stanzas written at Midnight .... 298
3 The Burial of Sir John Moore • • .299
4 A Mother's Love • • 300
^ On the Downfall of Poland . . -301
6 The Hermit • . -303
:^%
f CONTENTS.
Beet.
7 Who ia my Neighbour? • • .
8 Eliza .....
9 Ode fo Pity . . .
10 Presentiment of Death • • •
11 Marceti*:!. • • ' *
12 The Mother to her Infant
13 The Deserted Wife
14 A Ship Sinking • • ..
15 Hymn to Humanity
Chap. VII. — Promiscuous Pieces.
1 The Order of Nature - - - -
2 The Pursuit of Happ:;iess often ill directed -
9 Reflections on a Skull - . - .
4 The Fireside . . . _
fl The Road to Happiness open to all men
6 Providence vindicated in the present State of Man
7 The Anticipations of Hope _ . .
8 Human Frailty - - - _
9 The Harvest Moon - _ - _
10 Song of the Stars - - - -
11 The Ocean _ - . - _
12 Lines written in a Highland Clen
13 Modern Greece - _ . -
14 The Well of St. Keyne
15 Conscience - -
1ft Description of Spring - - -
17 Heavenly Minstrel - - . -
18 Kirkstall Abbey revisited - - - ;,
19 Summer Sabbath Walk . - _
20 Youth . - - - -
21 Wesminbter Abbey - - - •
22 A Morning Scene - - - -
23 Thunder Storm among the Alpa
24 The Daisy in Ind'a . . -
25 Home - » - _ .
26 Ode to Adversity - - - -
27 The Butterfly . - . .
26 Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College -
29 Mont nianc - - - - -
30 To the Evening Primrose . - -
31 The Evening Ilour - - - .
32 Ode to Content • • - -
33 Ode tn Peace
84 A field Flower . - - -
3ft Spring - - - - ,
36 On Genius - - . -
87 Memory - - - - -
38 The Hour of Death . -
39 On Parting - - . . -
46 SoasonB of Praver - - » ft ,
41 Meditation on the Woods • • •
42 The Pilgrims to Emmaus • • .#
48 The Beacon • - - • .
4i Hymn on a Review of the SeasoM - »
••
Pag«
304
• 3051
306
• 307
30«
• 309
3i0|
• 311
3121
- 315
316
- 318
3lij
- 321
- 32.1
.324
- 325
320
- 327
328
- 329
320
- ^m
332
- m\
334
- 335
337[
- 33k
340
- 341
."143
- 844
345
- 346
347l
- 350
351 1
■ 3m
3531
- 3.^
35.51
- 35«l
3571
- 358l
35tl
- 360l
30l[
• 30)1
3fi5|
. 36(1
3071
INTRODUCTION.
INFLECTIONS OF THE VOICE.
The difference between speaking and musical sounds, is,
that musical sounds remains for some specified time on one
particular note, and leap from one part of the scale to the
other; while speaking sounds^ instead of dwelling any par-
ticular time on the note with which they commence, are
perpetually sHding either upwards or downwards, to the
neighbouring notes, without any perceptible rest on any.
So tkat speaking and musical sounds are essentially dis-
tinct: the former being constantly in motion from the
moment they commence ; the latter being at rest for some
given time in one precise note. *
By reflecting on the inanner in which words are pro-
nounced, we discover that they are pronounced either
sliding upwards or downwards, or in a Monotone. Ha^*
ing maturely considered this, we conclude, that the primary
division of speaking sounds is into the upward or down-
ward slides of the voice; or, into a combination <^ th«
two, called the Circumflex.
There are, therefore, two inflections of the ▼oice— the
upward, or Rising Inflection ; and the downward, or Fall-
ing Inflection. The former is represented by the aciit«
accent, and is mostly used at a comma, to imply the con*
tinuation of the sense : or in asking a question beginning
with a verb; thus, "Do you leave town' to-day 1" The
latter is represented by the grave accent, and is generally
used at a semicolon or colon, to imply a conclusion of
sense : we might also use it in answer to the former ques-
tion; ae, "Ycs\ I do\"
INTRODUCTIOir.
i ! •
^
to »0 H-> H^
H- O «0 00
:-l OS pi ^^ W J« J- p 50 00 ^ OS Oi ^ CO M ^
A A O n CD A O
CB on af] cc t»
D- cr cr D- p*
00000
(^ Pd & Cm Od
» s 3 3
00000
r* c* *♦ r*. «-♦•
^^^^
o
cfi m £.
3* 3- 5:
O O T^
C 3 ^
d, {i, A
3 3 S
3-
o
c
O-S^Cl-
00 CO CO en en (/] 0}
pg P P P3 P P B;
3 a"
o-
c
or
c
«0 03 1(3
3 ^ (^
C ^ 3
•I o' o-
c
3
3 «
3: w
» 3
3
so •7-1
cr A
o P
^^ a"
* £i
A*
A
Vi
A O-
P A
•I '^
^ "1
p o
«-♦
^ A
•"J ja
3
M«>
3*
A
cn
re
03
1 o
p 3
A O
^ 3
So
® tr"
A O
•-< 3
§:§■
A 3
3-
A
DO
3- sr
A A
&- O O- &- ffi o- c-
S. <^ 3^
CL S^ A
^^ ^
A CO ^
£L^ 3 5'
— A (Jq, O-aq
A rt "< ^
e-a ^ 3 ^*
•— ^ — 3 3-
" " B •"• ^
Oq 3 V;
^ O
o
A
CO
CO
3"
A
P_
9?
>-• «• »?. NK.
& CL C^ O'
3" 3* 3- tr
A A A A
o
"1
A >.^
" o
o *^
-^ 3
S".3
CO
p
A
O
3
CO
o
A
3
A
A
CO CO
p 'n
^ A
A
P
A
CO
CO
CO
S'
3
o
3
Grq
a.
A
A
O
2-
3*
3
5 S'
3
eg
p
A
A
A -^
3 3:
p '^
«"♦ -^
A ^
2 J ■* -.
' en
o
^—
A
3
A
A
3^ 3
5 n> 3
_ H-. A (59
•-» 3 r; a
oq 3 3;
.^P •-*
k9
to tS »-• ^
H- O CO 00
^i 05 01 jp^ f^ M r ? .^ 90 .-^ p p" jp^ to to ^
A A A A A A A a'a ^A^^';^^« ^ « « A A* JT a"
p-3-3'3r3^Cr'3[-CP'3'«,ET'. a-, g^PA
^ ^g§ gs§f 111 l.f 1.^^51
floTS cr-A re rT'»'.i-^3 -'^'3 §,-"«.^
£.££.£.£.£.£,£,
CO CO CO
3-ClO
»-• A
CL.
>
IS
o
K
ft
i-H
W
o
H
o
CO
But it is fool
8elve8 with CI ("i
It.o one can pati
When the
[the Mojwtone,
RULES F(
mnc IS comp
md of a ■ente:
Age, in a virt
lakos It prefera
It 13 this whic
Instant called otl
|u dwell too lonj
Mary's suffori
[radical diitreHH
^Hiiiniseratiou':
> forget her frai
[nd approve of (
lad attained niu
A
INTllODUCTIOJr.
9
CIRCUMFLEXES.
Falling and Rising,
The Rising Circumflex begins with the falling inflec-
Ition, and ends with the rising, upon the same syllabic ;
land seems, as it were, to bend the voice upwards.
But it is foolish in us to compare Driiiius Africanus and our-
selves with Chldius. Allorrotlier calamitiei;; were tolerable; but
\\,o one can patiently bijar the deuth of Cl(5diu8.
t
jRisifig and Falling. ^^ '-■ '
The Falling Circumflex liogiiis with the rising inflcc-
Ition, and ends with the ialhng upon the same syllable ;
land seems to bend the voice downwards.
Queen. Ilnmlet, you have your father much offended.
Ilavilet. Maduni, you have uiy father much oft'ended.
MONOTONE.
When the tone of the voice is not inflected, it is called
[the Monotone.
Hi/jrh on a throne of roynl state, which /nr
Outshone the iceulih of Oniius and of Ind,
Or where the porgcovs Enxt, with richest bnnd^
Hhowcrs on Uvv linigs barbaric pearl and gold,
Satan exalted sat.
'U'
RULES FOR INFLECTING SENTENCES, OR
PARTjs of 8ENTEINCES.
RuLi I. — The Falling Inflection takes place where the
mne is complete and independent, whether it be at the
md of a «entcnce, or a part of a sentence.
Age, in a virtuous person, carries with it an authority, which
lakes it preferable to all tin; |»loasures of youth*.
It is this which reconnnendrt variety'; where the mind is every
Itistant nailed off to sumetliiuK new, and the attention not sutfered
|o dwell too long on any particular object'.
I Mary's sufTorings exceed, both in df';,'ree and Induration, those
[ragical distresses which fancy has feiyiicd, to excite sorrow and
Voatiniaeratlon': and, whili! wcHurvey (hem, we are apt altogether
' forget her frailties; we think of her faults with less indignation;
ind approve of our tears, as if J hey wore shed for a person who
fart attained much nearer to pure virtue'.
10
IKTRODUCTIOa".
Rule II. — Negative sentences,
tnnccs, adopt the rising inflection.
or members of sen*
It is not enough that you continue steadfast and immoveable',
you must also abound in the work of the Lord, if you expect yourj
labours to be crowned with success.
Virtue is of intrinsic value, and good desert; not the creature of I
will', but necessary and immutable; not local or temporary', but
of equal extent and antiquity with the divine mind; not a mode
of sensation', but everlasting truth; not dependant on power', but
the guide of all power.
.♦ ••■
Rule III. — Every direct period requires a long pause,
with the rising inflection, at the end of the first principal!
member.
As, while hope remains, there can be no full and positive]
misery'; so, while fear is yet alive, happiness is incomplete.
If to do were as easy as to know what were good' to do, chapels !
had been churches, and poor men's cottages, princes' palaces.
Virtue were a kind of misery', if fame were all the garland that]
crowned her.
No man can rise a! we the infirmities of nature', unless assist-
ed by God.
As the rude and untaught multitude arc no way wrought upon
more effectually, thjan by seeing public punishments and execu-
tions'; so, men of letters and education feel their humanity most I
forcibly exercised, when they attend the obsequies of men whoj
had arrived at any perfection in liberal accomplishments.
Exception to the First and TJiird Rule.
When the commencing member of an antithesis con«|
tains a concession requiring a strong emphasis, and an
appeal is made to the feelings in the second member, the
latter has the rising, and the former the falling inflection. I
If we have no regard for religion in youth', wc ought to have
some regard for it in nge'.
If we have no regard for our own' character, we ought to have
some regard for the character of others'.
When a Persian soldier was reviling Alexander the Great, his
ollicer reprimanded him by saying: " Sir, you were paid to fight
Alexander, and not to rair at liini.''
The duty of a soldier consisis in obcjing\ not directing' his
general.
If CO itcnt cannot remove' the disquietudes of mankind, it will
at least alleviate' them.
If these sentences had been so constructed, as to make
the latter member a mere inference from, or consequence
UrTPOfitCTlOS*
11
the former, the inflections would hare remained accord*
to the first and third RulCi
If we have no regard for religion in yoofh', we have seldom
[y regard for it in age\
If we have no regard for our otvn' character, it in scarcely to
expected that we should have any for the character of others*.
iless assist-
INTERROGATION.
I Rule IV. — Questions commencing with, or asked by
hrbs, take the rising inflection.
V'ould it not employ a beau preitHy enough, If, instead of etcr-
^ly playing with his snufl-box, he spent some part of his time ill
iking one' I
Shall this man, then, who was born to save his country, die any
iere but in his country' ? Will you retain the memorials of his
|lant soul, and deny his body a grave in Italy' 1 Will <*ny per-
igive his voire for banishing a man from this city, whom every
on earth would be proud to receive within its walls'?
lException.. — When an interrogative sentence, begun with
Verb, is very long, or concludes a paragraph, it may end
|th the falling inflection.
The Drigantcs, even under a female leader, had force enough
|burn the enemy's settlements, to storm their camps; and, if
ccess had not introduced negligence and inactivity, would have
!n able entirely to throw off the yoke: and shall not we, un^
iched, unsubdued, and struggling, not for the acquisition, but
the continuance of liberty, declare, at the very onset, what
^d of men Caledonia^ has reserved for her ''cfence' 1
IRuLK V. — Questions commencing with pronouns or ad»
rbs, take the falling inflection.
^ho continually keeps this globe on which wc dwell in its orbiri
liogivethdayand night, summer and winter, seedtime und har-
kt'1 Who produces every plant, and brings forth successively
kry animaP 1 Who supplies the returning wants of every liv-
^ creature"?
Ah ! why will kings forget that they are men,
And men that they are brethren'1 Why delight
In human sacrifice' 1 Why burst the tics
Of Nature, that should knit their souls together
In one soft bond of amity and love' 1
tuLE VI. — When interrogative sentences, or members
I sentences, connected by the disjunctive conjunction or,
tcced each other, the first ends with the rising, and the
It with the falling inflection.
'I
ml
12
ITTRODJCTIO:!?*.
Shall wo in your person crown' the author of the public calari'.j
iti<.'a, or shall we dosiroy' l)iin ■?
Is the jroodnt'.ss' or \visdi):n' of the Divine Being, more inanifesil
in this his jirocecdin^j;" ?
But should thpse credulous infidels, after all, he in the riphtJ
and this pretended revdatioii be all a fable, from hcli^vinfj it whai
harm' could ensue* Would it render princes more tyrannical, oa
subjects more unirnvfrnable'.' — the rich more insolent, or the ponij
more disorderly'? Would it mak'^ worse parents or children'j
husl>and8 or wives'; niastcr^ or servants'; friends orneiehbours'l
Or would it not make iiumi more virtuous, and consqucntly, morq
happy in every' situation? , .
Rule VII. — Vv''hcn qu.?.=tioiif> are followed by answorsj
tile question shonlJ bo delivered in a higher tone of voice]
Mild, after a suitable pause, the answer returned in a firnij
but lower tone. *' :" ^ ' *'" '•
Are you poor'? Show yourself active and industrious, peaceabld
and contented. Are you wealthy '? Show yourself beneficent anif
charitable, condcscpudlu:? arid isunjane. Are you desirous thai
your talents and al)i!iiic'.s n»ay procuio yui respect"? Display thei
not ostentati.)u^ly to public viifw. Would you escape the envjl
which your riches ruifrltt f xcitj"? Let them not niinisier to pridel
hut adoru lliom with humility.
PARENTHESIS.
RtTLF- VIII. — A Parenthesis must be delivered or pre
iiounccd in a lower tone of voice, and with a more rapiJ
delivery than the rest of the sentence, and conclude witif
Ihe same pause and inflection wliich terminate the mcnij
her that inimcdiaiuly precedes it.
The many letters Tvliirh como to me from persons of the besj
sense in both sexus' (for I may pronounce their charactern froiT
their way of writinir') do not a little encourage me in the prose|
cution of this my undert:Akiiijj.
Young master was alive last Wljitsuntide, said the coacliman.-
Whiisnntide ! alas'i cried Trim' (cxtfsiiding his right arm, and fa!i
ins instantly into the same attitude in which he read the serinoiil
—what in AVhitsnntiJn, .Tonatiian' (for that was the coachnian|
name'), or Shrovetide, or any lid(! or time to this? Are we v
here now'1 continued the ''orporal', (striking the end of his stiol
|H'rpendicularly upon thn floor, so a«to pive an idea of health ail
Ftability';) anil are we not' (ilropping his hat on the grouini|
jjone In b moment?
Note I . — Short intervening members, such as, said I, sm
he, rephtd /, &c. not only follow the inflection, but th|
tone of the member t!iat precedes them. Thus, when t!ij
le series is ca
INTRODUCTION.
13
irecedin? member breaks off with the rising infloction, these
ublic calan^Bjjcmbers are not pronounced, like other parentheses, in a
)re jnanifesB^^*^^' ^^^ ^^ ^ higher and feebler tone than the rest.
Thun, thpn\ said he', since yon arc Mrg:?nt, it ia thus that I con-
le've it. The sovereign good is that, the posfiepsion of which ren-
lers us happy. And how\ said 1% do wo possess it7 Is it sensual
^rihtellectuall There you are entering', said he', upon the detail.
Note 2. — But when the intcrveriincf mcnibcr goes far-
Iher than these simple phrases, they must always be pro-
louTico'l in a lower tone of voice, and terminate with the
Ki^'-n^ inflection. -
I had letters' from him (hero I felt in myporkots') that exactly
Jpoke the Czar's character, which 1 knew peiil;< tiy well.
Exception. — Whatever be the inflection that precedes,
[he parenthesis must end with the falling iniioction when
It terminates with an emphatical word ; and when the par-
enthesis is long, it may be pronounced in a monotone.
But if yo were evcrprrsent, if yc vore .ill aereed that the mea-
kumsthen augjjested v/cro roaiiy iho he^l; if you it:i*rhine8, in par-
[icular, were thus persuaded' (and it w-is jio p.iitiiil atVection for
me, that prompted you to pive me up tho hope.>, tho applause, thi*
lioiiours, which attended that course 1 then advised, hut the Kupu-
nnr force of truth, and your utter inaMlity to point nut any more
blipible course'); if this was the case, I say, it it ;<ot highly cruel
^nd unjust to arraign those measures now, when you could not
[hen propose any betturl
f
SERIES. ..%'
By the word Scries is to be understood, an enumeration
M particulars, whether independent, or having a common
leference.
When the members of a series con;:nst of single words,
le series is called simple.
I Humanity', justice', penerosily', and public spirit', are the qua-
lities most useful to others.
When the members of a scries con.sist of several words^
|t is called compound.
Nature has laid out all her art in heautifying the face': she han
^uched it with vermilion'; planted in it a double row of ivory';
|s»Bde it the seal of smiles and blushes'; liziited it up and enliren-
fd it with the brightness of the eyes ; hung it on each side with
t I!
14
INTBOBUCTIOar.
curious organs of Rense"; fiven it airs and graces that cannot i
described"; and surrounded it with suck allowing shade of ha.i
as sets all its beauties in the most agreeable ligbV.
When a series begins a sentence, but does not end ij
it is called a commencing series/ when it ends a sentenc
ivhether it may begin or not, it is called a concluding serin
Table of the Inflections of the Simple Series,
m
m
COMMENCIKO.
No, of Members.
2
... rs'
.. r2'3'
1/ 2^ 3^ 4'
6 1' 2^ 3 4^ 5'
6 Vr3^4>b'&
... 1' 2' 3' 4^ 5^ 6^ 7'
. V 2' 3' 4' 5^ 6^ 7^ 8'
V 2^ 3' 4' 6' 6^ r 8' 9'
3
4
7
8
9
10 .r2^3^4'5'6'r8^9M0'
l'2^>
CONCLUDIXG.
No. of Members.
2
3 1' 2' 3'
4 . . r 2' 3M^
5 r 2' 3' 4' 5^
6 r 2^ 3' 4' 5' 6^
7 r 2^ 3^4' 6' 6' r
8 .... 1'2^3^4^6'6' 7' 8^
9 . . 1' 2' 3^ 4^ 5^ 6' 7' 8' 9^
10. 1' 2' 3' 4^ 6^ 6^ 7' 8' 9M
Examples of the Simple Commencing Series.
Three Members.— The young*, the healthy", and tlie prospeij
tous', should not presume on their advantagen.
Five Memdbrs. — The presence', knowledge", power", wiBdomj
.and goodness' of God must all be unbounded.
Ten Memders.
Next then, you authors, be not you severe;
Why, what a swarm of scribblers have we here:
One', two*, three', four', five', six', seven", eight", nine", ten',
All in one row, and brothers of the pen.
Examples of the Simple Concluding Series.
Four Members.— Fear not, ye righteous, amidst the distress^
of life. You have an Aimiglity Friend continually at hand \\
pity", to support', to defend', and to relieve" you.
Seven Members.
They pnssed over many a frozen, many a fiery Alp;
Rocks*, eaves', k .:es", fens', bogs', dens', and shades of dcathi
Rule IX. — In the commencing compound scries, thj
falling inflection takes place in every member but the lad
A contempiai;lon of God's works", a voluntary act of justice tl
our own dctrlnient\ a generous concern for the good of mankind|
tears shed in s lence for the misery of others", a private desire <
resentment broken and subdued', an unfeigned exercise of huml
lity", or any other virtue', are such actions as denominate meij
jgruat and reputable.
\[\\i,,
IKTRODUCTION.
15
eri€8.
IXG,
rs^
'. '. * 1'
2' 3'
. r2'
3M'
[' 2' 3'
4' 5^
r 3' 4'
5' 6^
J^4'6'
6'r
t^ 5' 6'
7' 8'
9 6' 7'
8' 9^
r 7' 8'
9M(
series.
i the pro»pe
'er\ wUdoni
RpLE X. — In the concluding compound series, every
member takes the falling inflection, except the last but one.
True gentleness teaches us to bear one another's burdens'; to
I rejoice with those who rejoice'; to weep with those who weep ;
to please everyone his neighbour for his good"; to hn kind nv.d
tender-hearted"; to be pitfful and courteous'; to support the weak';
|au(i to be patient towards all men'.
Note, — When several members of a sentence, consisting
of distinct portions of similar or opposite words in a series,
follow in succession, they must be pronounced singly,
ac<:ording to the number of members in each portion ; and
together, according to the number of portions in the whole
sentence ; that the whole may form one related compound
series.
The soul consists of many faculties; as the understanding' and
the wiir, with aU the senses both inward and outward'; or, to
I speak more philosophically, the soul can exert herself in niunv
different ways of action. She can understand', will', imagine';
see' and hear'; love' and discourse'; and apply herself to many
I other like exercises, of ditferent kinds and natures'.
The first portion of this series of series', she can under-
standy unllf imaginej as it contains one complete portion,
may be considered as a concluding scries ; and as it forms
but one portion of a greater series, it may be considered
as a commencing one, and must be pronounced in sub.ser-
viency to it ; that is, the first and second word must have;
the rising, and the last the falling inflection. The next
portion must be pronounced in a similar manner; that is,
the first word with the rising, and the last with the falling
inflection, with tiie voice a little higher and more forcible
on the word hear than on the word imagine. The next
portion, being the last but one, alters its inflections ; the
first word having the falling, and the last the rising in-
flection.
On the other hand, tiiose evil spirits who, by long custom, have
contracted in the body habits of lust' and sensuality', malice' and
revenge', an aversion to everything that is good', just', and lauda-
ble', are naturally seasoned and prepared tor pain and misery.
As this is a commencing series of series', the last mem-
ber but one of the second series may be pronounced with
the falling inflection at revenge; and, as the last member
has a series of three single words, they come under the
Table of the Inflections of the Simple Commencing Series.
I
1
ji
I
16
INTRODUCTION.
HARMONIC INFLECTION.
:!
Inil|
1
Though the rule for Harmonic Inflection ia extremely
indefinitey yet we subjoin it, and give a few examples to
assist the readei in acquiring some knowledge of this in- 1
flection.
RuLB XI. — When a series of similar sentences, or mem-
hers of sentences, form a branch of a subject or paragraph ;
the last sentence or member must fall gradually into. a lower
tone, and adopt the harmonic inflection on such words as |
form the most agreeable cadence. iw *
Wo may learn from this observation which we have made on I
the mind of man, to take particular care, when we have once
settled in a regular course of life, how we too frequently indulge
ourselves in any the most innocent diversions and entertain-!
ments"; since the mind may fall olf from the relish of virtuous ac-
tions, and by degrees' exchange' that' pleasure", which it takes in I
the performance of its duty\ for delights of a much more inferior |
and unprofitable nature.
By using the falling inflection on the word entertain-
mentSj and introducing the harmonic inflection upon the
words degrees and exchange) and upon that and pleasure ,-
that is, the rising inflection upon degrees and that, and the I
falling upon exchange and pleasure,- by this means, the
monotony will be broken, the thought enforced, and the
period rendered much more musical. This sentence k
read as the first three members of a compound concluding
series.
One of the most eminent mathematicians of the age, has assured
me, that the greatest pleasure he took in rending Virgil, was in
exaniiuing JEneas' voyage by the map; as I question not, but
many a modern compiler of history would be delighted with little'
niore\ in that divine" author', than the bare matters of fact.
Here wc find placing the rising inflection upon the word
Htikf and the falling upon more; and the falling upon
divine^ and the rising upon author,' ^;;ives both a distinct-
ness and hirmony to the cadence. This sentence is read
as the first three members of a compound concluding series
of three members.
Cratian very often recommends the fine taste ns the utmost per-
fection of an Mcconipli^ihed man. As this word arises very often
in conversation, I shall endeavour to give some account of it; and
to lay down rules how wc may know whether we are posseBsed,
INTRODUCTIOa".
17
and how' we may acquire*, thai fine' tasteof writing' which w «o
much talked of among the polite world.
Placing the rising inflection upon how, and the falling
upon acquire,' the falling inflection on fine, and the riling
upon writing ; prevents a sameness which would other-
wise arise from the similitude of the three members, and
gives an agreeable close to the sentence. This is read a»
the last example.
Since I have mentioned this unaccountable zeal which appears
in atheists and infidelfl, I must farther observe, that they are, in
a most particular manner, possosoed with the spirit o^ bigotry.
They are wedded' to opinions' full of contradiction' and impossi-
bility'; and at the same' time'. look upon the smallest' difRcnity'
in an article' of faith' as a sufficient reason for rejecting it.
This arrangement of inflections on the latter part of the
sentence gives a fine harmony and variety to the sentence ;
which it otherwise would not possess. This sentence ap-
pears to be inflected with regard to the words wedded! to
opinions^ full of contradiction'' and impossibility', as the
first two members of a compound concluding scries of three
members; the last of which, same! time^, look upon the
smallest' difficulty'' in an article'' of faith' as a sufficient
reason for rejecting it, as a compound concluding series of
four members.
EXCLAMATION.
Rule XII. — When the Eirclamation comes immediately
after a question, and, as it were, repeats it ; in this case,
the repeated question, which is really an exclamation, as-
sumes the rising inflection.
Will you for ever, Athenians, do nothing but walk up and down
the city, asking one another, What news'? Whnt news'! Is
there any thing more new than to see a man of Macedonia become
muster of the Athenians, and give laws to Greece"}
ACCENT.
Rule XIII. — Words that are the same in part of their
elements, when distinguished from, or opposed to each
other, no matter what is their ordinary accentuation, take
the accent on that syllable in which they diller.
Neither justice nor tnjugtice has any thing to do with the pre-
sent questioH.
lililf
!': I
! |i
18
INTEODUCTIOir.
The riches of a prince roust increase or ^crease in proportion
to the number and riches of his subjects.
Thought and language a«*4 and re-act upon each other.
'ili'i
iiim
h
I ii
I
EMPHASIS.
Emphasis, in the usual sense of the word, is that stress
or force with which words are pronounced, so as to be
distinguished from the rest of the sentence.
All words are pronounced with emphatic, accented, or
unaccented or feeble force. When words have an anti-
thesis expressed or understood, or when the speaker or
reader wishes to enforce strongly the ideas they represent,
they are called emphatic. They are said \,o be accented,
when they consist of principal verbs, nouns, adjectives,
and even adverbs. They are said to be unaccented or
feeble, when they consist of auxiliary verbs, pronouns,
conjunctions, and other particles that depend upon an
emphatic word.
Exercise' and temperance' strengthen even an indifferent' con-
8iitution\
Here we find the word indifferent pronounced more for-
cibly thijii th«» words exercise, temperance, ana strengthen,
though they are pronounced with more force than the par-
ticles and, an, and even than the word constitution.
The principal circumstance that distinguishes empha-
tical words from others, seems to be a meaning whidi
points out, or distinguishes something as distinct or oppo-
site to some other thing. When this opposition is expressed
in words, it forms an antithesis, the opposite parts of
which are always emphatical. Thus, in the following
couplet of Pope:
»Tis hard to say, if greater want of skill
Appear in writing or in judging- ill.
The words writing and judging are opposed to each
other, and are therefore the emphatical words ; where we
may likewise observe, that the disjunctive or, by which the
antithesis is connected, means one of the things exclu-
sively of the other. The same may be observed in an-
other couplet from the same author ; where one branch of
the antithesis is not expressed, but understood,
Get wealth and place, if possible with grace;
If npt, b^ any meaps gel w^aJth aijA ^la<;e..
l!ITHOI»rCTIOX#
19
Here it appears eTidently, that the worJg any means,
which are the most emphatical, are directly opposed to
the means understood by the word grace ; and the last line
is perfeclily equivalent to this r If not by tkete meanSf by
any other meansy get wealth and place.
SI3VGT.E EMPHASIS.
When a sentence is composed of a poshive and negative
part, the positive mast have the falling, and the negative
the rising inflection.
We can do nothing against^ the truth, bvt /or* the truth.
It is not the business of virtue to txtrryate'^ the allections of the
mind, but to regulate' them.
!•
DOUBLE EMPHASra.
The falling inflection takes place on the fir^ empbatie
word; the rising, on the second and third; and the falling,
on the fourth.
Custom is the pUtj^ue" of wise' men, and the idol' offoth.
It is as great a pomt of wisdom to hide" ignorane^, as to discover'
knowledgit.
As it 18 the part nfjnstke* never to do tiolenet^, il is ©f m0defty'
never to commit offence".
TREBLE EMPHASIS.
The rising inflection takes place on the first and thirJ^
and the falling on the second of the flrst three emphatic
words; the first and third of the other three have the fall-
ing, whilst the second takes the rising inflection.
A friend.' cannot be known' in prosperity'; and an enemy" cannot
be hidden' in adversity^.
Man is a creature designed for two different states of being, or
rather for two different lives, The^r^t' life iashorC and transient';
hii second^, permanent' and lasting'.
Passions' are winds', to urge us o'er the wave';
Reason" the rudder', to direct and save".
GENERAL EMPHASIS.
When we wish to give a passage or paragraph with
the greatest possible emphasis, noi only every word of it
20
llTTEODUCTIOJr.
becomes emphatic, but even the parts of compound words
are pronounced as il' they were separate and independent.
Illl
I
I
'I'll'
There wis a time, then, my fellow-citizens, when the Laceilrr-
mcniang were sovereign maRtersboth by sea and land; when their
troops and forts surrounded the entire circuit of Attica; when they
possessed Eubcea, Tanagra, the whole Hoeotian district, Megara,
iGgina, Cleone, an('( the other islaniils; while this stale had not one
ship— no, noV 6ne wall'.
That's truly great! what think you, 'twas set up
The Greek and Roman name in such a lustre,
But doing right in stern despite of Nature;
Shutting their ears 'gainst all her little cries.
When great, august, and godlike justice call'd !
At Aulis — one pour'd out a daughter's life,
And ira'n'd more glory than by all his wars !
Another slew a sister in just rage !
A third, the theme of all succeeding time,
Cave to the cruel axe a darling son !
Nay, some for virtue have cntomb'd themselves,
As he of Carthage — an immortal name !
But there is one" .step' left'— nbove them all!
Above their history, above their fable !
A tc(f(B\ — bride', — mistress", — unenjoyed' ! — Do that.
And tread upon the Greek and Uoiuan glory!
Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his whole
power of the Roman people, in a Roman province, within eight of
Italy, bind", sconrffc", torture' with fire and red-hot plates of iron,
and at last put to the infamous death of the cross, a Roman citizen'1
Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony, nor the
tears of pitying spectators, nor the majesty of the Roman common-
wealth, nor the fearof the justice ofhiscoiintry, restrain the licifn-
tioug and wanton cruelty of a monster, who, in confidence of his
riches, titrlkea ut the root of all liberty, and sets mankind at
dofiancci
RHETORICAL PUNCTUATION.
Mr. Walker has given in the following lines all that is
considered important or practically u^ei'ui upon this sub-
ject:
In pausing, ever lot this rule take place:
Never to separate words, in any case.
That are lesn separable than those you join;
And — which imports the same— not to combine
Such wordi together ns do not relate
So closely as the words you separate.
INTRODUCTION.
21
ny, nor the
DIRECTIONS FOR READING POETRY.
Rule I. — As the exact tone of the passion, or emotion
which verse excites, is not at first easy to hit, it will be
proper always to begin a poem in a simple and almost
prosaic style ; and so proceed, till, warmed with the sub-
ject, we leel the emotion which we wish to express.
Gray's Elegy on the Extirpation of the Bards is almost
the only one th?t does not admit of commencing mod-
erately.
Ruin Rcize thee, rntliless kin?!
Confusion on lliy banners wait, &c.
Rule II. — In verse, every syllable is to have the same
accent, and every word the same emphasis, as in prose.
Hence the article the ought never to have a stress, though
pluced in that part of the verse where the ear expect* an
accent.
Of all the cauwofi which ronppire to hlind
Man's errinj: jiulanieiit, Mm! ujistMiidc the nnind.
What the weak head with stro;ip«»st bias rules,
Is pride the never-failing vice of fools.
An injudicious reader of verse would be apt to lay a stress
upon the word the in the third line, whereas a good reader
would transfer it to the worc's what and tvcak.
The last syllable of the word excellent, in the following
couplet, being the place of the stress, is very apt to draw
the organs to a wrong proiumciation of the word, in com-
pliance with the rhythnms of the verse :
Their praise lis Ktill~lhe Htylc is exrellenl;
The KcntsU they hiiiubly take upon content.
But a stresK upon the last sylla])lo of this word would bo
only indulging the ear in a childish jingle of syllables, and
ought to be avoided upon pain of the greatest possible re-
proach to a good reader.
RuLB III. — The vowel e, which is often cut ofl' bv an
apostrophe in the word the, and in syllables before r, as in
dangerous, gen*rowi, ought to be preserved in the pronun-
ciation ; as the syllable it forms is so short, as not to in-
crease the number of syllables to the car, or at all hurt
the harmony.
22
IXTBODUCTIOir.
iii
!
'Tifl hardto«ay, if greater want o'* skill
Appear in writing or in judging ill:
But of the two, lees dangerous is ih* offence
To tire our patience, than mislead our sense.
Rule IV. — Almost every verse admits of a pause in or
near the middle of the line, which is called the cesura ;
without which, much of the distinctness, and almost all
the harmon}^ will be lost
So much they hate the crowd, | that if the throng
By chance go right, | they purposely go wrong.
Know, then, thyself; | presume not God to scan;
The proper study of mankind | is man.
But besides the capital pause, there are certain subor-
dinate pauses, called demi-csesuras, which, though not so
essential as the capital pause, yet according to many of
our prosodists, form some of tl^^ greatest delicacies in read-
ing verse, and are an inexhaustible source of variety and
harmony in the composition of poetic numbers. To man-
age these demi-caesuras well, will require great judgment
on the part of the reader, lest he fall into &n affected sing-
song in pronouncing verses of this kind.
Warms j in the sun, || refVeshes | in the breeze.
Glows I in the stars, || and blossoms | in the trees;
Lives j through all life, II e.Ytend8 | through all extent,
Spreaos | undivided, || operates | unspent.
The cffisura in the middle of these lines is marked with
ft double acute ; the demi-cffisura in the other parts of the
above lines, by a single acute.
RuLK V. — At the end of every line in poetry, must be
a pause, proportioned to the intimate or remote connection
subsisting between them.
-Deeds of eternal ftime
Were done, but intlnite; for wide was spread
That war, and various, sometimes on firia ground
A standing tight; then soaring on main wing,
Tormoiited all the air; all air secerned then
Conflicting fire: long time in even scale
The battle hung.
The pauses at the end of these lines are so small, when
compared with those in the body of the lines, that an ap-
peal may bo mode to every ear for the truth of the rule
laid down.
IJTTttOljUCTIOir.
23
RvLi Vr. fu order to form a cadence in a period in
rhyming verse, we must adopt the falling inflection with
considerable force, in the cssura of the last line but one.
Like kings, we lose the conquests painM before.
By vuin ambition still to make th«m more;
Eoch might his several province' || well command.
Would all but sloop to what they understand.
Rule VII. — A simile, in poetry, ought always to be
read in a lower tone of voice, than that part of the passage
I which precedes it.
So when an angel, by divine command,
With rising tempests' shakes a guilty land,
(Suck as of late o'er pale Britannia pass'd)
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast;
And pleased the Almighty's orders to perform.
Rides on the whirlwind, and directs the storm.
Rflf. VIII. — When there is no pause in the sense at
I the end of the verse, the last word must have exactly the
I same inflection it would have in prose.
O'er their heads a crystal firmament.
Whereon a sapphire throne, Inlaid with pure*
Amber, and colours of the showery arch.
In this example, the word pure has the falling inflcc-
Ition as it would have were the sentence pronounced pro-
saically. For the same reason, the words retired and went
{must be pronounced with the rising inflection.
At his command the uprooted hills retired'
Each to his place; they heard his voice and went
Obsequious; Heaven his wonted lace renew 'd,'
And with fresh fiowerets hill and 'illey smiled.
Nuic, — Though, in verse, we frequently suspend the
Ivoicp by the rising inflection ; where, if the composition
Iwerc prose, we should adopt the falling ; yet, wherever, in
jprosc, the member or sentence would necessarily require
Ithe rising inflection, this inflection must bo adopted in
»^crge.
Uo who throngh vast eternity can pierce,
Hec worlds on worlds conit^ose one universe}
Observe how system into systoni runs,
W hat other planets circle other suns;
What varied being peoples every star.
May tell why Heaven has made us as we are:
! f
if
!l
nil
l:HI>lli>l!
34
#
INTnOPCCTI03r.
But of this frame, the bearings and the ties,
The strong connections, nice dependencies,
Gradations just, has thy pervading soul
Look'd through? or can a pan contain the wholel
Is the great chain that draws all to agree,
And drawn supports, upheld by God or theel
Here, every line but the fifth might take the falling in-
flection, likfc a commencing series of five members ; but,
at thfe fifth, where the two principal constructive parts
unite, and the sense begins to form, here, both in prose
and verae, must be the principal pause and the rising in-
flection. The two questions at the end ought to have the
rising inflection also, as they would have it in prose ;
though, from injudiciously printing the last couplet, so as
to form a fresh parag'-aph, the word whole is generally
pronounced A^ith the falling inflection, as being at the end
of a paragraph, which would be prevented by uniting the
last couplet to the rest, so as to form one complete portion ;
which, no doubt, was the intention of the poet.
Rule IX. — Sublime, grand, and magnificent descriptions
in poetry, frequently require a lower tone of voice, and a
sameness nearly approaching to a monotone, to give it
variety.
The UBC of the monotone has been already exemplified
in page 9, in the grand description of Satan's throne ; and
may bo further illustrated by a passage of the Allegro oi"
the same poet:
Ilwnce I loathed Melancholy,
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born;
In Stygian cave forlorn,
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrielcs, and tights unholy,
Find out some uncouth cell.
Where brooding Darkness sjjreads his jealous wings,
And tile nicht-ravcn Kingf;
ThSrc, under k\\\\ wtiJkdes and low-brow'd rucks,
As raggtMi as tMy locks,
In dark Ciiuuierlan desert over dwell.
In repeating this passage, we shall find the darkness
and horror of the cell woiidorfully auguiontcd by pronoun-
cing the eighth line,
There, under elm shades and low-brow'd rocki,
in a low monotone.
THE
ENGLISH READER.
PART I.
PIECES IN PROSE.
CHAP. L— SELECT SENTENCES, &c.
SECTION I.
^ILIGENCE\ industry^ and proper improvement of
time', are material duties' of the young\
The acquisition of knowledge^ is one of the most hon
arable occupations' of youth\
Whatever useful or engaging endowments wc possess\
iriiiuc is requisite', in order to their shining with proper
Iu8tre\
Virtuous youth^ gradually brings forward accomplished
md flourishing' manhood.
Sincerity^ and truth' form the basis of every virtue.
Disappointments^ and distress' are often blessings in
usguise.
Change^ and alteration' form the very essence of the
rorld\
True happiness is of a retired nature', and an enemy^ to
)omp' and noise\
In order to acquire a capacity for happiness^ it must Uc
)ur first study' to rectify inward disorders.
Whatever purifies^ fortifies' also the heart\
From our eagerness to grasp\ we strangle and destroy,
pleasure.
A temperate spirit\ and moderate expectations', &te ex
b^llcnt safeguards of the mind, in this uncertain^ and
fhanging' state.
There is nothing', except simplicity of intention', and
)urity of principle', that can stand the test of near ap-
iroach' and strict excm'nation\
B
mmm
26
THE ENGLISH ftEADEk.
m
I i
I 11
liiil:
The value of any possession is to be chiefly estimated']
by the relief which it can bring us in the time of oi
greatest need.
No person who has once yielded up the government
hij mind\ and given loose rein to his desires and passions']
can tell how far they may carry him.
Tranquillity of mind is always most likely to be atJ
taiiif^d', when the business of the world is tempered win'
thoughtful and serious retreat\
He v/ho would act like a wise man', and build his houi
on the rock\ and not on the sand', should contemplate huj|
man life, not only in the sunshine', but in the shade.
L^t usefulness' and beneficence\ not ostentation^ andl
vanit/, direct the train of your pursuits\
To maintain a steady and unbroken mind\ amidst all
the shocks of the world', marks a great and noble spirit.
•Patience, by preserving composure within', resists thf|
impression which trouble makes from without.
Compassionate affections^ even when they draw tearij
from our eyes for human misery', convey satisfaction'
the heart.
They who have nothing to give\ can often afford relief
to others', by imparting what they feel.
Our ignorance of what is to come\ and of what is really
good or evil', should correct'anTciety' about wordly success
The veil which covers from our sight the events of sue-]
ccoding years', is a veil woven by the hand of mercy.
The best preparation for all the uncertainties of futui
rity, consists in a well-ordered mind\ a good conscience',!
and a cheerful submission' to the will of Heaven\
SECTION II.
Tu« chief misfortunes that befall us in life, can be traced
to some vices or follies which we have committed.
Were we to survey the chambers of sickness and dis-l
treso, we should often find them peopled with the victimiT
of intemperance and sensuality, and with the children of]
vicious indolence and sloth.
To be wise in our own eyes, to be wise in the opinionl
of the world, and to be wise in the sight of our Creatorj
are throe things so very different, as rarely to coincide.
Man, in his highest earthly gloiy, is but a teed floating
on the stream of time, and forced to follow every new di]
roction of the current.
PaetiBcbap. I. SELECT SENTENCES, Ac
27
y estimated'j
time of ov
►vcmment
nd passions'l
y to be at]
mpered wi[\
ild his houi
template \i\i\
! shade,
intation^ amJl
i\ amidst all|
>ble spirit.
', resists thtl
• I
' draw tears!
tisfaction'
afford reliel
rhat is realljf
rdly success
vents of suc'l
mercy,
[ties of futui
conscience',
in be traced
ted.
!Bs and dis-l
the victiirj
} children of^
the opinionl
our Creator!
coincide.
:eed floating
a*ry new ^
The corrupted temper, and the guilty passions of the
bad, frustrate the effect of every advantage which th«
I world confers on them.
The external misfortune?* of life, disappointments, pov-
erty, and sickness, are light in comparison of those inward
distresses of mind, occasioned by folly, by passion, and by
guilt.
No station is so high, no power so great, no character
so unblemished, as to exempt men from the attacks of
ra?hness, malice, or envy.
Moral and religious instruction derives its efficacy, not
so much from what men are taught to know, as from what
lliey are taught to feel.
He who pretends to great sensibility towards men, and
yet has no feeling for the liiglh objects of religion, no heart
to admire and adore the great Father of the universe, has
reason to distnist the truth and delicacy of his sensibiUty.
When, upon rational and sober inquiry, we have estab-
liflird our principles, let us not suffer them to be shaken
by the scoffs of the licentious, or the caviMof the sceptical.
^^ hen we observe any tcndonry to treat religion or
morals with disrespect and levity. let us hold it to be a
sure indication of a perverted understanding, or a depraved
heart.
Every degree of guilt incurred by yielding to tempta-
tion, tends to debase the mind, and to weaken the gener*
ous and benevolent principles of human nature.
Luxury, pride, and vanity, have frequently as much in-
fluence in corrupting the sentiments of the great, as ignor-
ance, bigotry, and prejudice, have in misleading the
opinions of the multitude.
Mixed as the present fitatc is, reason and religion pro-
nouiK'c, that generally, if not always, there is more happi-
ness than misery, more pleasure than pain, in the condition
of man.
iiociety, when formed, requires distinctions of property,
diversity of conditions, subordination of ranks, and multi-
plicity of occupations, in order to advance the general
good.
That the temper, the sentiments, the morality, and, in
general, the whole conduct and character of men, arc in-
fluenced by the example and disposition of the persona
with whom they associate, is a reflection which has long
since passed into a proverb, and been ranked among th«
*'•■
^f
'Mi^-vT
mm
28
THE ENGLISH READER. Paxt I
m
m
liii'iiiii
ilWII
iiiiii
iiii
'■'"■I In
Iiii
I
i i
yii
llPlil
Standing maxims of human wisdom, in all ag«s of the
world.
SECTION III.
r The desire of improvement discovers a liberal mind; and
is connected with many accomplishments, and many vir-
tues.
Innocence confers ease and freedom on the mind, and
leaves it open to every pleasing sensation.
^ Moderate and simple pleasures relish high with the
\ temperate : in the midst of his studied refinements, the
j voluptuary languishes.
^ Gentleness corrects whatever is oifensive in our man-
ners ; and, by a constant train of humane attentions, studies
to alleviate the burden of common misery.
That gentleness which is the characteristic of a good
man, has, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart:
and let me add, nothing except what flows from the heart,
can render even external manners truly pleasing.
Virtue, to become either vigorous or useful, must be
habitually active; not breaking forth occasionally with a
transient lustre, like the blaze of a comet; but regular in
its returns, like the light of day: not like the aromatic gale,
which sometimes feasts the sense; but like the ordinary
breeze, which purifies the air, and renders it healthful.
The happiness of every man depends more upon the
state of his own mind, than upon any one external cir-
cumstance ; nay, more than Upon all external things put
together.
in no station, in no period, let us think ourselves secure
from the dangers which spring from our passions. Every
age, and every station, they beset; from youth to gray
hairs, and from the peasant to the prince.
Riches and pleasures are the chief temptations to crimi-
nal deeds. Yet those riches, when obtained, may very
possibly overwhelm us with unforseen miseries. Those
pleasures may cut short our health and life.
He who is accustomed to turn aside from the world,-and
commune with himself in retirement, will, sometime :t
least, hear the truths which the multitude do not tell hira.
A more sound instructor will lift his voice, and awaken
within the heart those latent suggestions, v/hich the world
had overpowered and suppressed. '
Cbaf. I. SELECT SENTENCES, &c
29
Amusement often becomes the business, instead of th«
relaxation of young persons; it is then highly pernicious.
He that waits for an opportunity to do much at once,
may breathe out his life in idle wishes; and regret, in the
last hour, his useless intentions and barren zeal.
The spirit of true religion breathes mildness and &fia->
bility. It gives a native, unaffected ease to the behaviour.
It is social, kind, and cheerful; far removed from that
gloomy and illiberal superstition, which clouds the brow,
dharpens the temper, dejects the spirit, and teaches men to
fit tiiemselves for another world, by neglecting the con**
cems of this.
Reveal none of the secrets of thy friend. Be faithful to
his interests. Forsake him not in danger. Abhor the
thought of acquiring any advantage by his prejudice.
Man, always prosperous, would be giddy and insolent ;
always afflicted, would be sullen or despondent. Hopes
aii ' fears, joy and sorrow, are, therefore, so blended in his
life, as both to give room for worldly pursuits, and to re-
call, from time to time, the admonitions of conscience.
SECTION IV.
We have seen the husbandman scattering his seed upon
the furrowed ground. It springs up, is gathered into his
bam, and crowns his labors with joy and plenty. — Thus
the man who distributes his fortune with generosity and
prudence, is amply repaid by the gratitude of those whom
he obliges; by the approbation of his own mind; and by
the favour of Heaven.
Temperance, by fortifying the mind and body, leads to
happiness; intemperance, by enervating them, ends gen-
erally in misery.
Title and ancestry render a good man more illustrious;
but an ill one more contemptible » Vice is infamous,
though in a prince; and virtue honourable, though in a
peasant.
An elevated genius, employed in Kttle things, appears —
to use the simile of lionginus — like the sun in bis evening
declination: he remits his splendour, but retains his mag-
nitude; and pleases more, though he dazzles less.
If envious people were to ask themselves, whether they
would exchange their entire situations with the persons
envied (I mean their minds, passions, notions, as well as
30
THE ENGLISH READER.
i
m
their persons, fortunes, and dignities) — I presume the aelf>
love common to human nature, would generally make
them prefer their own condition.
We have obliged some persons: — very well! — what
would we have more 1 Is not the consciousness of doing
good, a sufficient reward ?
Do not hurt yourselves or others, by the pursuit of plea-
sure. Consult your whole nature. Consider yourselves
not only as sensitive, but as rational beings ; not only as
rational, but social; not only as social, but immortal.
Art thou poorl — show thyself active and industrious,
peaceable and contented. Art thou wealthy ] — show thy.
self beneficent and charitable, condescending and humane.
Though religion removes not all the evils of life; though
it promises no continuance of undisturbed prosperity (which
indeed it were not salutary for man always to enjoy) ; yet,
if it mitigates the evils which necessarily belong to our
state, it may justly be said to give " rest to them who la-
bour and are heavy laden."
What a smiling aspect does the love of parents and
children, of brothers and sisters, of friends and relations,
give to every surrounding object, and every returning day!
With what a lustre does it gild even the small habitation,
where* this placid intercourse dwells ; where such scenes
of heartfelt satisfaction succeed uninterruptedly to one
another !
How many clear marks of benevolent intention appear
every where around us ! What a profusion of beauty and
ornament is poured forth on the face of nature ! What a
magnificent spectacle presented to the view of man !
What supply contrived for his wants! What a variety of
objects set before him, to gratify his senses, to employ his
understanding, to entertain his imagination, to cheer and
gladden his heart t
The hope of future happiness is a perpetual source of
consolation to good men. Under trouble it soothes their
minds ; amidst temptation, it supports their virtue ; and,
in their dying moments, enables them to say, " O death !
where is thy sting 1 grave ! where is thy victory T*
Paet 1 1 ^>«^»- '• SELECT SENTENCES, Ac.
n
nc the self*
rally make
'ell ! — what
ss o{ doing
luit of plea-
yourselve8
lot only as
lortal.
industrious,
-show thy.
id humane,
ife; though
irity (which
njoy); yet,
ong to our
em who la-
•arents and
d relations,
irning day !
habitation,
uch scenes
dly to one
tion appear
beauty and
What a
of man !
1 variety of
employ his
) cheer and
source of
tothes their
irtuc ; and,
« death !
jtory]"
SECTION V.
AoKSiLAUs, king of Sparta, being asked, what things ho
thought most proper for boys to learn, answered: •* Those
which they ought to practice when they come to be men."
A wiser than Agesilaus has inculcated the same sentiment :
•'Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he
is old, he will not depart from it."
An Italian pliilosopher expressed in his motto, that timo
was his estate. An estate which will, indeed, produce
nothing without cultivation ; but which will always abun-
dantly repay the labours of industry, and satisfy the most
extensive desires, if no part of it be suffered to lie waste
by ncgUlence ; to be overrun with noxious plants ; or laid
out foi show, rather than use.
When Aristotle was asked, what a man could gain by
telUng a falsehood, he rcpUed " Not to be credited when
he speaks the truth."
L'Estrange, in his fables, tells us, that a number of
frolicsome boys were one day watching frogs at the side
of a pond ; and that, as any of them put their heads above
the water, they pelted thejn down again with stones.
One of the frogs, appealing to the humanity of the boys,
made this striking observation : " Children, you do not
consider, that though this may be sport to you, it is death
to us."
Sully, the great statesman of France, always retained
at his table, in his most prosperous days, the same frugal-
i'y to which he had been accustomed in early life. He
was frequently reproached, by the courtiers, for this sini-
pUcity; but he used to reply to them in the words of an
ancient philosopher, "If the guests are men of sense, there
is sufficient for them : if they are not, I can very well dis-
pense with their company."
Socrates, though primarily attentive to the culture of
his mind, was not negUgent of his external appearance.
His cleanliness resulted from those ideas of order and de-
cency, which governed all his actions ; and the care which
he took of his health, from his desire to preserve his mind
free and tranquil.
Eminently pleasing and honourable was the friendship
between David and Jonathan. << I am distressed for thee,
my brother Jonathan," said the plaintive and survivinsr
32
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt I. ■ Part I.
i
David ; " very pleasant hast thou been to me : thy love to
me was wonderful ; passing the love of woman."
Sir Philip Sidney, at the battle near Zutphen, was
wounded by a musket-ball, which broke the bone of his
thigh. He was carried about a mile and a half, to the
camp ; and, being faint with the loss of blood, and probably
parched with thirst through the heat of the weather,
he called for drink. It was immediately brought to him ;
but, as he was putting the vessel to his mouth, a poor
wounded soldier, who happened at that instant to be car-
ried by him, looked up to it with wistful eyes. The gal-
lant and generous Sidney took the bottle from his mouth,
and delivered it *o the soldier, saying, " Thy necessity ig
yet greater than mine."
Alexander the Great demanded of a pirate whom he
had taken, by what right he infested the seas. " By the
same right," replied he, "that Alexander enslaves the
world. But I am called a robber, because I have only one
small vessel; and he is styled a conqueror, because he
commands great fleets and armies." We too often judge
of men by the splendour, and not by the merit of their
actions.
Antoninus Pius, the Romati emperor, was an amiable
and good man. When any of his courtiers attempted to
inflame him with a passion for militar} ^lory, he used to
answer, that he more desired the preservation of one sul)-
ject, than ^Ve destruction of a thousand enemies.
Men are too often ingenious in making themselves
miserable, by aggravating to their own fancy, beyond
bounds, all the evils which they t-iiJure. They compare
themselves with none but those whom they imagine to be
more happy; and complain, that upon them alone hsa
fallen the whole load of human sorrows. Would they look
with a more impartial eye on the world, they would see
themselves surrounded with sufferers ; and find that they
are only drinking out of that mixed cup, which Provi-
dence has prepared for all. — " I will restore thy daughter
again to life," said the eastern sage, to a prince who
grieved immoderately for the loss of a beloved child,
" provided thou art able to engrave upon her tomb, the
names of three persons who have never mourned." The
prince made inquiry after such persons; but found the
inquiry vain, and was silent.
Pabt I. ■ Past I. SELECT SENTENCES, Ac.
33
thy love to
phen, was
one of his
alf, to the
d probably
5 weather,
it to him;
h, a poor
to be car-
The gal-
lis mouth,
lecessity ig
whom he
" By the
slaves the
B only one
ecause he
ften judge
it of their
n amiable
tempted to
le used to
>f one sub"
hemselves
y, beyond
y compare
gine to be
alone hai»
L they look
(vould see
that they
ich Provi-
^ daughter
ince who
^ed child,
tomb, the
id." The
found the
SECTION VI.
That every day has its pains and sorrows, is universally
experienced, and almost universally confessed. But let us
not attend only to mournful truths: if wc look impartially
about us, wc shall fmd that every day has likewise its
pleasures and its joys.
We should cherish sentiments of charity towards all
men. The Author of all good nourishes much piety and
virtue in hearts that arc unknown to us ; and beholds re-
pentance ready to spring up among many whom we con-
sider as reprobates.
No one ought to consider himself as insignificant in the
«ight of his Creator. In our several stations, wc are all
sent forth to be labourers in the vineyard of our heavenly
Father. Every man has his work allotted, his talent com-
mitted to him; by the due improvement of which he may,
in one way or other, serve God,* promote virtue, and be
useful in the world.
The love of praise should be preserved under proper
subordination to the priiiciple of duty. In itself, it is a
useful motive to action: but when allowed to extend its
influence too far, it corrupts the whole character; and pro-
duces guilt, disgrace, and misery. To be entirely destitute
of it, is a defect: to be governed by it, is depravity, 'i^he
proper adjustment of the several principles of action in
hugian nature, is a matter that deserves our higiiest at-
tention. For when any one of them becomes either too
weak or too strong, it endangers both our virtue and oar
happiness.
The desires and passions of a vicious man, having once
obtained an unlimited sway, trample him under their feet.
They make him feel, that he is subject to various, contra-
dictory, and imperious masters, who often pull him differ-
ent ways. His soul is rendered the receptacle of mai^y
repugnant and jarring dispositions; and resembles sojne
barbarous country, cantoned out into diflercnt princi])aU-
ties, which are continually waging war with one another.
Diseases, poverty, disappointment, and shame, are far
from being, in every instance, the unavoidable doom cf
man. They are much more frequently the olTspring of
his own misguided choice. Intemperance ongondcru dis-
ease, sloth produces poverty, pride creates disappoint-
ments, and dishonesty exposes to shame.
b2 ♦
I I
iiiiSi!
iilHM
34
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I.
,!, II
The ungovemcd passions of men betray them into a
thousand follies; their follies, into crimes; and their crimes,
into misfortunes.
When we reflect on the many distresses which abound
in human life ; on the scanty proportion of happiness w^ ich
any man is here allowed to enjoy ; on the small difference
which the diversity of fortune makes on that scanty pro-
portion; it is surprising, that envy should ever have been
a prevalent passion among men, much nore that it should
have prevailed among Christians. Where so much is suf-
fered in common, little room is left for envy. There is
more occasion for pity and sympathy, and inclination to
assist each other.
At our first setting out in life, while yet unacquainted
with the world and its snares, when every pleasure en-
chants with its smile, and every object shines with the gloss
of novelty; let us bewafc of the seducing appearances
which sur-ound us, and recollect what others have suffered
from the power of headstrong desire. If we allow any
passion, even though it be esteemed innocent, to acquire
an absolute ascendant,* our inward peace will be impaired.
But if any which has the taint of guilt, take early posses-
sion of our mind, we may date from that moment the ruin
of our tranquillity.
Every man has some darling passion, which generally
affords the iirst introduction to vice. The irregular grati-
fications into which it occasionally seduces him, appear
under the form of venial wcakiicsscs; and are indulged in
the beginning with scrupulousness and reserve. But by
longer practice, these restraints weaken, and the power of
habit grows. One vice brings in another to its aid. By
a sort of natural aflmity, they connect and entwine them-
selves together; till their roots come to be spread wide
and deep over all the soul.
How many young persons have at first set out in the
world with excellent dir.positions of heart: generous, char-
itable, and humane; kind to their friends, and amiable
among all with whom they bad intercourse! And yet,
how often have we seen all those fair appearances unhap-
pily blasted in the progress of lite, merely through tbe
intluence of loose and corrupting pleasures; and those
very persons who promised once to be blessings to the
world. Blink down, in the end, to be the burden and nui-
F: nee of society !
nuppmess s
35
CHAPTER II.
NARRATIVE PIECES.
Sect. I. — No Rank or Posse-mons can make the guilty
Mind happy,
DIONYSIUS', the tyrant of Sicily', was far from being
happy\ though he possessed great riches^ and all the
pleasures' which wealth^ and power' could procured Dam-
ocles', one of his flatterers', deceived by these specious
appearances of happiness, took occasion to compliment
him on the extent of his power', his treasures', and royal
magnilicenee\ and declared that no monarch had ever
l)een greater^ or happier' than Dionysius\ *' Hast thou a
mind, Damocles," says the king, *' to taste this happiness';
and to know, by experience, what the enjoyments are', of
which thou hast so high an ideal" Damocles', with joy,
accepted the oirer\ The king ordered that a royal ban-
quet should be prepared', and a gilded sopha, covered with
rich embroidery, placed for his favourite^ Side-boards',
lo»ded with gold and silver plate of immense value', wore
arranged in the apartment\ Pages of extraordinary beauty
were ordered to attend his table\ and to obey his com-
mands' with the utmost readiness', and the most profound
submission\ Fragrant ointments\ chaplets of flowers\ and
rich perfumes', were added to the entertainment^ The
table was loaded with the most exquisite delicacies' of every
kind\ Damocles, intoxicated with pleasure, fancied him-
self amongst superior bcings\ But in the midst of all this
happiness', as he lay indulging himself in state, he ser^
let down from tlie ceiling\ exactly over his head, a glitter-
ing: sword hung by a single hair^ The sight of impending
destruction' put a speedy end to his joy' and revelling'.
The pomp of his attendance\ the glitter of the carved
plate\ and the delicacy of the viands', ceased to alTord
liim any pleasured lie dreads' to stretch forth his hand
to the table.^ He throws' off the garland of roses^ He
hastens' to remove from his dangerous situation^; and ear-
nestly^ entreats' the king to restore him to his former hum-
Me condition', having no desire to enjoy any longer a
nuppiness' so tcrrible\
3G
THE ENGLISH READER.
Put I. ■ CtfiP. n.
By this device, Dionynus intimated to Damocles, how
miserable he was in the midst of all his trea8ures\ and
in possession' of all the honours^ and enjoyments' which
royalty' could bcstow\ Cickbo.
Sect. II. — Human, - or^ tJie Misery of Pride.
Ahasueuus, who is supposed to be the prince known
among the Greek historians by the name of Artaxerxes,
had advanced to the chief dignity of his kingdom, Haman,
an Amalekite, who inherited all the ancient enmity of
his race to the Jewish nation. He appears, from what is
recorded of him, to have been a very wicked minister.
Raised to greatness without merit, he employed his power
«olely for the gratification of his passions. As the hon«
ours which he possessed were next to royal, his pride was
cvci*y day fed with that servile homage which is peculiar
to Asiatic courts; and all the servants of the king pros-
trated tliomsclves before him. In the midst of this gen-
neral adulation, one person only stooped not to Haman.
This was Mordccai tlie Jew; who, knowing this Amalekite
to be an enemy to the people of God; and, with virtuous
indignation, despising that insolence oi prosperity with
which he saw him lifted up; "bowed not, nor did him
reverence." On this appearance of disrespect from Mor-
dccai, Haman "was full of wmth; but ho thought scorn
to lay hands on Monlecai alone." Personal revenge was
not sufficient to satisfy him. Ho violent and black were
his passions, that he resolved o exterminate the whole
nation to whicli Mordecai belonged. Abusing, for this
cruel purpose, the favouj of his credulous sovereign, he
obtained a decree to be sent forth, that, against a certain
day, all the Jews throughout the Persian dominions should
be put to the sword. Meanwhile, confident of success, and
blind to approaching ruin, he continued exulting in his
prosperity. Invited by Ahasnerns to a royal bnn<juct
which Esther tin* queen had prepared, "ho went forth that
d«y joyful, and with a glad heart." But behold how slight
an incident was sufficient to poison his joy ! As h«
went forth ho saw Mordccai in the king's gate, and olv
served that he still refused to do him homage : " ho stood
not up, nor was moved for him;" although ho well knew
tlio formidable designs, which Haman was preparing to
execute. One private man, who despised hi« grcatncui,
Pabt r. I Chap. II.
NARRATIVE PIECES.
37
and disdained submission, while a whole kingdom trem-
bled before him ; one spirit, which the utmost stretch of
bis power could neither subdue nor humble, blasted his
triumphs. His whole soul was shaken with a storm of
passion. Wrath, pride, and a desire of revenge, rose into
fury. With difl'iculty he restrained himself in public ; but
as soon as he came to his own house, he was forced to dis-
close the agony of his mind. He gathered together his
friends and family, with Zcresh his wife. " He told them
of the glory of his riclics, and the multitude of his chil-
dren, and of all the things wherein the king had promoted
him ; and how he had advanced him above the princes and
•ervants of the king." He said, moreover, " Yea, Esther
the queen suffered no man to come in with the king, to
the banquet that she had prepared, but myself; and to-
morrow also am T invited to her with the king." Aftef
all this preamble, what is the conclusion 1 — " Yet all this
availeth me nothing, so long as I see Mordecai the Jew
sitting at the king's gate."
The sequel of Haman's history I shall not now pursue.
It might afford matter for much instruction, by the con-
«picuous justice of God in his fall nnd punishment. But,
contemplating onlv the singular situation, in which th«
expressions just quoted present him, and the violent agita-
tion of his mind which they display, the following reflec-
tions naturally arise : How miserable is vice, when one
guilty pasHion creates so much torment ! how unavailing
is prosperity, when, in the height of it, a single disappoint-
ment can destroy the relish of all its pleasures! how weak
i« human nature, which, in the absence of real, is thus
prone to form to itself imaginary woes! Blur.
Sect. III. — Lady Jane (hey,
Tnis excellent personage was descended from tho royal
lino of England by both her parents.
She was carefully educated in the principles of the Re*
formation; and her wisdom and virtue rendered her a
shining example to her sex. But it was her lot to con-
tinue only a short periml on this stage of being; for, ia
early life, she fell a sacrifice to the wild ambition of the
duke of Northumberland ; who promoted a marriage be-
tween her and his son, lord Guilford Dudley ; and raised
her to the throne of England in opposition to tho rights
k il
• i
38
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I.
I ■ li
jt*:.,;
of Mary and Elizabeth. At the time of their marriage,
she was only about eighteen years of age, and herhusband
was also very young : a season of life very unequal to op-
pose the interested views of artful and aspiring men; who,
instead of exposing them to danger, should have been the
protectors of their innocence and youtli.
This extraordinary young person, beside the solid en-
dowments of piety and virtue, possessed the most engaging
disposition, the most accomplished parts; and being of
an equal age with king Edward VI. she had received all
her education with him, and seemed even to possess a
greater faciUty in acquiring every part of manly und class-
ical literature. She had attained a knowledge of the Ro-
man and Greek languages, as well as of several modern
tongues ; had passed most of her time in an application to
learning; and expressed a great indiflerence for other oc-
cupations and amusements usual with her sex and station.
Roger Ascham, tutor to the lady Elizabeth, having at one
time paid her a visit, found her employed in reading
Plato, while the rest of the family were engaged in a party
of hunting in the park; and upon his admiring the sin-
gularity of her choice, she told him that she received
more pleasure from that author, than others could reap
from all their sport and gaiety." — Her heart, replete with
this love of literature and serious studies, and with tender-
ness towards her husband, who was deserving of her affec-
tion, had never opened itself to the flattering allurements
of ambition ; and the information of her advancement to
the throne was by no means agreeable to her. She even
refused to ac opt the crown ; pleaded the preferable right
of the two princesses; cxpresj»ed her dread of the conse-
quences attending an enterprise so dangerous, not to say so
criminal ; and desired to remain in that private station in
which she was born. Overcome at last with the entreaties
rather than reasons, of her father and father-in-law, and
above all, of her husband: she submitted to their will, and
was prevailed on to relinquish her own judgment. But
her elevation was of very short continuance. The nation
declared for queen Mary ; and the lady Jimo, after wear-
ing the vain pageantry of a crown during ten days, re-
turned to a private life, with m^ch more satistaction than
she felt when royalty was tendered to her.
Queen Mary, who appears to have been incapable of
generosity or clemency, doteruwn.ed. to rcmpv.e vvcry per-
Chap. II.
NARRATIVE PIECES.
39
son, from whom the least danger could be apprehended.
Warning was, therefore, given to lady Jane to prepare for
death; a doom which she had expected, and which the
innocence of her life, as well as the misfortunes to which
she had been exposed, rendered no unwelcome news to her.
The queen's bigoted zeal, «nder colour of tender mercy to
the prisoner's soul, induced her to send priests, who mo-
lested her with perpetual disputation; and even a reprieve
of three days was granted her, in hopes that she would be
|)er3uaded, during that time, to pay, by a timely conver-
sion to Popery, some regawl to her eternal welfare. Lady
Jane had presence of mind, in those melancholy circum-
stances, not only to defend her religion by solid argu-
ments, but also to write a letter to her sister, in the Greek
language ; in which, besides sending her a copy of the
Scriptures in that tongue, she exhorted her to maintain^
in every fortune, a like steady pericverance. On the day
of he*- execution, her husband, Lord Guilford, desired per-
mission to see her: but she refused her consent, and^ent
him word, that the tenderness of their parting would over-
come the fortitude of botli; and would too much unbend
their minds from that constancy, which their approaching
end required of them. Their separation, she said, would
he only for a moment; and they would soon rejoin each
other in a scene, where their aflections would be for ever
united; and where death, disappointment, and mislortunes,
could no longer have access to them, or disturb their eter-
nal felicity. ■.,,,..,«
It had been intended to execute tlie lady Jane and lord
(luilford together on the same scuflbld, at Tower-hill;
l)ut the Council, dreading the compassion of the people for
their youth, beauty, innocence, and noble birth, changed
their orders, and gave directions that she should be be-
headed within the \rvf;c of the Tower. 8he saw her hus-
hand led to execution; and, having given him from tho
window some token of her remembrance she wriite<l with
tranquillity till her own appointed hour should bring her
to a like fate. 8hc even saw his headless body carried
back in a cart; and found herself more confirmed by tho
reports, which she heard of the constancy of his end, than
^'!luk('n by so tender and melancholy a spectacle. Sir
Jehn Gage, constable of the Tower, when he led her to
execution, desired her to bestow on him some small pie-
scnl, which he might keep a« a perpetual memorial of her.
40
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt I. ■ Chaf. II.
1
lii
She gave him her table-book, in which she had just writ-
ton three sentences, on seeing her husband's dead body;
one in Greek, another in Latin, a third in English. The
purport of them was, <' that human justice was ar^ainst his
body, but the Divine Mercy would be favourable to his
soul; that if her fault deserved punishment, her. youth, at
least, and her imprudence, were worthy of excuse ; and
that God and posterity, she trusted, wouid show her fa-
vour." On the scaftbld, she made a speech to the by-
standers, in which the mildness of her disposition led her
to take the blame entirely on herself, without uttering one
complaint against the severity with which she had been
treated. She said that her offence was, not that she had
laid her hand upon the crown, but that she had not reject-
ed it with sufficient constancy: that she had less erred
through ambition than through reverence to her parents,
whom she had been taught to respect and obey: that she
willingly received, death, as the only satisfaction which she
could now make to the inji ^^i state ; and, though her in-
fringement of the laws hau been constrained, she would
show, by her voluntary submission to their sentence, tlut
she was desirous to atone for that disobetlieiice, into which
too much filial piety had betrayed her: that she had justly
deserved this punishment, for being made the instrument,
though tiie unwilling instrument, of the ambition of others :
and that the story of her life, she hoped, might at least
be useful, by proving that innocence excuses not great
misdeeds, if they tend any way to the destruction of the
commonwealth. — Aftrr uttering these words, she caused
herself to be disrobed by her women; and with a steady,
ecrone countenance, submitted to the executioner. — Humk.
Sect. IV. — Ortogrul; or, the Vaiuii/ of Biches.
As Ortogrul of Basra was one day wandering along the
streets of Bagdat, musing »on the varieties of merchandiso
which the shops olfered to his view, and observing the dif-
ferent occcupations which busied the multitude on overy
Hide, he was awakened from the tranquillity of meditation,
by a crowd that obstructed his passage. He raised hif*
eyes, and saw the chief vizier, who, having returned from
the divan, was entering his palace
- Ortogrul mingled with the attendants; and being sup
posed to have some petition for the vizier, was peraiitlcil
Pabt I. I Chip. II.
NARRATIVE PIECES.
41
to enter. He sunreyed the spaciousness of the apartments,
admired the walls hung with golden tapestry, and the
floors covered with silken carpets ; and despised the simple
neatness of his own little habitation.
« Surely." said he to himself, " this palace is the seat of
happiness; where pleasure succeeds to pleasure, and dis-
content and sorrow can have no admission. Whatever
Dature has provided for the delight of sense, is here spread
forth to be enjoyed. What can mortals hope or imagine,
which the master of this palace has not obtained? The
dishes of luxury cover his table; the voice of harmony
lulls him in his bowers ; he breathes the fragrance of the
groves of Java, and sleeps upon the down of the cygnets
of Ganges. He speaks, and his mandate is obeyed; he
wishes, and his wish is gratified ; all whom he sees obey
him, and all whom he hears flatter him. How different,
Ortogrul, is thy condition, who art doomed to the per-
petual torments of unsatisfied desire; and who hast no
amusement in thy power, that can withhold thee from thy
own reflections 1 They tell thee that thou art wise ; but
what does wisdom avail with poverty! None will flatter
the poor ; and the wise have very little power of flattcring^
themselves. That man is surely the most wretched of the
■ons of wretchedness, who lives with his own faults and
follies always before him ; and who has none to reconcile
him to himself by praise and veneration. I have long
sought content, and have not found it: I will, from this
moment, endeavour to be rich."
Full of his new resolution, he shut himself in his cham^
her for six months, to deliberate how he should grow rich.
He sometimes proposed to offer himself as a counsellor to
one of the kings in India; and sometimes resolved to dig
for diamonds in the mines of Golconda. One day, after
lome hours passed in violent fluctuation of opinion, sleep
insensibly seized him ^n his chair. Hh dreamed that he
was ranging a dcseri couniry in search of soiiie one that
might teacii him to grow rich ; and as he stood on the top
of a hill shaded with cypress, in doubi whither to duect
his steps, his father appeared on a sudder standing before
him. "Ortogrul," said the old man, "I know thy pcrplri-
ity: listen to thy father; turn thine eye on the opposite
mountain." Ortogrul looked, and saw a torrent tumblinp^
down the rocks, roaring with the noise of thunder, and
scattering its foam on the impending woods. «^ow," said
42
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pamt I. ■ cg^p. II.
I r
his father, « behold the valley that lies between the hills."
Ortogrul looked, and espied a little well, out of which
issued a small rivulet. " Tell me now," said his father,
<< dost thou wish for sudden affluence, that may pour upon
thee like the mountain torrent; or for a slow and gradual
increase, resembling the rill gliding from the welll" — "Let
me be quickly rich," said Ortogrul; "let the golden stream
be quick and violent." — " Look round thee," said his father,
"once again." Ortogrul looked, and perceived the chan-
nel of the torrent dry and dusty ; but, following the rivulet
from the well, he traced it to a wide lake, which the sup-
ply, slow and constant, kept always full. He awoke, and
determined to grow rich by silent profit and persevering
industry.
Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in merchandise ;
and, in twenty years, purcliased lands, on which he raised
a house equal in sumptuousness to that of the vizier; to
which he invited all the ministers o£ pleasure, expecting
to enjoy all the felicity which he had imagined riches able
to afrord. Leisure soon made him weary of himself, and
he longed to be persuaded that he was great and happy.
He was courteous and liberal: he gave all that approached
him, hopes of pleasing him; and ail who should please
him, hopes of being rewarded. Every art of praise was
tried, and every sort of adulatory fiction was exhausted,
Ortogrul heard his flatterers without delight, because he
found himself unable to believe them. His own heart told
him its frailties; his own understanding reproached him
with his faults. " How long," said he, with a deep sigh,
"have I been labouring in vain to amass wealth, which at
last is useless ! Let no man hereafter wish to be rich,
who is already too wise to be' flattered." Du. J^hxson,
Sect. V. — TTie Hill of (Science.
Iw that season of the year when the serenity of the sky,
the various fruits which cover the ground, the discoloured
foliage of trees, and all the sweet, but fading graces of
inspiring autumn, open the mind to benevolence, and dis-
pose it for contemplation, I was wandering in a beautiful
and romantic country, till curiosity began to give way to
weariness ; and I sat down on the fragment of a rock, over-
grown with moss, where the rustling of the falling leaves,
t^e dashing of watersj i^i^d tl^e huo) of %k9 di^U^t cit^
Paet I. ■ (^^g^p. n.
NARRATIVE PIECES.
43
soothed my mind into the most perfect tranquillity ; and
sleep insensibly stole upon me, as I was indulging^ the
agreeable reveries, which the objects around me naturally
inspired. .
I immediately found jnyselfin a vast extended plain, in
the middle of which arose a mountain higher than I had
before any conception of. It was covered with a multitude
of people, chiefly youth ; many of whom pressed fonyard»
with the liveliest expression of ardour in their counte-
nance, though the way was in many places steep and dif-
ficult. I observed that those who had but just begun to
climb the hill, thought themselves not far from the top ;
but, as they proceeded, new hills were continually rising
to their view, and the summit of the highest they could
before discern seemed but the foot of another, till the
mountain at length appeared to lose itself in the clouds.
As I was gazing on these things with astonishment, a
friendly instructor suddenly appeared. "The mountain
before thee," said he, " is the Hill of Science. On the top
is the temple o^' Truth, whose head is above the clouds,
and a veil of pure light covers her face. Observe the pro-
gress of her votaries; be silent and attentive."
After I had noticed a variety of objects, I turned ray
eye towards the multitudes who were climbing the steep
ascent; and observed amongst them a youth of a lively
look, a piercing eye, and something fiery and irregular in
all his motions. His name was Genius. He darted like
an eagle up the mountain, and left his companions gazing
after him with envy and admiration; but his progress was
unequal, and interrupted by a thousand caprices. When
Pleasure warbled in the valley, he mingled in her train.
When Pride beckoned towards the precipice, he ventured
to the tottering edge. He delighted in devious and un-
tried paths; and made so many excursions from the road,
that his feebler companions often outstripped liim. I ob-
served that the Muses beheld him with partiality; Jjut
Truth often frowned, and turned aside her face. While
Genius was thus wasting his strength in eccentric fliijhta,
I saw a person of very different appearance, named Ap-
plication. He crept along with a slow and unremitting
pace, his eyes fixed on the top of the mountain, patiently
removing every stone that obstructed his way, till he saw
most of those below him, who had at first derided hiv
slow and toilsome progress. Indeed there were fe^ who
44
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt I.
! y '!.■! ^11
ftBoended the hill with equal and uninterrupted steadiness;
for, besides the difficulty of the way, they were continu-
ally solicited to turn aside by a numerous crowd of appe-
tites, passions, and pleasures, whose importunity, when
once complied with, they became less and less able to
resist: and, though they often returned to the path, the
asperities of the road were more severely felt; the hill
appeared more steep and rugged; the fruits, which were
wholesome and refreshing, seemed harsh and ill-tasted;
their sight grew dim ; and their feet tripped at every little
obstruction.
I saw, with some surprise, that the Muses, whose busi-
ness was to cheer and encourage those who were toiling
up the ascent, would often sing in the bowers of Pleasure,
and accompany those who were enticed away at the call
of the Passions. They accompanied them, however, but
a little way; and always forsook them when they lost
sight of the hill. The tyrants then doubled their chains
upon the unhappy captives; and led them away without
resistance, to the cells of Ignorance, or the mansions of
Misery. Amongst the innumerable seducers, who were
endeavouring to draw away the votaries of Truth from the
path of Science, there was one, so little formidable in her
appearance, and so gentle and languid in her attempts,
that I should scarcely have taken notice of her, but for
the numbers she had imperce^ iibly loaded with her chains.
Indolence, (for so she was called,) far from proceeding to
open hostilities, did not attempt to turn their feet out of
the path, but contented herself with retarding their pro-
gress; and the purpose she could not force them to aban-
don, she persuaded them to delay. Her touch had a
power like that of the torpedo, which withered the strength
of those who came within its influence. Her unhappy
captives still turned their faces towards the temple, and
Always hoped to arrive there ; but the ground seemed to
slide from beneath their feet, and they found themselves
at the bottom before they suspected they had changed
their place. The placid serenity, which at first appeared
in their countenance, changed by degrees into a melan-
clioly languor, which was tinged with, deeper and deeper
gloom, as they glided down the stream of Insignificance
— a dark and sluggish water, which is curled by no
breeze, and enlivened by no murmur, till it falls into
a dead sea, where startled passengers arc awakened by
Chap. II.
NARRATIVE PIECES.
45
the shock, and the next moment buried in the gulf of
Oblivion.
Of all the unhappy deserters from the paths of Science,
none seemed less able to return than the followers of Indo-
lence. The captives of Appetite and Passion could often
seize the moment when their tyrants were languid or
asleep, to escape from their enchantment; but the domi-
nion of Indolence was constant and unremitted, and seldom
resisted till resistance was in vain.
After contemplating these things, I turned my eyes
towards the top of the mountain, where the air was always
pare and exhilarating, the path shaded with laurels and
other ever-greens, and the effulgence which beamed from
the face of Science seemed to shed a glory round her
votaries. <♦ Happy," said I, "are they who are permitted
to ascend the mountain !" — But while I was pronouncing
this exclamation with uncommon ardour, I saw, standing
beside me, a form of diviner features, and a more benign
radiance. "Happier," said she, "arc they whom Virtue
conducts to the mansions of Content!" — " W^hat," said I,
"does Virtue then reside in the vale]" — "I am found,"
iaid she, "in the vale, and I illuminate the mountain. I
cheer the cottager at his toil, and inspire the sage at his
meditation. I mingle in the crowd of cities, and bless the
hermit in his cf M. I have a temple in every heart that owns
my influence ; and to him that wishes for me, I am already
present. Science may raise thee to eminence ; but I alone
can guide thee to felicity." — While Virtue was thus speak-
ing, I stretched out mine arms towards her, with a vehe-
mence which broke my slumber. The chill dews were
falling around me, and the shades of evening stretched
over the landscape. I hastened homeward; and resigned
the night to silence and meditation. Aikik.
Sect. VI. — The Journey of a Day ; a Picture of Human
Life.
Ob ID AH, the son of Abensina, left the ^aravansera early
in the morning, and pursued his journey through the
plains of Indostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest;
he was animated with hope ; he was incited by desire : he
walked swiftly forward over the valleys, and saw the hills
gradually rising before him. As he passed along, his ears
were delighted with the morning song of the bird of para-
dise; he was fanned by the last flutters of the sinking
5
46
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt I
m
hrecze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices. He
sometimes contemplated the towering height of the oak,
monarch of the hills; and sometimes caught the gentle
fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring:
all his senses were gratified, and all caro was banished
from his heart.
Thus he went On till the sun approached his meridian,
and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength : he then
looked round about him for some more commodious patlh
He saw, on his right hand, a grove that seemed to wavp
its shades, as a sign of invitation; he entered it, and
found the coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. He
did not, however, forget whither he was travelling; but
found a narrow way bordered with flowert., which ap-
peared to have the same direction with the main road; and
was pleased, that, by this happy experiment, he had found
means to unite pleasure with business, and to gain the
rewards of diligence without sulTering its fatigues. He,
therefore, still continued to walk for a time, vnthout the
least remission of his ardour, except that he was sometimes
tempted to stop by the music of the birds, which the heat
had assembled in the shade ; and sometimes amused him-
self with plucking the flowers that covered the banks on
either aide, or the fruits that hung upon the branches.
At last, the green path began to decline from its first ten-
dency, and to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with
fountains, and murmuring with waterfalls. Here Obidah
paused for a time, and began to consider whether it were
longer safe to forsake the known and common track; but,
remembering that the heat was now in its greatest violence,
and that the plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved to
pursue the new path, which he supposed only to make a
few meanders, in compliance with the varieties of the
ground, and to end at last in the common road.
Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace,
though he suspected that he was not gaining ground.
This uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on
every new object, and give way to every sensation that
might soothe or divert him. He listened to every echo;
he mounted every hill for a fresh prospect; he turned aside
to every cascade ; and pleased himself with tracing the
course of a gentle river that rolled among the trees, and
watered a large region with innumerable circumvolutions.
in these amusements, the hours passed away unnoticed ;
Paet I ■ Chap. II.
NARRATIVE PIECES.
47
his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not
towards what point to travel. He stood pensive and con*
fused; afraid to go forward lest he should go wrong, yet
conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While
he was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was ovcr-»
spread with clouds ; the day vanished irom before him ;
and a sudden tempest gathered round his head. He was
now roused by his danger to a quick and painful remem-
brance of his folly; he now saw how happiness is lost,
when ease is consulted; he lamented the unmanly impa-
tience that prompted him to seek shelter in tlie grove ; and
despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle to
trifle. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker,
and a clap of thunder broke his meditation.
He now resolved to do what yet remained in his power,
to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to
find some issue where the wood might open into the plain.
[He prostrated himself on the ground, and recommended
lis life to the Lord of Nature. He arose with confidence
\itnd tranquillity, and pressed on with resolution. The
beasts of the desert were in njotion; and on every hand
, were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage
and expiration. All the horrors of darkness and solitudo
surrounded him: the winds roared in the woods; and the
torrents tumbled from the hills. -
Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the
[wild, without knowing whither he was going, or whether
i he was every moment drawing nearer to safely or to de-
Btniction. At length, not fear, but labour, began to over*
come him: his breath grew short, and his knees trembled,
and he was on the point of lying down in resignation to
his fate, when he beheld, through the brambles, the glim*
[mer of a taper. He advanced towards the light; and,
landing that it proceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he
jcalled humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The
!>ld man set before him such provisions as he had collected
for himself, on which Obidah fed with eagerness and gra-
titude. When the repast was over, " Tell me," said the
iermit, « by what chance thou hast been brought hither.
have been now twenty years an inhabitant of *lhe wiU
ierness, in which I never saw a man before." Obidah
pien related the occurrences of his journey, without any
poncealment or palliation.
"Son," said the hermit, «let the errors and follies, tho
48
THE ENGLISH HEADER.
Pabt I. Icai,. II.
■s
dangers and escapes of this day, sink deep into thy heart
Remember, my son, tha>. human Ufe is the journey of a
day. We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour, and
full of expectation ; we set forward with spirit and hope,
"vs'ith gaiety and with diligence, and travel on^ a while in
the direct road of piety towards the mansions of lest. In
a short time, we remit our fervour, and endeavour to find
some mitigatio > of our uuty, and &ome more easy means
of obtaining J^e same end. We then relax or* vigour,
and resolve ^o longer to be terrified with crimes ai a dis-
tance ; bu ^eiy vpon our own constancy, and venture to
approach what we resolve never co touch. We thus enter i
the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security, j
Here the heart softens, and vigilance subsides; we are thenl
willing to inquire whether another advance cannot be made,]
and whether v/e may not, at least, turn oar eyes upon the]
gardens o^ pleasure. We approach them with scruple and
hesitation . we enter them, but enter timorous and trem-
bling; and, always hope to pass thi.ough them without
losing the road of virtue, which, for a while, we keep inj
our «ight, and to which we purpose to return. But temp*]
tation succeeds temptation, and one compliance preparei
us for another: we in time lose the happiness of innocence,
and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. 65 j
degrees, we \ct fall the remembrance of our original inten*
tion, an J qiiit the only adequate object of rational desire.]
We entangle ounelves in business, immerge ourselves in
luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy;
till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and dis*
ease and anxiety obstruct our way. We then look ba.k
upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance;]
and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not for-
saken the ways of virtue. Happy are they, my son, who]
shall learn from thy example, not to despair; but shall
remember, that though the day is past, and their strength
is wasted, there yet remains one ellbrt to be made; that
reformation is never hopeless, nor sincere endeavours ever
unassisted ; that the wanderer may at length return after
dl his errors; and that ho who implores strength and
courage from above, shall find danger and diliiculty jjfiv«
way before him. Go now, iny son, to thy repose ; commit
thyself to the care of Omnipotence; and, when the mom-j
ing calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thyl
life." Dh. JoiiN»oJ.|
PabtI. Iciap. II-
NARRATIVE PIECES.
•Sect. VIL— La Roche,
49
Oir the last day of Mr. Hume's journey, different accidents
had retarded his progress; he was benighted before he
reached the quarter in which La Roche resided. His
guide, however, was well acquainted with the road; and
he found himself, at last, in view of the lake in the neigh-
bourhood of La Roche's dwelling. A light gleamed on the
|wat«r, that seemed to proceed from the house; it moved
jsiowly along, as he proceeded up the side of the lake;
id at last he saw it glimmer through the trees, and stop
It some distance from the place where he then was. He
supposed it some piece of bridal merriment, and pushed
his horse, that he might be a spectator of the scene ;
it he was a good deal shocked on approaching the spot,
find it proceed from the torch of a person clothed in the
S8 of an attendant on a funeral, and accompanied by
iveral others, who, like him, seemed to have been em-
ployed in the rites of sepulture.
On Mr. Hume's making inquiry who was the person they
ladbeen burying ; one of them, with an accent more mourn-
ful than is comjoion to their profession, answered, <<Then
^ou knew not the young lady, sir! — ^you never beheld a
lorelier" "La Roche?" exclaimed he in reply. Alas!
|t was she indeed ! The appearance of surprise and grief
rhich his countenance assumed, attracted the notice of
he peasant with whom he talked. He came up closer to
[f. Hume: "I perceive, sir, you were acquainted with
lademoiseile La Roche." — <^ Acquainted with her?— Good
leaven !— when — how — where did she die 1 — Where is her
itherl" — <<8he died, sir, of heart-break, I believe: the
foung gentleman to whom she was soon to have been mar-
ried, was killed in a duel by a French officer, his intimate
ompanion; and to whom, before their quarrel, he had
one the greatest services. Her worthy father bears her
Uh, as he has often told us a Christian ihouk] : he ia
e^en so composed as to be now in his pulpit, ready to
liver a few exhortations to his parishioners, as is the
itom with us on such occasions. Follow me, sir, and
rou shall hear him." — He followed the man, without an-
swering.
Hie church was dimly lighted, except near the pulpit,
'litre the venerable La Roche was seated. His people
C
' s,
;f
50
THE ENGLISH READER, Pait ll (jg^p. m.
were now lifling up their voices in a psalm to that Beind
whom their pastor had taught them ever to bless and to
revere. La Roche sat, his figure bending gently forward.
his eyes half closed, lifted up in silent devotion. A lamp,
placed near him, threw its light strong on his head, and
marked the shadowy lines of age across the paleness of|
his brow, thinly covered with grey hairs.
•^ The music ceased. La Roche sat for a moment, and I
nature wrung a few tears from him. His people were loud
in their grief. Mr. Hume was not less affected than they.
— La Roche arose. " Father of mercies !" said he, " for*
give these tears: assist thy servant to lift up his soul to]
thee ; to lift up to thee the souls of thy people ! — My fricndi
it is good so to do : at all seasons it is good ; but in the
days of our distress, what a privilege it is ! Well saith th«
sacred book, " Trust in the Lord ; at all times trust in tho
Lord." When every other support fails us, when tho four
tains of worldly comfortrfire dried up, let us theitseek those]
living waters which flow from the throne of God. 'Tis onlyl
from the belief of the goodness and wisdom of a Supremej
Being, that our calamities can be borne in that mannerl
which becomes a man. Human wisdom is here of littkl
use ; for, in proportion as it bestows comfort, it represgcsj
feeling, without which we may cease to be hurt by calam-l
ity, but we shall also cease to enjoy happiness. — 1 will|
not bid you be insensible, my friends ! I cannot, I can-
not, if I would" — his tears flowed afresh — "I feel toomuchl
myself, and am not ashamed of my feelings : but therM
fore may I the more willingly be heard ; therefore have ll
prayed God to give mo strength to speak to you ; to (iiredj
you to him, not with empty words, but with these tears;!
not from speculation, but from experience, — that while yoBj
sec me suffer, you may know also my consolation.
" You behold tho mourner of his only child, the lastl
earthly stay and blessing of his declining years! Suchil
child, too I — It becomes not me to speak of her virtuei;!
yet it is but gratitude to mention thom, because they werej
exerted towards myself. Not many days ago, you saw hfrj
young, beautiful, virtuous, and happy; — ye who are p«H
rents will judge of my felicity then, — ye will judge of m'j
atHiction now. But I look towards him who struck me;!
see the hand of a Father amid the chastenings of my (»0(l|
•—0 could I make you feel what it is to pour out the bean
when it is pressed down with many sorrows, to pour it on
with confide]
J on whose po
Icontcmplatio:
inflict! For
we know tha
[him, with oi
I where sorrow
lis perfect.
Jmy child: bt
jnever to he
[Would ye thi
she lived ;
death of the r;
DI
n.
•Sect.
N ancient
sent^ Stat
bbligcd him to
k the earth\
pninhabitable (
vith naked mo
ome scorched
pod with pcrpt
«iain for the |
^nd the accomj
The same ol
jlloted us in oi
111 that is absoi
Iriated to tlio d
h the tyranny
pic superficial
pciprocations o
torn from us
erceptibly awa
fiat' part of our
P^Ml-i Chip. III. DIDACTIC PIECES.
51
that Bein;
bless and to
itly forward,]
m. A lai
is head, and!
paleness of
nomenty and
pie were loud
id than they.
aid he, " for'j
3 his soul
—My fiicndi
; but in the]
Veil saith the
8 trust in tho
hen the four
lOix, seek those!
.d. 'Tisonlyj
>f a Supreme!
that mannef]
here of little
L it represscil
urt by calanvj
ness. — I wiUj
annoi, I can.|
feci toomiichi
but therM
refore havclj
ou ; to (iirectl
these tearsij
lat while yott|
ion.
lild, the laftl
irs! Suchil
her virtiie«;l
ise they wcrel
you saw hell
who are pif
judge of m
struck nie;f
of my (»o
3Ut the heaH
,0 pour it oB
with confidence to him, in whose hands arc life and death;
on whose power awaits all that the first enjoys; and in
contemplation of whom disappears all that the last can
inflict! For we are not as those who die without hope:
we know that our Redeemer livcth; that we shall live with
him, with our friends, his servants, in that blessed land
where sorrow is unknown, and happiness is endless as it
lis perfect. Go, then ; mourn not for mc, I have not lost
Iray child: but a little while, and we shall meet again,
Inever to be separated. But ye arc also my children : —
[Would ye that I should grieve without comfort I So live
she lived ; that when your death cometh, it may be the
Bath of the righteous, and your latter end like his."
its,',' i/lCti;.
Mackknzit:.
♦ f
CHAPTER III.
DIDACTIC PIECES.
•Sect. I. — The Folli/ of mispcncUng Time.
N ancient poet, unreasonably discontented at the pre-
sent^ state of thin;Tg^ which his system of opinions
Dbligcd him to represent in its worst' form, has observed
|if the earth\ "That its greatest' part is covered by the
jninhabitable ocean\ that of the rest\ some is encumbered
vith naked mountains', and some lost under barren sands^;
ome scorched with uninterraitted heat', and some petri-
Bod with perpetual frost^: so that only a few' regions re-
uain for the production of fruitri\ the pasture of cattle',
M the accommodation of man\"
The same observation mav be transferred to tho time'
illoted us in our present^ state. When we have deducted
kll that is absorbed in sleep\ all that is inevitably appro-
piated to the demands of nature\ or irresistibly engrossed
k the tyranny of custom'; all that passes in regulating
jlic superficial decorations of life\ or is given up in the
eciprocations of civility to the disposal of others'; all that
torn from us by the violence of disease\ or stolen im-
erceptibly away by lassitude and languor'; we sholl find
Ittt' part of our duration very smair of which we can truly
i 1
52
THE
ENGLISH
READER,
PaitI
icall ourselves masterd^ or which we can spend wholly at
our own choice\ Many of our hours are lost in a rota'
tion of petty cares', in a constant recurrence of the same |
employments^; many of our provisions for ease or happi.
ness' are always exhausted by the present^ day; and i|
great part of our existence serves no othe/ purpose, thanj
that of enabling us to enjoy the rest\
Of the few moments which are left' at our disposal, il|
may reasonably be expectcd\ that we should be so frugal',
as to let none of them slip from us without some cquiva*
lent': and perhaps 't might be found, that, as the earth\J
however straitened by rocks and water?, is capable of pro«i
ducing more than all its inhabitants are able to consume'/
our lives', though much contracted by incidental distraci
tion', would yet afford us a large space vacant to the]
exercise of reason' and virtue^; that we want not time', bii
diligence^ for great performances ; and that we squ nde/j
much of our allowance, even while wc think it sparing
and in.su'li.cient\
An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto', th
time was his estate^; an estate', indeed, which will producel
nothing without cultivation', but will always abundantljl
repay the labours of industry\ and satisfy the most exteM
sive' desires, if no part of it be sutTcred to lie waste byl
negligence^ to be overrun wall noxious plants', or laid outi
for show' rather than for use\ Db. John soil
Sect. II. — The Importance of& Good Edacation^
I coxsiDKR a human soul, without education, like marl)
In the quarry; which shows none of its inherent beautie
until the skill of the polisher fetches out the coloun
makes the surface shine, and discovers every ornamenti
cloud, spot, and vein, that runs tl ough the body of
Education, after the same manner, when it works up
a noble mind, draws out to view every latent virtue *x^
perfection, which, without such helps, are never able
make their appearance.
If my reader will give me leave to cHnngc the alluafl
80 soon upon him, I shall make use of the same instan
to illustrate the force of education, which Aristotle
brought to explain his doctrine of substantial forms, wb
he tells us, that % statue lies hid in a block of marble;
Ichif. hi.
DIDACTIC PIECES,
53
s^ or laid outi
[)U. JOIINSUSJ
jthtt the art of the statuary only clears away the super-
loous matter, and removes the rubbish. The 6gure is ia
[the stone, and ihe sculptor only finds it. What sculpture
lis to a block of marble, education is to a human soul.
le philosopher, the saint, or the hero ; the wise, the good,
|or the great man, very often \iet> hid and concealed in a
plebeian, which a proper education might have disinterred,
id have brought to light. I am therefore much delighted
ith reading the accounts of savage nations, and with
mtemplating those virtues which are wild and unculti-
rated; to see courage exerting itself in fierceness, rcsolu-
^on in obstinacy, wis/lom in cunning, patience in suUenncse
id despair.
Men's passions operate variously, and appear in differ-
it kinds of actions, according as they are more or less
ied and swayed by reason. When one hears of ne-
es, who, upon the death of their masters, or upon chan.
jing their service, hang themselves upon the next tree, as
|t lotuctimcs happens in our American plantations ; who
in forbear admiring their fidelity, though it exprcssefi
Itielf in so dreadful a manner 1 What miglit not that sav-
je greatness of soul, which appears in these poor wretches
many occasions, be raised to, were it rightly cultivatcdl
Ind what colour of excuse can there be, for the contempt
eith which we treat this part of our species; that we should
aot put them upon the common footing of humanity ; that
re should only set an insignificant fine upon the man who
lurders them ; nay, that we should, as much as in us lies,
put them oft* from the prospects of happiness in another
w!d, as well as in this ; and deny them that which we
|ook upon as the proper means for attaining it?
It is, therefore, an unspeakable blessing to be born in
fhose parts of the world where wisdom and knowledge
[lourish; though it must be confessed there are, even in
lese parts, several poor uninstructcd persons, who are
hut little above the inhabitants of those nations of which
have been he/c speaking; as those who have had the
Jvaniages of a more liberal education, rise above one
bother, ]>y several dilFerent degrees of perfection. For,
\o return to our statue in the llock of marble, wo sec it
JQietimcs only begun to be chipped ; sometimes rough*
fewn, and but just sketched into a human figuiv ; Bome.
limes wc sec the man appearing distinctly in all his limbH
ind features; sometimes we find the figure wrought up to
54
THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. Icbif. HI.
1:3
great elegancy ; but seldom meet with any, to which the
hand of a Phidias or a Piaxiteles could not give several
nice touches and finishings. Addisoi.
Sect. HI. — On Forgiveness.
Tub most plain and natural sentiments of equity concur
with divine authority, to enforce the duty of forgiveness.
Let him who has never in his life done wrong, be allowed
the privilege of remaining inexorable. But let such as are
conscious of frailties and crimes consider forgiveness as'
a debt which they owe to others. Common failings are
the strongest leiyson of mutual forbearance. Were this I
virtue unknown among men, order and comfort, peace and]
repose would be strangers to human life. Injunes retal-
iated according to the exorbitant measure which passion I
prescribes, would excite resentment in return. The in«
jured person would become the injuror; and thus wrongs,
retaliations, and fresh injuries, would circulate in endlesi
succession, till the world was rendered a field of blood.
Of all the passions which invade the human breast, revcn;i:«
is the most direful. When allowed to reign with full do- 1
minion, it is more than sufficient to poison the few plca^
sures which remain to man in his present state. Howj
much soever a person may suffer from injustice, he is al-
ways in hazard of suffering more from the prosecution ofl
revenge. The violence of an enemy cannot inflict what
is efjual to the torment he creates to himself, by means of
the fierce and desperate passions which he allows to rage
in his soul.
Those evil spirits who inhabit the regions of misery, I
are represented as deli^^liting in revenge and cruelty; but
all that is great and good in the universe, is on the side
of clemency and mercy. The Almighty Ruler of the world,
though for ages offended by the unrighteousness, anil in-
sulted by the impiety of men, is "long-suUering and slow!
to anger.'* His Son, when he appeared in our nature, «•[
liibited, both in his life and his death, the most illustrioujj
example of forgiveness which the world ever beheld,
we look into the history of mankind, we shall find thaJ
in every age, they who have been respected os worthy, orl
admired as great, have been distinguished for this virtofj
Revenge dwells in little minds. A noble and mognani*
nious spirit is
not from the
others feel. C
their impotent
than with angf
—It has been
lean no sooner
make himself g
Se
JTheue are ma
beauty; who 1
I season; who I
j paired in their
of their friendi
der connexioni
iheml It prese
! there does not
sive prospect <
I rience of manki
the open and g
j of, has rendere(
ships. The pi
when they for
I who animated
Where then cs:
religion ] Th(
providence an(
the heart. I s
humanity ; wh
rendered more
that stupid iri^
nify with the r
It might the
who think the;
anco of religic
feel the want
inanity to cone
of maukihd; «
habit, at least,
Duule necessar
might be exp
PabtlIchap. ni.
DIDACTIC PIECES.
55
mous spirit is always superior to ito This spirit suffers
not from the injuries of men those severe shocks which
{others feel. Collected within itself, it stands unmoved by
their impotent assaults; and with generous pity, rather
than with anger, looks down on their unworthy conduct.
—It has been truly said, that the greatest man on earth .
{ran no sooner commit an injury, than a good man can
make himself greater by forgiving it. Blaih..
SicT. IV. — Comforts of Religion. '
I There are many who have passed the age of youth and -
beauty ; who have resigned the pleasures of that smiling
I season ; who begin to decline into the vale of years, im-
paired in their health, depressed in their fortunes, stripped
of their friends, their children, and perhaps still more ten-
der connexions. What resource can this world afford
ihemi It presents a dark and dreary waste, through which,
there does not issue a single ray of comfort. Every delu-
I give prospect of ambition is now at an end ; long expe-
jrience of mankind, and experience very different from what
the open and generous soul of youth had formerly dreamt
of, has rendered the heart almost inaccessible to new friend-
ships. The principal sources of activity arc taken away,
when they for whom we labour are cut off from us; they
who animated and who sweetened all the toils of life.
Where then can the soul find refuge, but in the bosom of
religion] There she is admitted to those prospects of
providence and futurity, which alone can warm and fill
the heart. I speak here of such as retain the feelings of
humanity ; whom misfortunes have softened, and perhaps
rendered more delicately sensible ; not of such as possess
that stupid irisensibility, which some are pleased to dig-
nify with the name of Philosophy. . »
It might therefore be expected, that those philosophers
who think they stand in no need themselves of the assist-
ance of religion to support their virtue, and who never
feel the want of its consolations, would yet have the hu-
manity to consider the very different situation of the rest
of maukihd; and not endeavour to deprive them of what
habit, at least, if they will not allow it to bo nature, has
Quule necessary to their morals and to their happiness. It
might be expected, that humanity would prevent them
■ i
i i
56
THE ENGLISH READER. Tjun I I Chap. III.
from brealdng into the last retreat of the unfortunate, who
can no longer be objects^ of their envy at resentment; and
tearing from them tiieir only remaining comfort. The at-
tempt to ridicule religion may be agreeable to some, by
relieving them from restraint upon their pleasures; and
may render others very miserable by making them doubt
those truths, in which they are most deeply interested :
hut it can convey real good and happiness to no one indi-
vidual. , ^ Gjl£«OlT.
Sect. V. — On the Importance of Order in f/u Dttiribuim
of our lime.
Tims we ought to consider as a sacred trust committed to
us by God ; of which we are now the depositaries, and are
to render an account at the last. That portion of it which
he has allotted to us, is intended partly for the concemi
of this world, partly for those of the next. Let each of
these occupy, in the distribution of our time, that space
which properly belongs to it. Let not the hours of hos-
pitality and pleasure interfere with the discharge of our
:>ecessary aflairs; and let not what we call necessary
afl^irs, encroach upon the time which is due to devotion.
To every thing there is a season, and a time for every pur-
pose under the heavens. If we delay till to-morrow what
ought to be done tonlay, we overcharge the morrow with
a burden which belongs not to it. We load the wheels of
time, and prevent them from carrying us along smoothly.
He who every morning plans the transactions of the day,
and follows out that plan, carries on a thread which m\\
guide him through the labyrinth of the most busy life.
The orderly arrangement of his time is like a ray of light,
which darts itself through all his aiKiirs. But where no
plan is laid, where the disposal of time is surrendered
merely to the chance of incidents, all things lie huddled
together in one chaos, which admits neither of distribution
nor review.
The first requisite for introducing order into the manage-
ment of time, is, to be impressed with a just sense of its
value. Let us consider well how much depends upon it,
and how fast it flies away. The bulk of men are in no-
thing more capricious and inconsistent, than in their
appreciation of time. "When they think of it, as the mea-
sure of theii
and with the
when they vi
it in eon tem]
sion. While
otlen wishing
every other
They allow e
and make e\
help them to
less of time,
observed in i
how many nii
laying up in
suffer to pasj
j)entance see!
omitted to be
torment of s
by the conse
pressed by ca
under a burt
dying man be
ing, when bis
Such are the
not attending
persons, is m:
not being pei
But he wh
takes the pro]
He is justly s
ment, he proh
in a few year
God and his c
the lawful inl
on the past, r
arrests the ht
useful purpoiH
those hours il
His days and
remembrance
irregular a s
thougli he rer
no account of
c2
I .'"
II I
Tami I I Chaf. III.
DIDACTIC PIECES.
57
sure of their continuance on earth, they highly prize it,
and with the greatest anxiety seek to lengthen it out. But
when they view it in seperate parcels, they appear to hold
it in contempt, and squander it with inconsiderate profti--
sion. While they complain that life ir short, they are
often wishing its different periods at an end. Covtous of
every other possession, of time only they are prodigal.
They allow every idle man to be master of this property,
and make every frivolous occupation welcome that carr
help them to consume it. Among those who are so care-
less of time, it is not to be expected that order should l>e
observed in its distribution. But, by this fatal neglect,
how many materials of severe and lasting regret are they
laying up in store for themselves! The time which they
suffer to pass away in the midst of confusion, bitter re-
[)entance seeks afterwards in vain to recall. What was
omitted to be done at its proper moment, arises to be the
torment of some future season. Manhood is disgraced
by the consequences of neglected youth. Old age, op-
pressed by cares that belonged to a former period, labours
under a burden not its own. At the close of life, tlie
(lying man beholds, with anguish, that his days are finish-
ing, when his preparation for eternity is hardly commenced.
Such are the ettects of a disorderly waste of time, through
not attending to its value. Every thing in the life of such
persons, is mis[)laced. Nothing is performed aright, from
not being performed in due season.
But he who is orderly in the distribution of his time,
takes the piO])er method of escaping those manifold evils.
He is justly said to redeem the time. By proper managv -
ment, he prolongs it. He lives much in little space ; more
in a few years than others do in many. He can live to
God and his own soul, and at the same time attend to all
the lawful interests of the present world. He looks back
on the past, and provides for the future. He catches and
arrests the liours as they lly. They are marked down for
useful purposes, and their memory remains. Whereas,
those hours fleet by the man of confusion lik«; a shadow.
His days and vears are either blanks, of which he has no
remembrance ; or they are filled up with so confused and
irregular a succession of unfinished transactions, that
though he remembers he has been busy, yet he can gi^e
no account of the business which has employed him.
ULirit.
c2
I i
5S
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I.
wm.
'i '■
n
1
Sect. Yl.-^Moderation in our Wishes recommended.
The active mind of man seldom or never rests satisfied
with jts present condition, how prosperous soever. Origi-
nally formed for a wider range of objects, for a higher
sphere of enjoyments ; it finds itself, in every situation of
fortune, straitened and confined. Sensible of deficiency
in its state, it is ever sending forth the fond desire, the
aspiring wish, after something beyond what is enjoyed at
present. Hence, that restlessness which prevails so gen-
erally among mankind. Hence, that disgust of pleasures
which they have tried ; that passion for novelty ; that am-
bition of rising to some degree of eminence or felicity, of
which they have formed to themselves an indistinct idea.
All which may be considered as indications of a certain
native original greatness in the human soul, swelling be-
yond the limits of its present condition, and pointing to
the higher objects for which it was made. Happy, if
these latent remains of our primitive state, served to direct
our wishes towards their proper destination, and to lead
us into the path of true bliss.
But, in this dark and bewildered state, the aspiring ten-
dency of our nature unfortunately takes an opposite direc-
tion, and feeds a very misplaced ambition. The flattering
appearances which here present themselves to sense; the
distinctions which fortune confers; the advantages and
pleasures which we imagine the world to be capable of
bestowing, fill up the ultimate wish of most men. These
arc the objects which engross their solitary musings, and
stimulate their active labours ; which warm the breasts of
the young, animate the industry of the middle-aged, and
often keep alive the passions of the old, until the vcrj-
close 01 life.
Assuredly there is nothing unlawful in our Vishing to
be freed from whatever is disagreeable, and to obtain a
fuller enjoyment of the comforts of life. But when theso
wishes arc not tempered by reason, they are in danger of
precipitating us into much extravagance and folly. De-
sires and wishes are the first springs of action. When
they become exorbitant, the whole character is likely to
be tainted. If we suffer our faiicy to create to itself worlds
of ideal happiness, we shall discompose the peace and
order of our minds, and foment many hurtful passions.
Sect, VII.~
Chip. UI.
DIDACTIC PIECES.
59
Here, then, let moderation begin its reign; by bringing
"^vithin reasonable bounds the wishes that we form. As
goon as they become extravagant, let us check them, by
proper reflections on the fallacious nature of those objects,
which the world hangs out to allure desire.
You have strayed, my friends, from the road which con-
ducts to felicity; you have dishonoured the native dignity
of your souls, in allowing your wishes to terminate on
nothing higher than worldly ideas of greatness or happi-
ness. Your imagination roves in a land of shadows.
Unreal forms deceive you. It is no more than a phan-
tom, an illusion of happiness, which attracts your fond
admiration; nay, an illusion of happiness, which often
conceals much real misery.
Do you imagine that all are happy, who have attained
to those summits of distinction, towards which your wishes
aspire? Alas! how frequently has experience shown, that
where roses were supposed to bloom, nothing but briars
and thorns grew I Reputation, beauty, riches, grandeur,
nay, royalty itself, would, many a time, have been gladly
exchanged by the possessors, for that more quiet and hum-
ble station with which you are now dissatisfied. With all
that is splendid and shining in the world, it is decreed that
there should mix many deep shades of wo. On the ele-
vated situations of fortune, the great calamities of life
chiefly fall. There the s'orm spends its violence, and
there the thunder breaks ; while, safe and unhurt, the in-
habitants of the vale remain below. — Retreat, then, from
those vain and pernicious excursions of extravagant desire.
Satisfy yourselves with what is rational and attainable.
Train your minds to moderate views of human Hfe, and
human happiness. Remember, and admire, the wisdom
of Agur's petition : " Remove far from me vanity and lies?.
Give me neither poverty nor riches. Feed me with food
convenient for me : lest I be full and deny thee ; and say.
Who is the Lord 1 or lest I be poor and steal ; and take;
the name of my God in vain." Blaih.
Sect. VII. — Omniscience and Omnipresence of the Deity y
the SQurcc of Consolation to good Men. ^
I WAS yesterday, about sunset, walking in the open fields,
till the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first amused
myself with all the richness and variety of cojours which
(iO
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I.
!^■;:.■^ il
i I
appeared in the western parts of heaven. In proportion
iHH they faded away and went out, several stars and planets
appeared one after another, till the whole (irmament was
in a glow. The bluencss of the ether was exceedingly
heightened and enlivened, by the season of the year, and
the rays of all those luminaries that passed through it.
The galaxy appeared in its most beautiful white. To
complete the scene, the full moon rose, at length, in that
clouded majesty which Milton takes notice of; and opened
to the eye a new picture of nature, which was more finely
shaded, and disposed among softer lights, than that which
the sun had before discovered to us.
As I was surveying the moon walking in hor brightness,
nud tjiking her progress among the constellations, a
thought aro.sc in me, which I believe very often perplexes
and disturbs men of serious and contemplative natures.
David himself tell into it, in that reaction : " When 1
consider the heavens, the work of thy fingers ; the moon
and the stars which thou hast ordained ; what is man that
thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou
regardest himl" In the same manner, when I considered
that infinite host of stars, or to speak more philosophically,
of suns, which were then shining upon me ; with those in-
numerable sets of planets or worlds, which were movin|i
round their respective suns ; when I still enlarged the idea,
and supposed another heaven of suns and worlds, risinij
«till above this which we discovered; and these still en-
lightened by a superior firmament of luminaries, which
are planted at so great a distance, that tliQy may appear
to the inhabitants of the former, as the stars do to us; in
short, while I pursued this thought, I could not but reflect
on tliat little insignificant figure which I myself bon>
amidst the immensity of God's works.
V\^cre the sun, which enlightens this part of the creation,
with all the host of planetary worlds that move about him,
utterly extinguished and annihilated, they would not be
missed, more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore.
The space they possess is so exceedingly little in compii-
rison to the whole, it would scarcely make a ])lank in the
creation. The chasm would be impcrcepti])le to an eye
^that could take in the whole compass of nature, and pa^•o
from one end of the creation to the other ; as it is possi-
ble there may be such a sense in ourselves hereafter, or in
creatures which are at present more exalted than ourselves.
Part I. ■ Chaf. III.
DIDACTIC PIECES.
61
By the help of glasses, we see many stars, which we do
not discover with our naked eyes ; and the finer our tele-
fcopes are, the more still are our discoveries. Huyg^enius
carries this thought so far, that he docs not think it im-
possible there may be stars, whose light has not yet
travelled down to us, since their first creation. There is
no question that the universe has certain bounds set to it ;
but when we consider that it is the work of Infinite Power,
prompted by Infinite ijloodness, with an iiifinite space
to exert itself in, how can our imagination set any bounds
to it?
To return, therefore, to my first thought : I could not but
look upon myself with secret horror, as a being that was
not worth the smallest regard of one who had so great a
work under his care and superintendence. I was afraid
of being overlooked amidst the immensity of nature ; and
lost among that infinite variety of creatures, which, in all
probability, swarm through all these immeasurable regions
d" matter.
In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought,
I considered that it took its rise from those narrow con-
ceptions, which we are apt to entertain of the Divine
Nature. Wc ourselves cannot attend to many different
ol)jccts at the same time. If we are careful to inspect
some things, we must of course neglect others. This im-
perfection which we observe in ourselves, is an imperfec-
tion that cleaves in some degree, to creatures of the
highest capacities, as they are creatures, that is, beings
of finite and limited natures. The presence of every
created being is confined to a certain measure of space ;
and consequently his observation is stinted to a certain
number of objects. The sphere in which we move, and
act, and understand, is of a wider circumference to one
creature than another, according as we rise one above an-
other in the scale of existence. But the widest of these
our spheres has its circumference. When, therefore, we
rellect on the Divine Nature, we are so used and accus-
tomed to this imperfection in ourselves, that we cannot
forbear, in some measure ascribing it to Him, in whom
there is no shadow of imperfection. Our reason, indeed,
assures us, that his attributes are infinite; but the poor-
ness of our conception is such, that it cannot forbear set-
ting bounds to every thing it contemplates, till our reaskin
oomes again to our succour, and throws down all thoae
I 1
62
THE ENGLISH READER.
PabtI. I CMAF.ni
ii
little prejudices, which rise in us unawares and are natural
to the mind of man.
We shall therefore utterly extinguish this melancholy
thought, of our being overlooked by our Maker, in the
multiplicity of his works, and the infinity of those objects
among which ho seems to be incessantly employed, if wc
consider, in the first place, that he is omnipresent; and
in the second, that he is omniscient.
If we consider him in his omnipresence, his being passes
through, actuates, and supports, the whole frame of na-
ture. His creation, in every part of it, is full of him.
There is nothing he has made, which is either so distant,
so little, or so inconsiderable, that he does not essentially
reside in it. His substance is within the substance of
every being, whether material or immaterial; and is as
intimately present to it, as that being is to itself. It would
be an imperfection in him, were be able to move out of
one place into another; or to withdraw himself from any
thing he has created, or from any part of that space which
he diffused and spread abroad to infinity. In short, to
speak of him in the language of the old philosophers, ho
is a Being whose centre is every where, and his circum-
ference no where.
In the second place, he is omniscient as well as otnni-
present. His omniscience, indeed, necessarily and natu-
rally flows from his omnipresence. He cannot but be
conscious of every motion that arises in the whole material
world, which he thus essentially pervades; and of every
thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, to every
part of which he is thus intimately united. Were the soul
separated from the body, and should it with one glance of
thought start beyond the bounds of the creation; should
it, for millions of years, continue its progress through infi-
nite space, with the same activity ; it would still find itself
within the embrace of itd Creator, and encompassed by
the immensity of the Godhead.
In this consideration of the Almighty's omnipresence
and omniscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes.
He cannot but regard everything that has being, espo-
cially such of his creatures who fear they are not regarded
by him. He is privy to all their thoughts, and to that
anxiety of heart, in particular, which is apt to trouble
them on this occasion ; for as it is impossible he should
overlook any of his creatures, so we may l)0 confident that
L i>ii
Chap. HI.
DIDACTIC PIECES.
63
he regiards, with an eye of mercy, those who endeavour to
recommend themselves to his notice; and, in unfeigned
humility of heart, think themselves unworthy that he
should be mindful of them. Addison.
'■^ I..
,« p-=^
ii» *
• Sbct. VIII. — On Retirement and Meditation,
Retirement and meditation open a source of new and
better entertainment than you meet with in thn world.
You will soon find, that the world does not perform what
it promises. The circle of earthly enjoyments is narrow
and circumscribed ; the career of sensual pleasure is soon
run ; and when the novelty is over, the charm is gone.
Who has not felt the satiety and weariness of the king of
Israel, when he exclaimed, " All is vanity and vexation of
spirit 1" — Unhappy is the man, who, in these cases, has
nothing within to console him under his disappointment.
Miserable is the man who has no resources within hinisclf,
who cannot enjoy his own company, who depends for hap-
piness upon the next amusement, or the news of the day.
But the wise man has treasures within himself. The
house of solitude is to him the house of meditation. He
communes with his heart alone. He views the actions
of his past life. He corrects what is amiss ; he rejoices
in what is right ; and, wiser by experience, lays the plans
of his future life. The great and the noble, the wise and
the learned, the pious and the good, have been lovers of
serious retirement. On this field, the patriot forms schemes,
the philosopher pursues his discoveries, the saint improves
himself in wisdom and goodness. Solitude is the hallowed
ground which religion, in every age, has adopted as her
own. There, her sacred inspiration is felt, and her holy
mysteries elevate the soul; there, devotion lifts up her
voice ; there, falls the tear of contrition ; there, the heart
pours itself forth before him who made, and him who re-
deemed it. Apart from men, you live with nature, and
converse with God. Loo an.
■«!
•Sect. IX. — The Elements subservient to theWatita of Man,
TaK eye of man is turned, not towards heaven, as the
poets and even some philosophers allege, but to the hori-
zon ; 80 that he may view at once the heaven which iliu-
64
THE ENGLISH READER.
PlRTl. I CBAf-DI.
{t
t
minates himf, and the earth which supports him. His
visual rays take in nearly half of the celestial hemisphere,
and of the plane on which he treads ; and their reach ex»
tends from the grain of sand which he tramples under foot,
to the star which shines over his head at an immeasurable
distance. «
Man alone, of all animals, can enjoy equally the day and
the night; he alone can bear to live within the ton id zone,
and upon the ice of the frigid. If certain animals be par-
takers with him in these advantages, it is only by means
of his instructions, and under his protection. For thig
advantage, he is indebted to the element of fire, of which
he alone is the sovereign lord.
Though the dog is much more intelligent than the mon-
key, and is a witness every hour of the ellccts of fire, and
accustomed to live only on meat that is dressed; yet, if
you give him raw Hesh, he will never think of roasting it
on the coals. This barrier, which separates man from
the brute, weak as it may appear, is insurmountable to
animals. God has intrusted the first agent in nature to
that being alone, who, by his reason, is qualified to make
a right use of it.
This element is universally necessary to litiman exis-
tence, even in the hottest climates. By means of fire alone,
man guards his habitation by night from the ravenous*
beasts of prey; drives away the insects which thirst for his
blood; and clears the ground of the trees and plants which
cover it, the stems and trunks of which would resist every
Hpccies of cultivation. In every country, with fire he pre-
pares his food, dissolves metals, vitrifies rocks, hardens
<'lay, softens iron, and gives to all the productions of tlie
earth the forms and the combinations which his nccessiticfl
require. '
The benefits which man derives from the nir, are no less
extensive. Few animals are, like him, capable of resj)iring
with e([ual ease at the level of the sea, and on the summit
of the loftiest mountains. Man is the only being that. gives
to air all the modulations of which it is susceptible. Witli
his voice alone, he imitates the hissing, the cries, the sing-
ing of all animals; while he erjoys the gift of speech,
denied to every other. Sometimes he communicates sen-
sibility to the ear ; he makes it sigh in the pipe, complain
in the fiute, threaten in the trumpet, and animate to tiie
tone of his passions the brass, the box-tree, and the reed.
P^HTl. I CHlf.ni.
DIDACTIC PIECES.
65
Sometimes he makes the air his slave: he forces it to grind>
to bruise, and to move to his advantage an endless variety
of machinery. In a word he yokes il to his marine car,
and constrains it to wail him even over the billows of the
ocean.
As man is the only being that has the disposal of fire,
which is the principle of life, so he alone practices agri-
culture, which is its support. All animals who live upon
fruits, have, like him, occasion for it, and most of them
the experience; but no one the practice. The ox never
thinks of sowing the grain which he treads out upon the
barn-floor; nor the monkey, the maixe of the field which
be plunders. St. Pikbri.
♦Sect. X. — The Improvement of the Mind, the prtncipul
Source of Happttiesa,
The chief blessing to an intelligent being, that which
makes all other blessings poor, is the improvement of his
own mind. Man is glorious and happy, not by what he
has, but by what he is. He can receive nothing better or
nobler, than the unfolding of his own spiritual nature. The
highest existence in the universe is Mind ; for God is Mind ;
and the development of that principle which assimilates us
to God, must be our supreme good. The omnipotent Crea-
tor, we have reason to think, can bestow nothing greater
than intelligence, love, rectitude, energy of will and of
l)encvolcnt action ; for these are the splendours of his own
natur(>. We adore him for these. In imparting these, he
imparts, as it were, himself. We are too apt to look abroad
for good. But the only true good is within. In this out-
ward universe, magnificent as it is in the bright day and the
starry night — in the earth and the skies, we can discover
nothiDg so vast as thought, so strong as the unconquerable
purpose of duty, so sublime as the spirit of disinterested-
ness and self-sucriiice. A mind, which withstands all the
powers of the outward universe— all the pains which fire,
and sword, and storm can inflict, rather than swerve from
uprightnciis — is nobler than the universe. Why will wo
not learn the glory of the soul 1 We are seeking a foreign
good. But we all possess within us what is of more worth
than the external creation. For this outward system in
the product of Mind. All its harmony, beauty, and bene-
'ii
66
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I.
ficent influences, arc the fruits and manifestations of
Thought and Love ; and is it not nobler ankl happier, to
he enriched with these energies, from which the univene
springs, and to which it owes its magnificence, than to pos-
sess the universe itself] It is not what we have, but what
we are^ which constitutes ,our glory and felicity. The
only true and durable riches belong to the mind. A soul,
narrow and debased, may extend its possessions to the
end of the earth ; but is poor and wretched still. It is
through inward health that we enjoy all outward things.
Philosophers teach us, that the mind creates the beauty
which it admires in nature ; and we all know, that when
abandoned to evil passions, it can blot out this beauty,
ajid spread over the fairest scenes the gloom of a dungeon.
We all know, that by vice it can turn the cup f social
happiucjiis into poison, and the most prosperous condition
of life into a curse.
From these views we learn that the true friend and
Saviour, is not he who acts for us abroad, but who acta
within — who sets the soul free, touches the springs of
thought and affection, binds us to God, and, by assimilat-
ing us to the Creator, brings us into harmony with the
creation. Thus the end which we have ascribed to Christ,
is tho- most glorious and beneficent which can be accom-
plished by any power on earth or in heaven. CHAJfxiNo.
\ ^r
VI I ,Hi 'i >
,^/W,
m
* Sbct. XL — The Misery of Jixjidtliiy.
IwFinKtiTY operates directly in impairing or destroying
our comfort. It implies the negation of all those truths
which tend most effectually to support and cheer us under
the calamity of our lot. Even in the midst of prosperity,
the doctrines which it teaches us to reject are calculated to
elevate our minds, and to increase our joy. We partake
Q& the blessings of life with a far purer, and a far higher
relish, when we regard them as bestowed by the hand of
aai all-perfect God; and when we receive them through
the channel of a merey secured to us by the mediation of
his own Son, and when we contemplate them as pledges
and foretastes of that "fulness of joy" which remains for
us " at his right hand " in heaven. And that which de-
prives us of this divine relish, must so far bo deemed
inimical to us, at abridging our happiness, which, at th«
Chap. III.
DIDACTIC PIECES.
67
best, is but nrxed and circumscribed. But such is the
effect of infidelity, whose baneful touch withers the charm
of erery earthly blessing, reduces it to the degraded level
of a mere animal gratification, and leaves us to feed upon
it like the beasts that perish, without a thought that rises
above the dust, and without a thought Miat points beyond
the grave.
It is, however, amidst trials and sorrows that infidelity
appears in its most just and frightful aspect When
subjected to the multifarious ills which flesh is heir to,
what is there to uphold our spirit, but the discoveries and
the prospects that are unfolded to us by revelation ?
What, for this purpose, can be compared with the belief,
that every thing here below is under the management of
infinite wisdom and goodness, and that there :s an immor-
tality of bliss awaiting us in another world 1 If this con-
viction be taken away, what is it that we can have recourse
to, on which the mind may patiently and safely repose in
the season of adversity 1 Where is the balm which I may
apply with effect to my wounded heart, after I have re-
jected the aid of the Almighty Physician 1 Impose upon
me whatever hardships you please : give me nothing but
the bread of sorrow to eat; take from me the friends in
whom I \ A placed my confidence; lay me in the cold hut
of poverty, and on the thorny bed of disease ; set death
before me in all its terrors: — do all this; only let me trust
in my Saviour, and " pillow my head on the bosom of
Omnipotence," and I will " fear no evil ;" I will rise supe-
rior to aflliction — I will " rejoice in my tribulation." But
let infidelity interpose between God and my soul, and draw
its impenetrable veil over a future state of existence, and
limit all my trust to the creatures of a day, and all my
cxpectntions to a few years, as uncertain as they are short;
and how shall I bear up, with fortitude or with cheerful-
ness, under the burden of distress 1 or where shall I find
one drop of consolation to put into the bitter draught
which has been ^iven me to drink ? I look over the whole
range of this wilderness in which I dwell ; but I see not
one covert from the storm, nor one leaf for the healing of
my soul, nor one cup of cold water to refresh mo in the
weariness and the faintings of my pilgrimage. Oh ! what
ciin I be but comfortless and wretched, when I am with-
out Christ, without God, and without hope !
Dr. a. Thoxpsoit.
68
THE ENGLISH READER.
Piurl
• Sect. XH. — Ckristt the Desire of all Natima,
Tmx principle of love, the sense of moral beauty, arc not
less deeply rooted in our constitufion, nor have they bcoi
less active, than the less noble, the debasing passion of
fear. Tradition, poetry, mythology, philosophy, are all
rich in aspirations after something far purer, lovelier,
brighter, than the world has ever seen. The fceUng might
be traced in a thousand intermediate forms, through the
immense gradation from barbarian fictions of a golden ago
of innocence, to the lofty dreams, and unearthly reveries,
and shadowings forth of spiritual perfection, in the mys-
tical philosophy of Plato. All fiction tells this trutli,
that humanity has the wish and the want for something
above its present moral condition ; and that, while it is of
the earth, earthy, it aspires to be, and would now see and
love that which is as are tlie angels of God in heaven.
Hence, tales of long-past ages before the world grew cor-
rupt, when all was infantine simplicity and innocence ; and
of coming ages, when goodness shall re-appear, and elevate
the race perhaps to earthly immortality. Hence, contem-
poraneous fictions of happy valleys and blessed islands,
far in the west, where the sun shone benignantly after tra-
versing a guilty and a troublous world. Hence, the cha-
racters in whose conception romance and poetry delight,
with all their godlike attributes. They are the prayer of
the universal human heart to nature and to God, to show
us, though it be but for once, the blessed sight of huma-
nity in its best estate, free from guilt, from weakness, from
impurity, from selfishness, without stain, spot, or soil; the
softened, but unclouded reflection of its pure and holy
Creator. And God granted the prayer in Jesus of Naza-
reth. There was the purity of infancy with the full deve-
lopement of maturity. There was tenderness without
weakness, and energy without harshness. He benevolently
consorted with the vilest, while his goodness shamed the
righteousness of the severest. He was in the house of
feasting, and in the house of mourning; and the heart
reverenced and blessed him in them both. He was in the
l>Ofom of his Father, and unfolded the truths of heaven,
and the mysteries of eternity; and, the while, his eye rested
in love and gladness on the sparrow's wing, and the lily's
blossom. He wrought miracles, and wiped away tears.
Chip. III.
DIDACTIC PIECES.
69
He was not of the world — that world which he lived and
(lied to redeem. By his side on the couch at the last pas-
chal supper, by the foot of his cross as he was expiring,
his eye and heart rested on " the beloved disciple ;" that
heart whose universal benevolence so identified him with
humanity, that he was one with the whole human race, who
all live in him as they died in their first progenitor : " for
as by man came death, by man came also the resurrection
of the dead ; and as in Adam all die, so in Christ shall all
be made alive." V ' '^ '' - Fox.
■ V
•Sect. XIII.— To a Young Man on the Choice ofFriendi^
You will hear weak men repeating, every day, that friend-
ship has left the world. The amount of this obserration
is, that they have never found it. When I inquire into
the character of these declaimers, I find them to be selfish
men, who consider friendship a» a compact of advantage;
unsteady men, who cannot continue long in the same mind;
or vicious men, who must either debauch their friends, or
part with them. The friendship of selfishness, if there be
such a thing, endures only till one of the parties is de-
ceived. A weak mind is steady till it » ngaged in form-
ing a new friendship, and a vicious man has no reason to
''omplain. Prom all this, I wish you to learn, if you de-
sire to obtain this blessing of infinite price, that it depends
on yourself whether you shall ever obtain it. If you
come to the market, bring along with you the coin which
will purchase the commodity. The free and uncontrolled
commerce of the affections is founded on virtue, of which,
if you are destitute, you have no right to blame other njen
for the want of friendship. Do you wish to enjoy the
esteem of good men 1 I know no other way to obtain it,
than by making yourself worthy of it. A young man, who
possesses any degree of reflection and foresight, will easily
see the vast advantage of recommending himself to the
worthy, by a due regard to his character. He secures not
only the approbation of his own mind, and a fair reputa-
tion in the mean time ; but, like a general who is beloved
by his army, he is surrounded by an impenetrable host,
who will repel the dangers of life, and make his passage
through it safe and honourable. The love of good men
is a def(^iice to him who possesses it. It gires the whole
world a favourable impression of his virtues; and it op«n«
i
70
THE ENGLISH READER.- Vxm L
to him sources of advantage and improvement^ of which
nothing but bad conduct can possibly deprive him.
Vice seeks concealment; and it is one of its distin-
guished attributes, that it persuades its votaries to indulge
in its practices without the fear of detection. Men's deli-
cacy hinders them from telling you, that you were last
evening committing a debauch. Your own self-love will
not allow you to believe, that a thing is known which you
wish to conceal. You do not know that the men arouad
you contrive to look into your heart, or at least into your
most secret actions. Or, if the thing should be known,
you flatter yourself that the apologies which you make
will be g« neral'' sustained. These are the dangerous
rocks on v '«<».? *ie innocence and integrity ef thousands
are daily sh ^ v ,. -J, beyond the hopes of recovery. Be
not deluded: '.uic * e a thousand avenues to the heart,
and to the most secret ictions, through which the world
obtain distorted views of your character ; and your only
safety is to have nothing to conceal. There is no truth
of greater importance to a young man beginning life, than
this one which I am stating. The vain hope of conceal-
ment is often the first thing that blunts the edge of that
ingenuousness which guards his virtue. Be assured, then,
that if men do not judge of you as you are, they will be
ready to err on the uncharitable side, and make you worse
rather than better. Were it even possible to deceive the
quick and satirical eye of the world, your character would
gain the detestable addition of hypocrisy to your other
vices ; and you would shun the intimacy of good men, for
fear of being discovered. Your connections with the
worthy are the test and security of your virtue. Cultivate
their friendship, imitate their example, and listen to their
advice. , ,, , *■„ . . ,., » , Geneu.
• Sect. XIV. — The Insignificance of the World.
TttouGH this earth were to be burned up, though the trum-
pet of its dissolution were sounded, though yon sky were
to pass away as a scroll, and every visible glory wliich the
linger of the Divinity has inscribed upon it, were to be put
out for ever —an event, so awful to us, and to 'every world
in our vicinity ; by which so many suns would be extin-
guished, and so many varied scenes of life and popula-
tion would rush into forgctfulness — what is it in the high
CSAF. III.
BIDACTIC PIECES.
71
scale of the Almighty's workmanship? — a mere shred,
which, though scattered into nothing would leave the
universe of God one entire scene of greatness and of ma^
jcsty. Though this earth and these heavens were to dis-
appear, there are other worlds which roll afar ; the light
of other suns shines upon them ; and the sky which man-
tles them is garnished with other stars. Is it presumption
to say, that the moral world extends to these distant and
unknown regions] — that they are occupied with people? —
that the charities of home and of neighbourhood flourish
there 1 — that the praises of God are there lifted up, and his
goodness rejoiced inl — that piety has its temples and its
oflerings 1 and the richness of the divine attributes is there
felt and admired by intelligent worshippers'? ,«
And what is this world in the immensity which teems
with them 1 — and what are they who occupy it ] The uni-
verse at large would suffer as little in its splendour ar
variety by the destruction of our planet, as the verdur»,
and sublime magnitude of a forest would suffer by the i W
of a single leaf. The leaf quivers on the branch which
supports it. It lies at the mercy of the slightest acf*
dent. A breath of wind tears it from its stem, a-^Ml it
lights on the stream of water which passes underri ath.
In a moment of time, the life which we know by the mi-
croscope it teems with, is extinguished ; and an occurrence
so insignificant in the eye of man, and on the scale of his
observation, carries in it to the myriads which people this
little leaf, an event as terrible and as decisive as the de-
struction of a world. Now, on the grand scale of the uni-
verse, we, the occupiers of this ball, which performs its
little round among the suns and the systems that astron-
omy has unfolded — we may feel the same littleness and
the same insecurity. We differ from the leaf only in this
circumstance, that it would require the operation of greater
elements to destroy us. But these elements exist. The
fire which rages within, may lift its devouring energy to
^e surface of our planet, and transform it into one wide
and wasting volcano. The sudden formation of elastic
matter in the bowels of the earth — and it lies within the
agency of known substances to accomplish this — may ex-
plode it into fragments. The exhalation of noxious air
from below may impart a virulence to the air that is around
u» ; it may affect the delicate proportion of its ingredients ;
and the whole of animated nature may wither md die
I II
ffl 'I
I >'mBE
ir<..
'n
72
THE ENGLISH READER.
PaetI. ■Ciaf.IU.
under the malignity of a tainted atmosphere. A blazing
comet may cross this fated planet in its orbit, and realize
all the terrors which superstition has conceived of it. We
cannot anticipate with precision the consequences of an
event which every astronomer must know to lie within the
limits of chance and probability. It may hurry our globe
towards the sun — or drag it to the outer regions of the
planetary system — or give it a new axis of revolution ; and
the effect, which I shall simply announce, without explain*
ing it, would be to change the place of the ocean, and bring
another mighty flood upon our islands and continents.
These are changes which may happen in a single instant
of time, and against which nothing known in the present
system of things provides us with any security. They
might not annihilate the earth, but they would unpeople
it; and we who tread its surface with such firm and assured
footsteps, are at the mercy of devouring elements, which,
if let loose upon us by the hand of the Almighty, would
spread solitude, and silence, and death, over the donuniona
of the world. < *•
Now, it is this littleness, and this insecurity, which make
the protection of the Almighty so dear to us, and bring,
with such emphasis, to every pious bosom, the holy lessons
of humility and gratitude. The God who sitteth above,
and presides in high authority over all worlds, is mindful
of man ; and, though at this moment his energy is felt in
the remotest provinces of creation, we may feel the same
security in his providence, as if we were the objects of his
undivided care.
It is not for us to bring our minds up to this mysterious
agency. But, such is the incomprehensible fact, that the
same Being, whose eye is abroad over the whole universe,
gives vegetation to every blade of grass, and motion to
every particle of blood which circulates through the veins
of the minutest animal; that, though his mind takes into
his comprehensive grasp, immensity and all its wonders,
I am as much known to him as if I were the single object
of his attention ; that he marks all my thoughts ; that he
gives birth to every feeling and every movement within me;
and that, with an exercise of power which I can neither
describe nor comprehend, the same God who sits in the
highest heaven, and reigns over the glories of the nria«*
ment, is at my right hand, to give rao every breath which
I dra'W, and every comfort which I enjoy. Cualm iii<
PaBT I. I ClAF. III.
DIDACTIC PIECES.
73
♦ Sect. XV. — Equal Distribution of Enjoyment*
All sensual pleasure is a relative thing. That which is •
Ittxury to him to whom it is new, is none to those to whom
it is familiar. The continual recurrence of them, reduces
the highest ranks of sensual gratification to a level with
the lowest. He who is in possession of an easy sufficiency,
and capable of commanding a series o/ plain and humble
plflasures, indulges a groundless envy, when he suffers it
to be excited by the higher, but the habitual indulgences
of persons in superior station. The enjoyments to which
he looks up, are not superior to his own. There are those
whose appetites are courted by more costly provision than
his; — whose senses are excited by more stimulating enter-
tainments, and soothed by smoother accommodations; —
whose days are spent in more expensive amusements, and
whose nights are passed upon softer pillows : but he who
fares sumptuously every day, sits down to no sweeter feast
than he ; he whose delight is daily stirred by more pun-
gent excitements, is no more animated by them than he is
by his cheaper and soberer pastime ; and he whose love of
ease is lulled in a downier lap, — whose situation is covered
in every part of it with cushion, and lined all over with
pillow, enjoys not a more delicious recumbence, even upon
the supposition of his mixing along with it the labour, of
some kind or other, wliich is necessary to render rest
delightful, than belongs to his hour of repose in his less
silken seat. ■ v> ^.!i . ' , . . v.. i :
Continual repetition wears awaj the exquisiteness of all
sensual pleasure, and gradually dulls the most lively de-
lights into flat and insipid sensation. That landscape
which fills the traveller with rapture, is regarded with in-
difference by him who sees it every day from his window.
The sweetest sounds that art can combine, lose much of
their effect upon an ear that is perpetually listening to
melody. The most costly luxuries that can load the board
of opulence, are but bread to him who makes them his
daily meal. The cordial that exhilarates the sober, is but
"a cup of cold water" to one who is accustomed to the
draught of intemperance. The brilliant lustres that illu-
nunate the house of public amusement, are no more than
sober day-light to him who passes all his evenings there.
And the softest couch into which languor ever sunk, is
I only a seat to those who never recline upon one less soft
D
k!
ml M
iliEi!'
74
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pait I.
When custom has made them necessary, the highest order
of sensual pleasures communicates no higher satisfaction
* than the supply of her necessary wants affords to simple
nature. And let me be allowed to stop one moment to
remark, how much they are exposed to pain in this world
of change, to whom the deprivation of luxury were the
horror of famine ; exclusion from gay assemblies, the
dreariness of solitude ; the soberness of domestic society;
the gloom of imprisonment; the loss of soft clothing; the
misery of nakedness ; and the reduction of elegant life.;
redundant conveniences, the bare condition of savage trd
unaccommodated man ! ) *; ^* v - FAwcirr.
* Sect. XVI. — Uncertainty of Human Expectations.
Dakk and uncertain is the state of being in which wc now
exist. Human life is not formed to answer those high ex-
pectations, which, in the era of youth and imagination, we
are apt to entertain. When we first set out in life, we bid
dcTmiice to the evil day ; we indulge in dreams and vision*
of romantic bliss ; and fondly lay the scene of perfect and
uninterrupted happiness for the time to come. But expe-
rience soon undeceives us : we awake, and find that it was
but a dream. Wo make but few steps in life, without find-
ing the world to be a turbulent scene ; we soon experience
the changes that await us, and feel the thorns of the \v\-
derness wherein we dwell. Our hopes are frequently bla»ft-
ed in the bud ; our designs are defeated in the very morneiii
of expectation ; and we meet with sorrow, and vexation.
and disappointment on all hands. There arc lives bcsidei.
our own in which we are deeply interested; — lives in which
oxtr happiness is placed, and on which our hopes depend.
Jiust when we have laid a plan of happy life ; when, after
the experience of years, we have found out a few choser)
friends, and have begun to enjoy that little circle in whiih
wc would wish to live and to die ; an unexpected stroke
disappoints our hopes, and lays all our schemes in tiic
dust. When, after touch labour and care, we have reaitd
the goodly structure; when we have fenced it, as we fondly
imagine, from every storm that blows, and indulge tht
pleasing hope that it will always endure ; an invisible hani!
interposes, and overturns it from the foundation.
Son of prosperity ! thou now iookest forth from thy higli
tower; tlu>u now gloriest in thine excellence ; thou say tit,
PaitI.! Chap. III.
DIDACTIC PIECES.
75
that thy mountain stands strong, and that thou art firm
ai the cedar of Lebanon — but, stand in awe. Before the
mighty God of Jacob, and by the blast of the breath of
his nostrils, the mountain hath been overturned, and tha
cedar of Lebanon hath fallen like the leaf before the tem-
pest. At this very moment of time, the wheel is in motion
that reverses the lot of men, that brings the prosperous to
the dust, and lays the mighty low. Now, O man, thou
rcjoicest in thy strength; but know, that for thee, the bed
of languishing, the bed of death, will be spread. Thou
now removest from thee the evil day, and saycst in thy
heart, thou ehalt 'never see sorrow; but, remember the
changes of this mortal life. The calmest and the stillest
hour precedes the whirlwind and the earthquake; the
monarch hath drawn the chariot of state in which he wa«
wont to ride in triumph ; and the greatest who ever awed
the world, have moralized at the turn of the wheel.
LOGAK.
♦Sect. XVII. — On Character.
m
I Kxow nothing that gives a man greater pleasure than a
fair and respectable character, if he is conscious that he
deserves it. The estimation of the worthy is the reward
of honest and upright intentions, and a reward precious as
ointment poured forth ; and, notwithstanding the attempt"*
of the malicious, and bad as this world is said to be, every
good man will enjoy this reward. The best actions are
capable of misrepresentation, and the purest motives may
be sullied by those who choose to enter into the heart.
But the arrows of slander are so generally sent abroad,
that, by aiming at all, they hurt nobody ; or, if they do,
it is the person who has his quiver full of them. A man
of respectable character is superior to the use of slander,
tnd cannot be hurt by it: he may have as much weakness
and imperfection > to make the attack possible ; but he
has as much merit us to render it harmless.
There is no other possible way of securing our good
character in this censorious world, than by deserving it.
I have seen many attempts made to gain a reputation, by
accumulating wealth, by a splendid use of it, by shining
talents, by noise, by show, and even by defaming other
men; but I have never seen any successful attempt, wher«
a man was not beloved for the goodness of his heart, »nd
76
THE ENGLISH READER.
Paet I. I Chap. HI.
respected for his virtues. Men are extremely apt to err
on this point. The wish of being creditable and respected
is general ; but we will not take the plain and beaten road.
We wish, in spite of nature, to excel in qualities which are
of no use; and we will not take the trouble to practice the
virtues which are in our power. Our self-partiality whis-
pers that we have wit, talents, or taste ; and we absurdly
imag^ine, that these are more essential to our character than
humanity and goodness. This is a radical defect, which
every young man should labour to cure.
Vanity, indeed, is much more frequently displayed with
respect to the powers of the und(3rstanding, than to the
dispositions of the heart. It is not impofisible, that there
may be persons of such exquisitely tender feelings, as to
be moved, almost to tears, at the tale of distress, who ypt
are hypocrites in sensibility, or who indulge their feeUngs
without attompting to '•elieve the misery which excites
them. Such characters arc rare, because the atTcctation
is ridiculous, and mankind expect that pretenders to com-
passion will support their pretensions b}'' acts of kindness.
But every man thinks that he has a right to display the
powers of his understanding. He derives the means from
a fund as inexhaustible as his vanity ; and he obtains his
imaginary victory without cxp(;nse. Let us not, then,
confound the means with the end. Our character and re-
spectability depend on the use that we make of our talents,
not on the display of them; and, therefore, our first object
in life is, not to appear wise, but to be good. Geneb.
*SncT. XVIII. — Christ, the Image and Clary of Cod,
I\oT the most highly gilted m mmd, nor the most de-
spotic in power, nor the most influential in goodness, of
all the sons of men, can furnish out a picture of the Dcitr
like Christ. At best, they are but beams of that glory, of |
which he was the brightness. liOok at his miracles. In
raising the dead, there is an indication of divine power
which nature never supplied. Look at his knowledge ot
the human heart and future events. That emanated from
a higher vtisdom than what designed the orbits of the pla-
nets, or combined the elements of material existence. Inj
the dignity m which the Gahlean peasant walked the cartli,
and looked down upon its rulers, and rebuked its lordil
Part I. I Chap. III.
DIDACTIC PIECES.
77
and raised its slaves, and legfslated for human hearts, and
promised eternal life, and established the kingdom of
heaven, learn the moral grandeur of God. That unsul-
lied purity on which the keenest malice and the vilest
fiilsehood could fix no stain, pourtrays the Divine holiness.
That untiring patience which no stupidity or perversity
could baffle; that lowliness which disdained not the child,
the slave, the sinner, the outcast ; that kindness to all,
which consorted with the Samaritan, and was gracious to
the Gentile ; — do they not preach to our inmost hearts, of
God's forbearance, condescension, and impartiality 7 That
mercy which so promptly welcomed back the erring fol-
lower, and so generously prayed even for his murderers, —
is it not an impressive lesson on the fathomless mercy and
free forgiveness of our God and Father] And that bene-
volence which prompted him to incessant exertion ; which
supported hini through unparalleled suflering; which was
alike the soul of his discourses, his actions, his miracles;
which shone through his life and his death ; whose splen-
dours were around his brow when he expired on the cross,
and when he sat down ou the right hand of the Majesty
on high; — what is it but a glorious revelation of the glo-
rious truth, that God is love 1 Fox.
* Skct. XIX. — On Gentleness and Modesty.
The qualities which I wish you to possess, are of such a
nature as to make you estimai)le in any situation, or in
any company. Gentleness and modesty are e(iually at-
tractive to the high and the low, to the learned and tho
unlearned. In possessing what is unassuming and amia-
ble, you interfere with no person's claims, and you inter-
rupt the progress of no person's vanih . You secure the
silence of the severe, and the approbation of tlie worthy.
Be assured, then, that you may make yourself very agree-
able to your friends and associates, although you are not
too eager, at your entrance on life, to display the shining
qualities which you jmssess. I have known teazing and
disagreeuble eOects produced by the and)ition of young
people, to shine where they should have been instructed.
iSonietimes they acquire a degree of ineuruble petulance,
by the euHy victories which they obtain over niodest merit.
Every wise man feels a sensible dit-uppointment on such.
78
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I. I CgAP. HI.
Il..,l!
m
!J
•jIS ; 'I
occasions, and lamentj? that the forwardness of a vain
young man or woman should have prevented the pleasure
and instruction which he expected in the conversation of
the learned ; while this vain youn:? man or woman was
inwardly and foolishly exulting in the fancied |tovver of
entertaining others. But what is still more serious, this
petulance 'becomes incorrigible: the reward of it is the
reserve of your friends; and, in time, you arc excluded
from those select meetings, vv^here they v/ish to indulge in
free conversation, without impcrlinence.
All young persons should know, while their rank and
connections will secure thoir reception into the company of
their equals, that there arc many particular parties formed,
from which they will be positively excluded if they are
destitute of the qualities which make them agreeable.
These are, the good sense and information which enable
them to bring their share to the feast of reason, and Iho
modesty which will prevent their good sense from beinj,'
ti'oublesome.
Your first great care, then, in conversation, as in read-
ing, is, to have your understanding equal to what you hear.
Use your endeavour to have that distinct perception of
every sentence uttered in company, which will give your
mind the precise idea of the pen;on who uttered it. Quick
apprehension will make you a more agreeable companion,
than a smart reply. That little degree of vanity whidi
enters into the composition even of modest men, is more,
fluttered when they ore distinctly understood, than when
they arc well answered. Avoid, theruibre, that disegroe-
ahle absence of nrmner, and vacancy of counte!uuifo,
which are the indications of a weak mind, when you listen
to the conversation of your seniors. Show, at least, that
desire to understjind, which will make them adapt their
observations to your capacity. If you wish to please your
frienfls by ?/oj/7' conversation, you must first learn tho art
of being pleased with theirs. Do not allow yourself to ho
hurried away by the dangerogs desire of speaking, wheii
you ought to be silent. Uut remember there is an at.liMi-
tive, I had almost said an eloquent silence, which displays
the intelligence, and, at the saiue time, the modesty of a
young person. This, be assured, ia tho charm whicli
mak<^s iixtcen ftttractive. Gknkh.
CiAP. III. . DIDACTIC PIECES. 79
• Sbct. XX. — The Philanthropy of the Gospel.
To «ay that the principle of disinterested benevolence had
never been known among men before the publication of
Christianity, would be an exaggeration; — an exaggeration
Mmilar to that of affirming, that the doctrine of immor-
tality was new to mankind when taught by our Lord. In
truth, the one had, in every age, been imperfectly prac-
tised, and the other dimly supposed; yet neither the one
principle nor the other existed in sufficient strength to ba
the source of substantial benefit to mankind. But Christ,
while he emphatically " brought life and immortality to
liijht," and so claimed to be the author of hope for man,
M also with such effect lay the hand of his healing power
upon the human heart, long palsied by sensualities and
iolfishness, that it haa ever since shed forth a fountain
of active kindness, largely available for the relief of want
ml misery.
As matter of history, unquestionable and conspicuous,
Christianity has in every age fed the himgry, and clothed
the naked, and redeemed the captive, and visited the sick.
it has put to shame the atrocities of the ancient popular
amusements, annihilated sanguinary rites, brought slavery
into disesteem and disuse, and abolished excruciating
punishments; it has even softened the ferocity of war;
iind, in a word, is seen constantly at work, edging away
oppressions, and moving on towards the perfect triumyih
which avowedly it meditates — that of removing from the
oarth every wo which the inconsideration, or the selfish-
ness, or the malignity of man indicts upon his fellows.
It remains, then, to ask, by what special means h;i«
Chrifitianity clfected these ameliorations 1 and it will l)e
tuiml, that the power nnd success of the new principle of
litMiovolence, taught in the Scriptures, are not more re-
murkabln than are its constitution and its ingredients,
('hri.^tian philiinthropy, though it takes up among its ele-
ments thn native benevolence of the human heart, is a
compound ])rinciple, essentially differing from the sponta-
ii'HMis sympathies of our nature. Now, as thi^ new and
Minposite benevolence has, by a trial of eighteen ccntu-
nt's, and under every imaginable <li versify of circum-
ftmre, proved itsi practical efficiency, and its immense
«;i]MMiority over the crude elementary pr* »ciple of kind-
!..<,•
80
THE ENGLISH READER.
Paht I
ness, it would be a violation of the acknoiViiedged liietliods
of modern science, to adhere pertinaciousl;, ^ ^hd o' i ^j,]
inefFieient element, ajiid to contemn the improvO'i pritciph
AH Wfc aave to do on an occasion wherei the w.;^^C;r5 :i
cur fellows is so deeply interested, is to take Cdvc t\\3.t nwx
own benevolence, and the benevolence which we recom-
mend to others, is of the true and genuine sort — in other
words, that it is indeed — Christian. If, as every one
would profess, we desire to live, not for scdiish pleasure,
but to promote the happiness of others ; if we would be-
come, not idle well-wishers to our species, not clot t
philanthropists, dreaming of impracticable reforms, and
grudging the cost of effective relief, but real benefactors
to mankind, we must take up the lessons of New Testa-
ment philanthropy, just as they lie on the page before us;
and, without imagining simpler methods, follow humbly
in the track of experience. By this book alone, have men
been eflectivcly taught to do good. Anonymout.
(jBAjp. n . AR<
Slct. IL— >^
-60^
CHAPTER IV.
ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES.
SfieT. I. — Happiness is founded in Rectitude of CiKiduct.
ATili men pursue good\ s^nd would be happy', if they
know liow\* not happ> r ninutes^ and miserable for
hourt-i'; hut ha})})}', if pos....ic', through every part of
liieir existonce\ Either, therefore, there is a good of this
stoady\ but durable' kind, or there is not^. If not\ then
all good must be transient^ and uncertain'; and if so', an
object of the lowest value', wliich can little dccerve our'
attention' or in«juiry.^ But if there be a better good\ such
a goed as we are sei'lin/i:'; lik<' *'very uthei"' thing, it must
be derived from some caused* and that eavise must either
\c oxternal\ in»ernal\ or mixed'; in as much a8\ except
these three', there is no other ()()HHible\ Now a steadyN
du'ii'do' good, cannot ho derived from an external cause^;
since alT derived from externals' must Ihictuate', as tlu'V
Ouetuate\ By iiie Fame rule\ it eiuinot be derived Irom
•-.s i ii-\la-e of tile two'; b(i'au.se the part^ wliich ia external,
CJBAP. I\. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES.
81
will prop >i'tionably destroy It^ csc-enceV. What, then, re-
mains' Ivt I Vie cause internan — the very cause"* whicli "vve
liuve i,4/t>ose(]^ when we place the sovereign Sfood of niird'
—in rectitude' of conduct\ Kirris.
SccT. IL — Virtue and Piety, Man's highest Interest, -
I Fixi) myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded
every way by an immense unknown expansion. — Where
am n What sort of a place do I inhabit] Is it exactly
accommodated, in every instance, to my convenience I Ia
there no excess of cold, none of heut to offend me 1 Ahj
I never annoyed by animals, either of my own, or a dif-
ferent kind ] Is every thing subservient to me, as thougli
I had ordered it all myself] No — nothing like it — the far>-
tliest 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,
1)7 my own particular 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 interest vrhich
is chimerical, and which can never have existence. ' '
How, then, must I determine ] Have I no interest at
all! If I have not, I am stationed here to no purpose.
But why no interest] Cm I be contented with none, but
one saperate and detached] Is asocial interest, joined
with others, such an absurdity as not to be admitted ]
The bee, the beaver, and the tribes of herding anima|f>,
are sufficient to convince me, that the thing is, somewhere
at least, possible. How, then, am I assured that it is m»t
equally true of man] Admit it; and what follown*? 1.
tjo, then honour and justice are my interest; then the
whole train of moral viitues are my interest; witl»out
some portion of which, not even thieves can maintain
hocicty. ' :- X
But, farther still — I stop not here — I pursue tins social
interest, as far as I can trace my several relations, I pass
from my own stock, my own neighbourhood, my own na-
tion, to the wliolc race of mankind, as dispersed through-
out, the earth Am I not related to them all, by ih s
mutual aids of commerce; by the general intercourse ot
82
THE ENGLISH READER.
PaiitI. I Chap, IV. 1
1
1
\
1
1
i
art» and letters; \rj that common nature, of which we all
participate ?
Again — I must have food and clothing. Without a
proper genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I not re-
lated, in this view, to the very earth itself? — to the distant
i*un, from whose beami I derive vigour? — to that stupen-
dous course and ordc r of the infinite host of heaven, by
which the times and seasons ever uniformly pass on]
Were this order once confounded, I could not probably
aurvive a moment ; so absolutely do I depend on this com-
mon general welfare. What, then, have I to do, but to
enlarge virtue into piety 1 Not only honour and justice,
and what I owe to man, is my interest ; but gratitutic
also, acquiescence, resignation, adoration, and all I ov,e
to this great polity, and its greater Governor, our common
Parent. Harris.
8ect. III.-
• The Misfortunes of Men mostly chargcahk
on themselves.
We find man placed in a world, where he has by no mean«
the disposal of the events that happen. Calamities soiuc-
tiiiica befall the wortliiest and the best, which it is not in
their power to prevent ; and where nothing is left them,
bi!e to acknowledge, end to vsubmi* to, the high hand of
Heaven. For sucli visitations of trial, many good and
Wi'm reasons can be assigned, which the present sulrjert
Icada me net to discuss. But though these unavoidable
calamities make a part, yet tliey make not the chief part.
of the vexations and sorrows that distress human life. A
multitude of evils beset us, for the source of which v;^
must i jok to another quarter. No sooner has any thing
in the health, or in the circumstances of men, gone cro!-i>
to tlv.ir wishes, than they begin to talk of the unequal
distribution of the good things of this life ; they envy tiio
4(V.diUn^ cf others, they repine at their own lot, and fret
ai'iaiuBt thi Ruler of the world.
i" ull 0'' tl- ae sentiments, one man pines under a brok«Mi
cor »tituUon 13 ut let us ask him, whether ho can, fairly
an I Uoneetly as.^ign no cause for this but the unkno\7n
decree (^\ Heaven ] Has he duly valued th.3 blessing of
hoaltli, and always observed the rules of virtue and sohri*
ciy * Has he been moderate in his life, and temprrat*
in all his pleasures'? If now he is only paying the pri.e
Chip. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES.
S3
of his former, perhaps his forgotten indulgences, has hn
any title to complain as if he were suffering unjustly ?
Were we to survey the chambers of sickness and distress,
we should often find them peopled with the victims of in-
temperance and sensuality, and with the children of vicious
indolence and sloth. Amtmg the thousands who languish
there, we should find the proportion of innocent sufferers
t(j be small. We should see faded youth, premature old
a?e, and the prospect of an untimely grave, to be the por-
tion of multitudes, who, in one way or other, have brought
those evils on themselves ; while yet these martyrs of vice
and folly, have the assurance to arraign the hard fate of
man, and to " fret against the Lord."
But you, perhaps, complain of hardships of another
kind: of the injustice of the world; of the poverty which
you suffer, and the discouragements under which you la-
I)Our; of the crosses and disappointments o( which your
hfe has been doomed to be full. — Before you give too much
scope to your discontent, let me desire you to reflect im-
partially upon your past train of life. Have not sloth, or
pride, or ill temper, or sinful passions, misled you often
from the path of sound and wise conduct 1 Have you not
been wanting to yourselves, in improving those opportuni-
ties which Providence offered you, for bettering and ad-
vancing your state 1 If you have chosen to indulge your
humour, or your taste, in the gratification of indolence or
pleasure, can you complain because others, in preference
to you, have obtained those advantages which naturally
belong to useful '-ibours and honourable pursuits I Have
not the consequences of some false steps, into which your
passions or your pleasures have betrayed you, pursued
you through much of your life ; tainted, perhaps, your
characters, involved you in embarrassments, or sunk you
into neglect 1 — It is an old saying, that every man is the
artificer of his own fortune in the world. It is certain,
that the world seldom turns wholly against a man, unless
through his own fault. " Religion is," in general, "profit-
able unto all things." Virtue, diligence, and industry,
joined with good temper and prudence, have ever been
found the surest road to prosperity ; and, where men fail
of attaining it, their want of success is far oftcner owing
to their having deviated from that road, than to their hav-
ing cncountenul insuperable bars in it. Some, by being
too artful, forfeit the reputation of probity. Some, by
84
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I. I Cbap. IV.
Ill' ;,S;
i t.
M
being too open, are accounted to fail in prudence. Others
by being- fickle and changeable, are distrusted by all. The
case cjmmonly is, that men seek to ascribe their disap-
pointments to any cause, rather than to their own mis-
<onduct; and, when they can devise no other cause,
they lay them to the charge of Providence. Their folly
leads them into vices; their vices into misfortunes; and in
their misfortunes they murmur against Providence. They
nrff doubly unjust towards their Creator. In their pros-
perity, they are apt to ascribe their success to their own
(lili,gence, rather than to his blessing; and in their adver-
sity, they impute their distresses to his providence, net to
their own misbehaviour. Whereas, the truth is the very
reverse of this. "Every good and '^ve^y perfect gift com-
eth from above;" and of evil and misery man is the author
to himself.
When, from the condition of individuals, we look ahroafl
to the public state of the world, we meet with more proofs
Ckl" the truth of this assertion. We sec great societies of
men torn in pieces by intestine dissensions, tumults, and
civil commotions. We see mighty arnnes going forth in
formidable array against each other, to cover the earth
with blood, and to fill the air with the cries of widows and
orphans. Sad evils these arc, to which this miserable
world is exposed. — But are these evils, I beseech you, to
be imputed to God] Was it he who sent forth shiughtor-
iu'^ armies into the field, or who filled the peaceful city
wi .H massacres and blood ] Are these miseries any other
tka/j the bitter fruit of men's violent and disorderly pas-
sioiis 1 Are they not clearly to be traced to the ambition
and vices of princes, to the quarrels of the great, and to
the tiirbulence of the people 1 — Let us lay them entirely
out of the account, in thinking of Providence ; and let us
thhik only of the "foolishness of man." Did man control
his passions, and form his conduct according to the dic-
tatoi of wisdom, humanity, and virtue, the earth would no
longer be desolated by cruelty ; and human societies would
live in order, harmony, and peace. In those scenes of
mischief and violence which fill the world, let man behold,
with shame, the picture of his vices, his ignorance and
folly. Let him be humbled by the mortifying view of his
own perverseness ; but let not his " heart fre*» against the
Lord."- ■ ' Blaih.
Part I. | Cbap. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECJES.
S5
e. Others
r all. The
heir disap-
' own mis-
her cause,
rheir follv
es; ar.d in
ice. They
their pro»-
• their own
heir advcr-
nce, not to
is the very
't gift com-
the author
ook ahroad
iiore proofs
societies of
mults, and
ag forth in
the earth
ddows and
miscrahle
L'h you, to
shiughter-
iceful city
any other
derly pas-
c ambition
sat, and to
m entirely
and let us
lan control
;o the dic-
i would no
ties would
; scenes of
an behold,
irance and
icw of his
igainst the
Blaih.
Sect. IV. — On the Immortality of the Soul.
I WAS yesterday walking alone, in one of my friend's
woods ; and lost myself in it very agreea])ly, as I was run-
ning over in ray mind, the several arguments that estab-
lish this great point; which is the basis of morality, and
the source of all the pleasing hopes, and secret joys, that
can arise in the heart of a reasonable creature. I con-
sidered tho^^e several proofs drawn,
J'irst, from the nature of the soul itself, and particularly
its imnrateriality; which though not absolutely necessary
to the eternity of its duration, has, I think, been evinced
to almost a demonstration. Secondly, from its passions
and sentiments, as particularly from its love of exi.^tence,
its horror of annihilation, and its hopes of immortality;
\^ith that secret satisfaction which it fmds in th*^ practice
of virtue, and that uneasiness wliich follows upoii the com-
mission of vice. Thirdly, from the nature of the Supremo
Being, whose justice, goodness, wisdom, and veracity, are
all concerned in this point. •/
But among these, and other excellent arguments for the
immortality of the soul, there is one drav/n from the per-
petual progress of the soul to its perfection, without a pos-
sibility of ever arriving at it; which is a hint that I do
not remember to have seen opened and improved by
others, who have written on this subject, though it seems
to me to carry a very great weight with it. How can it
enter into the thoughts of man, that the soul, which is
capable of such immense perfections, and of receiving new
improvements to all eternity, shall fall away into nothing,
almost as soon as it is created] Are such abilities madtt
for no purpose 1 A brute arrives at a point of perfection,
that he can never pass ; in a few years he has all tlie
endowments he is capable of^jand were he to live ten thou-
«and more, would be the same thing he is at })resent.
Were a human soul thus at a stand m her accomplish-
ments; were her faculties to be full blown, and incapable
of farther enlargements ; I could imagine slie might fall
away insensibly, and drop at once into a state of aimihi-
lution. But can we believe, a thinking beinu, that is in a
perpetual progress of improvement, and travelling on from
perfection to perfection, after having just looked abroad
into the works of her Creator, and made a few discoverica
! )|
} :
86
THE ENGLISH READER.
'imm\
'i
ss
of his infinite goodness, wisdom, and power, must perish
at her first setting out, and in the very beginning of her
inquiries]
Man, considered only in his present state, seems sent
into the world merely to propagate his kind. He provides
himself with a successor, and immediately quits his post
to make room for him. He does not seem born to enjoy
life, but deliver it down to others. This is not surprising
to consider in animals, which are formed for our use. and
which can finish their business in a short life. The silk-j
worm, after having spun her task lays her eggs, and dies.
But a man cannot take in his full measure of knowledge,
has not time to subdue his passions, establish his soul in
virtue, and come up to the perfection of his nature, before
he is hurried off* the stage. Would an infinitely Wm
Being make such glorious creatures for so mean a pur-
pose ] Can he delight in the production of such abortive
intelligences, such short-lived reasonable beings] Would
he give us talents that arc not t5 be exerted] — capacities
that are never to be gratified] How can we find thai
wisdom which shines through all his works, in the forma-
tion of man, v^^ithout looking on this world as only a
nursery for the next; and without believing, that the sev-
eral generations of rational creatures, which rise up and
disappear in such quick successions, are only to receive
their first rudiments of existence here, and afterwards to
be transplanted into a more friendly climate, where tlw'y
inay spread and flourish to all eternity.
There is not in my opinion, a more pleasing and trium*
phant consideration in religion, than this of the perpetual
progress whicli the soul makes towards the perfection of
its nature, without ever arriving at a period in it. To
look upon the soul as going on from strength to strength,
to consider, that she is to shine for ever with new acces-
sions of glory, and to brighten to all eternity; that she will
be still adding virtue to virtue, and knowledge to know-
ledge; carries in it something wonderfully agreeable to
that ambition, which is natural to the mind of man. Nay,
it must be a prospect pleasing to God himself, to see his
cjcation for ever beautifying in his eyes; and drawing
nearer to him, by greater degrees of resemblance.
Methinks this single consideration, of the progress of
a finite spirit to perfection, will be suflicient to extinguish
all envy in inferior natures, and all contempt in superior.
PautI I t^fl^'-^^- ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 87
st perish
ng of her
?ems sent
provides
his post
to enjoy
surprising
use, and
The silk.,
and dies,
lowledge,
lis soul in
ire, before
itely wi?e
an a pur-
fa abortive
Would
-capacities
find that
the fornw-
as only a
at the sev-
se up and
to receive
erwards to
v'lierc they
and trium-
! perpetual
rfection of
in it. To
) strength,
lew acces*
at she will
to know-
reeable to
an. Nay,
to see his
i drawing
rogress of
extinguish
I superior.
That cherub who now appears as a god to a human soul,
knows very well, that the period will come about in eter-
nity, when the human soul shall be as perfect as he him-
self now is ; nay, when she shall look down upon that
degree of perfection, as much as she now falls short of it.
It is true, the higher nature still advances, and by Miat
means preserves his distance and superiority in the scale
of being; but he knows, that, how high soever the station
is of which he stands possessed at present, the inferior
nature will at length mount up to it, and shine forth in
the same degree of glory.
With what astonishment and veneration may we look
into our souls, wher. there are such hidden stores of
virtue and knowledge, such inxehaustible sources of per-
fection ! We know not yet what we shall bo; nor will it
ever enter into the heart of man to conceive the glory
that will be always in reserve for him. The soul, con-
sidered in relation to its Creator, is like one of those ma-
thematical lines that may draw nearer to another for all
eternity, without a poseibility of touching it; and can there
he a thought so transporting, as to consider ourselves in
these perpetual approaches to Him, who is the standard,,
not only of perfection, but of happiness? Addisox.
*Skct. V. — The same Subject.
It is of the highest importance to every man, to entertain
just notions of that living principle which animates our
conduct as rational beings. The body, which is its occa-
sional residence, soon mingles with the dust. The soul,
for a few days, looks abroad through the apertures of clay
on the face of creation. It feels the powers of its own
intelligence ; and it apprehends the wisdom and goodnesa
of God. But when the body is lifeless, when the eye is
shut, when all communication with external objects is ter-
minated, is it a just conclusion to say, that the power
in man, which observed the works of God, and which
discerned his wisdom in them, should be extinguished
also? Are the divine perfections confined, in their opera-
tion, to the narrow limits in which the soul of man is per-
mitted to view them in this frail state ] or are the organ*
of our bodies the only openings, through which we can
view the wisdom and the works of God? Think not so
} ii
j ii
I ii
IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)
1.0
1.1
ut IM 12.2
m
12.0
1.25 1 1.4 1.6
^ 4"
►
J%
^A
VI
w
B
'//.
'/
Phoir^raphic
Saences
Corporation
33 WIST MAIN STtllT
WIMTIK.N.Y. 14SI0
(71*) •73-4903
V
7.x
88
THE ENGLISH READER.
PaitL I Cbaf.V.
unworthily of the Creator of all things. Do we not di^
cover in the minutest, as well as the most sublime parti
of creation, that every motion, and every change, is an act
of wisdom, intended to promote the perfection of the indi-
vidual, or of the system 1 The plant puts forth its leaves,
its blossom, and its fruit. We behold every where the
wisdom of the means, and the perfection of the end. And
shall the noblest part of creation, the soul of man, formH
for reflection, for admiration, and love ; — shall this capa-
city of human thought be without a proper object 1 Shall
this part of creation, which comprehends in its nature the
ingredients of immortal life, fall, like an unheeded flower,
among the clods of the valley, and produce no correspond*
ing fruit 1 No, no ; every instance of divine vnsdom ex.
hibited in the material world, is a proof of our futun
existence. The house of this tabernacle shall be dissolved;
but we have a building eternal in the heavens. Gkrik.
■■.A'-H _
CHAPTER V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
• Skct. I. — On the Dissolution of Nature.
LET us reflect on the vanity^ and transient glor/ of thii
world\ How, by the force of one^ element breaking
loose upon the rest', all the vanities of naturc\ all th«
works of art\ all the labours of men', are reduced to no-
thing\ All that we admired and adored before as great'
and magnificent', is obliterated' or vanished^ ; and another'
form and face of things — plain\ 8imple\ and every where
the same'— overspreads the whole earth\ Where are now
the great empires' of the world, and their great imperial
oitics'1 — their pillars\ trophies', and monuments of gloryM
Show me where they stood^; read the inscription'; tell me
the victor's name\ What remains', what impressionsS
what diirerenco\ or distinction', do you see in this maw
of firc^l Rome itseir, eternal' Rome, the great city\ the
empress of the world', whose domination and superstition,
ancient and modern, make a great part of the history ol
this earth', — what has become of her nowM She laid her
PamL I Chap.V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
89
foondations deep', and her palacea were strong' and sump-
tu<His^; ** She glorified' herself, and lived deliciou8ly\ and
said in her heart, I sit a queen', and shall see no sorrow^"
but her hour is come\ she is wiped away from the face of
the earth', and huried in everlasting oblivion\ But it is
not cities^ only, and works* of men's hands', but the ever-
lasting hills\ the mountains and rocks' of the earth arc
melted as wax before the sun', and their place is no where
fottiid\ Here stood the Alps^, the load of the earth', that
covered many countries^ and reached their arms from the
Ocean' to the Black Sea^; this huge mass of stone is soft-
ened and dissolved' as a tender cloud into rain\ Here
stood the African' mountains, and Atlas with his top above
the clouds^; there was frozen Caucasus', and Taurus\ and
Imaus\ and the mountains of Asia'; and yonder towards
the north\ stood the Riphean' hills, clothed in ice' and
raow\ All these are vanished', dropped away as the snow^
upon their heads. *' GreaO and marvellous' are thy works\
just' and true are thy ways', thou King of saintsM Hal-
lelujah\'" Spectatob.
:w.\\
t I
Sect. II. — The Seasons.
Among the g^eat blessings and wonders ul the creation
may be classed the regularities of times and seasons.
Immediately after the flood, the sacred promise was made
to man, that seed-time and harvest, cold and heat, sum-
mer and winter, day and night, should continue to the
very end of all things. Accordingly, in obedience to that
promise, the rotation is constantly presenting us with some
useful and agreeable alteration ; and all the pleasing nov.
city of life arises from these natural changes ; nor are we
less indebted to them for many of its solid comforts. It
has been frequently the task of the moralist and poet, to
mark, in polished periods, the particular charms and con-
vcniencies of every change : and, indeed, such discriminate
observations upon natural variety, cannot be undelightful ;
Hince the blessing which every month brings along with it,
is a fresh instance of the wisdom and bounty of that Pro-
vidence, v/hich regulates the glories of the year. Wo
glow as we contemplate ; wo feel a propensity to adore,
whilst wo enjoy. In the time of seed-sowing, it is the sea-
son of corijidcncc : the grain which the husbandman trusts
^ the bosom of the earth Jihall, haply, yield its sevenfold
90
THE ENGLISH READER.
I
vet irdf. Spring presenU as with a scene of livelj ex*
peeiiUum, That which was before sown, begins now to
discoYer signs of successful vegetation. The labourer
observes the change, and anticipates the harvest; h«
watches the progress of nature, and smiles at her influence ;
while the man of contemplation walks forthwith the even,
ing, amidst the fragrance of flowers, and prolhises of plenty,
nor returns to his cottage, till darkness closes the scene
upon his eye. Then cometh the harvest, when the large
wish is satisfied, and the granaries of hature are loaded
with the means of life, even to a luxury of abundance. The
powers of language are unequal to the description of thia
happy season. It is tho carnival of nature : sun and shade,
coolness and quietude, cheerfulness and melody, love and
gratitude, unite to render every scene of summer delij^hf.
ful. — The division of light and darkness is one of the kind-
est efforts of Omnipotent Wisdom. Day and night yield
us contrary blessings ; and, at the same time, assist each
other, by giving fVesh lustre to the delights of both.
Amidst the glare of day, and bustle of life, how could we
sleep? Amidst the gloom of darkness, how could wo
labour 1
How wise, how benignant, then, is the proper division !
The hours of light are adapted to activity; and those of
darkness, to rest. Ere the day is past, exercise and na*
turc prepare us for the pillow ; and, by the time that the
morning returns, we are again able to meet it with a smile.
Thus every season has a charm peculiar to itself; and
every moment affords some interesting change.
MSLMOTD.
Skct. III. — The Cataract of Niagara^ in Canada, North
America*
This amazing fall of water is made by the river St. Law-
rence, in its passage from lake Erie into tho lake Ontario.
The St. Lawrence is one of tho large?«t rivers in the world;
and yet the whole of its waters is discharged in this place,
by a fall of a hundred and fifly feet perpendicular. It
is not easy to bring the imagination to correspond to tho
greatness of tho iccne. A river extremely deep and rapid,
and that serves to drain the waters of almost all North
America into the Atlantic Ocean, is here poured precipi-
tately down a ledge of rocks, that rises, like a wall, acrow
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
be whole bed of its strpam. The river, a little abore, ui
riy three quarters of a mile broad ; and the rocks, where
|it grows narrower, are four hundred yards over. Their
Hrection is not straight acrons, but hollowing inwards like
horse-shoe; so that the cataract, which bends to tho
thape of the obstacle, rounding inwards, presents a kind
of theatre the most tremendous in nature. Just in the
Diddle of this circular wall of waters, a little island, that
liM braved tho fury of the current, presents one of its points,
id divides the stream at top into two parts ; but they unite
ii^n long before they reach the bottom. The noise of
fiill is heard at the distance of several leagues ; and the
Ifunr of the waters, at the termination of their fall, is in-
onctivable. The dashing produces a mist that rises to
he very clouds ; and which forms a most beautiful rain-
ow, when the sun shines. It will readily be supposed,
bat luch a cataract entirely destroys the navigation of the
Team ; and yet some Indians, in their canoes, as it is said,
bive ventured down it with safety. Goldsmith.
Sect. IV. — T/ie Grotto of Anliparos.
)f all the subterraneous caverns now known, the grotto
Antiparos is the most remarkable, as well for the •!-
ent, as for the beauty of its sparry incrustations. Thia
elebrated cavern was first explored by one Magni,* an
Julian traveller, about one hundred years ago, at Antipa-
s, an inconsiderable island of the Archipelago. "Hav-
^ been informed," says he, " by the natives of Paroi,
hat in tlic little island of Antiparos, which lies about two
niles from the former, a gigantic statue was to be seen at
be mouth of a cavern in that place, it was resolved that
»o (the French consul and myself) should pay it a visit.
h pursuance of this resolution, after we had landed on
fbc island, and walked about four miles through the midst
beautiful plains, and sloping woodlands, we at length
[»c to a little hill, on the side of which yawned a horrid
»»erR, that, by its gloom, at first struck us with terror,
M almost repressed curiosity. Recovering the first iur-
I'rise, however, we entered boldly; and had not proceeded
>bo»e twenty paces, when the supposed statue of the giant
|ireicnted itself to our view. We q\iick]y perceived, that
vliat the ignorant natives had been terrified at as a giint,
t
I'll
THE ENGLISH READER.
was nothing more than a sparry concretion, formed by thi
water dropping from the roof of the cave, and by degreet
hardening into a figure, which their fears had formed into
a monster. Incited by this extraordinary appearance, wel
were induced to proceed still further, in quest of adTen*!
tures in this subterranean abode. As we proceeded, newl
wonders offered themselves ; the spars, formed into treetl
and shrubs, presented a kind of petrified grove ; some white,!
some green ; and all receding in due perspective. Thej
struck us with the more amazement, as we knew them to
be mere productions of nature, who hitherto in solitude,}
had, in her playful moments, dressed the scene, as if tbr|
her own amusement.
" Wo had as yet seen but few of the wonders of thel
place; and wcwere introduced only into the portico of thiil
amazing temple. In one comer of this half-illuminated I
recess, there appeared an opening of about three feet wide,!
which seemed to lead to a place totally dark, and whichl
one of the natives assured us contained nothing more thanl
a reservoir of water. Upon this information, we made anl
experiment, by throwing down some stones, which rumbledl
along the sides of the descent for some time : the soundl
seemed at last quashed in a bed of water. In order, bow*!
ever, to be more certain, we sent in a Levantine mariner,!
who, by the promise of a good reward, ventured with, a!
flambeau in his hand, into this narrow aperture. Afterl
continuing within it for about a quarter of an hoiir, be|
returned, bearing in his hand some beautiful pieces
white spar, which art could neither equal nor imitate.]
Upon being informed by him that the place was full
these beautiful incrustations, I ventured in once more withl
him, about fifty paces, anxiously and cautiously descend*!
i'Jgi by a steep and dangerous way. Finding, however.l
that we came to a precipice which led into a spaciouil
amphitheatre (if I may so call it), still deeper than anyl
oth^T part, we returned ; and, being provided with a ladder,!
"imbeau, and other things to expedite our descent, ourl
hole company, man by man, ventured into the same open*!
ing; and, descending one after another, we at last sawl
ourselves all together in the most magnificent part of thej
cavern.
" Our candles being now all lighted up, and the wholel
place completely illuminated, never could the eye ba prfl
sented with a more glittering, or a more magnificent scenej
PAiTlicfAf.V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
93
brmed by tin
id by degTMi
d formed into I
•pearance, wel
est of adTenJ
Dceedcd, new I
ed into treetl
; some white,
ictive. They
[new them tol
in soIitudeJ
ene, as if tbrl
►nders of the
portico of thill
If-illuminatedl
ree feet wide,!
:, and which
ng more than
, we made an
hich rumbled
Q : the sound!
n order, how«|
|:ine marinerJ
tured with,a|
rture. AAerl
an hour, he|
ul pieces
nor imitate.!
was full
cc more withl
jsly descend'!
ng, however,!
a spaciouij
tor than any
i^ith a ladder,!
descent, ourj
3 same open-l
at last sawl
1 part of the!
id the whole!
5 eye be pre-!
ificent 8cene.f
The whole roof hung with solid icicles, transparent as glass,
jet solid as marble. The eye could scarcely reach the
lofty and noble ceiling; the sides were regularly formed
with spars ; and the whole presented the idea of a magni-
ficent theatre, illuminated with an immense profusion of
lights. The floor consisted of solid marble ; and, in sev-
eral places, magnificent columns, thrones, altars, and other
objects, appeared, as if nature had designed to mock the
curiosities of art. Our voices, upon speaking or singing,
were redoubled to an astonishing loudness ; and upon the
firing of a gun, the noise and reverberations were almost
deafening. In the midst of this grand amphitheatre rose
a concretion of about fifteen feet high, that, in some mea-
lure, resembled an altar; from which, taking the hint,
we caused mass to be celebrated there. The beautiful
colunms that shot up round the altar, appeared like can-
dlesticks ; and many other natural objects represented the
customary ornaments of this rite.
« Below even this spacious grotto, there seemed another
cavern ; down which I ventured with my former mariner,
and descended about fifty paces by means of a rope. I
at last arrived at a small spot of level ground, where the
bottom appeared different from that of the amphitheatre ;
being composed of soft clay, yielding to the pressure, and
in which I thrust a stick to the depth of six feet. In this,
however, as above, numbers of the most beautiful crystals
were formed; one of which, particularly, resembled a table.
Upon our egress from this amazing cavern, wc perceived
a Greek inscription upon a rock at the mouth, but so ob-
hterated by time, that we could not read it distinctly. It
leemed to import that one Antipater, in the time On* Alex-
ander, haul come hither ; but whether he penetrated into
the depths of the cavern, he does not think fit to inform
Qi." — ^This account of so beautiful and striking a scene,
nay serve to give us some idea of the subterraneous won-
dars of nature. Goldsmxtb.
Sect. V* — Earthquake at Catanea*
Ohi of the earthquakes most particularly described in
history, is that which happened in the year 1693; the
damages of wliich were chiefly felt in Sicily ; but its motion
WM perceived in Germany, France, and England. It ex-
tended to a circumference of two thousand six hundred
> I
94
THE ENGLISH READER. PaitiI CiA»- V.
'h
leagues; chiefly afTccting the sea-coasts and great riteri;
more perceivable also upon the mountains, than in the
valleys. Its motions were so rapid, that persons \irho lay
at their length, were tossed from side to side, as upon a |
rolling billow. The walls were dashed from their founda-
tions; and no fewer than fifty-four cities, with an incrcdi-
ble number of villages, were either destroyed or grealiy
damaged. The city of Catanca, in particular, was utterly
ovehhrown. A traveller, who was on his way thither,
perceived, at the distance of some miles, a black cloud,
like night, hanging over the place. The sea, all of a sod- !
den, began to roar; mount ^Etna, to send forth great spirct
of flame ; and, soon after, a shock ensued, with a noise a
if all the artillery in the world had been at once discharged.
Our traveller, being obliged to alight, instantly felt him*
self raised a foot from the growid ; and, turning his eyei
to the city, he with amazement saw nothing but a tluck
cloud of dust in the air. The birds flew about astonished,
the sun was darkened ; the beasts ran howling from the
hills ; and although the shock did not continue above three
minutes, yet nearly nineteen thousand of the inhabitants
of Sicily perished in the ruins. Catanea, to which citj
the describer was travelling, seemed the principal scene of '
ruin : its place only was to be found ; and not a footstep of
its former magnificence was to be seen remaini^'g.
• CrOLDSMITB.
Sect. VI. — Creation.
Ik the progress of the Divine works and government, there
arrived a period, in which this earth was to be called inio
existence. When the signal moment, predestined from
all eternity, was come, the Deity arose in his might, and
with a word created the world. — What an illustrious mo-
ment was that, when, from non-existence, there sprang at
once into being, this mighty globe, on which so many mil-
lions of creatures now dwell ! — No preparatory measurei
were required. No long circuit of means was employed.
" He spake, and it was done : he commanded, and it stood
fast. The earth was at first without form and void ; and
darkness was on the face of the deep." The Almighty sur-
veyed the U8irk abyss, and fixed bounds to the several
divisions of nature. He said, " Let there bo light ; and
there was light." Then appeared the sea, and the dr)' land.
The mount
moon begai
clothed the
were stored!
was made al
with countel
diction, as ♦'
held bis w<
good. Su]
gion to exist
all the sons I
CsAaiTT is
term uniforn
all the good
another. It
jjencvolence
«peculations
is it confine
us rest satis^
ill-will to ou;
of service U
It is not pr
»ding in tht
benignity, c
and liberalii
general goo
larly to thos
and who are
From the c
descends to
lations, and
cle of social
a promiscuo
man an eq
endeavour t
ticable virtu
without afie
chut our e
men; norU
ind thoss 1!
liii
Cii». V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
95
The mountains rose, and the liTera flowed. The sun and
moon began their course in the skies. Herbs and plants
clothed the ground. The air, the earth, and the waters,
w«re stored with their respective inhabitants. At last, man
wu made after the image of God. He appeared, walking
with countenance erect ; and received his Creator's bene*
diction, as *he lord of this new world. The Almighty be-
held bis work, when it was finished ; and pronounced it
good. Superior beings saw with wonder this new acces-
sion to existence. ** The morning stars sang together; and
all the sons of God shouted for joy. Blair.
Sect. VII. — Charity,
CuAaiTT is the same with benevolence or love ; and is the
term uniformly employed in the New Testament, to denote
all the good affections which we ought to bear towards one
another. It consists not in speculative ideas of general
knevolence, floating in the head, and leaving the heart, as
fpeculations too often do, untouched and cold. Neither
is it confined to that indolent good nature, which makes
us rest satisfied with being free from inveterate malice or
ill-will to our fellow-creatures, without prompting us to be
of service to any. True charity is an active principle.
It is not properly a single virtue ; but « disposition re-
ading in the heart, as a fountain whence all the virtues of
benignity, candour, forbearance, generosity, compassion,
and liberality flow, as so many native streams. From
general good»will to all, it extends its influence particu-
larly to those with whom we stand in nearest connexion,
and who are directly within the sphere of our good offices.
From the country or community to which we belong, it
descends to the smaller associations of neighborhood, re-
lations, and frifinds ; and spreads itself over the whole cir-
cle of social and domestic life. I mean not that it imports
a promiscuous undistinguished affection, which gives every
man an equal t*t.le to our love. Charity, if we should
endeavour to carry it so far, would be rendered an imprac-
ticable virtue ; and would resolve itself into mere words,
without affecting the heart. Trua charity attempts not to
chut our eyes to the distinction between good and uad
men ; nor to warm cur hearts equally io those who befriend
and those who injure us. It reserves our esteem for good
I ;;;
mk
^
THE ENGLISH READER.
Put I. I CiAP. V.
men, and our complacency for our friends. Towards our
enemies, it inspires forgiveness, humanity, and a solicitude
for their welfare. It breathes universal candour, and lib>
erality of sentiment. It forms gentleness of temper, and
dictates affability of manners. It prompts corresponding
sympathies with them who rejoice, and them who weep.
It teaches us to slight and despise no man. Charity is
the comforter of the afflicted, the protector of the oppressed,
the reconciler of differences, the intercessor for offenders.
It is faithfulness in the friend, public spirit in the magis*
trate, equity and patience in the judge, moderation in tlie
sovereign, and loyalty in the subject. In parents, it is
care and attention ; in children, it is reverence and sub>
mission. In a word, it is the soul of social life. It is the
sun that enlivens and cheers the abodes of men. It is,
" like the dew of Hermon," says the Psalmist," and the
dew that descended on the mountains of Zion, where ihe
Lord commanded the blessing, even life for evermore/'
Blaib.
Sect. VIII. — On the Beauties of the Psalms,
Grxatness confers no exemption from the cares and soT'
rows of life : its share of them frequently bears a melon*
choly proportion to its exaltation. This the monarch of
Israel experienced. He sought in piety that peace which
he could not find in empire, and alleviated the disquietudes
of state with the exercises of devotion. His invaluable
psalms convey those comforts to others, which they afforded
to himself. Composed upon particular occasions, yet de- ]
signed for general use ; delivered out as services for Israel*
ites under the Law, yet no I' ss adapted to the circumstances
of Christians under the Gospel ; they present religion to
us in the most engaging dress ; communicating truths which
philosophy could never investigate, in a style which poetry
can never equal ; while history is made the vehicle of pr>
phecy, and creation lends all its charms to paint the glo-
ries of redemption. Calculated alike to profit and to please,
they inform the understanding, elevate the affections, and
entertain the imagination. Indited under the influence of
Him, to whom all hearts are known, and all events fore*
known, they suit mankind in all situations ; grateful as the
manna which descended from above, and conformed itself
to every palatv\
Put I. I Cbap* V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
97
The fairest productions of human wit, after a few peru-
sals, like gathered flowers, wither in our hands, and lose
their fragrancy: but these unfading plants of paradise
become, as we are accustomed to them, still more and more
beautiful ; their bloom appears to be daily heightened ;
fresh odours arc emitted, and new sweets extracted from
them. He who hath once tasted their excellencies, will
desire to taste them again ; and he who tastes them oflen-
CBt, will relish them best.
And now, could the author flatter himself, that any one
would take half the pleasure in reading his work, which he
has taken in writing it, he would not fear the loss of his
labour. The employment detached him from the bustle
and hurry of life, the din of politics, and the noise of folly.
Vanity and vexation flew away for a season ; care and dis-
quietude came not near his dwelling. He arose, fresh as
the morning, to his task ; the silence of the night invited
him to pursue it ; and he can truly say, that food and rest
were not preferred before it. Every psalm improved in-
finitely upon his acquaintance with it, and no one gave
him uneasiness but the last : for then he grieved that his
work was done. Happier hours than those which have
been spent in these meditations on the songs of Sion, ho.
never expects to see in this world. Very pleasantly did
they pass; they moved smoothly and swil 'y along; for
when thus engaged, he counted no time. 1 fir- are gone;
but they have left a relish and a fragrance r the mind :
and the remembrance of them is sweet. Hobhe.
> i
» I
Sect. IX. — Character of Alfredf King of England.
The merit of this prince, both in private and in public life,
may, with advantage, be set in opposition to that of any
monarch or citizen, which the annals of any age, or any
nation, can present to us. He seems, indeed, to be the
complete model of that perfect character, which, unflcr the
denomination of a sage or wise man, the philosophers have
been fond of delineating, rather as a fiction of their ima-
gination, than in hopes of ever seeing it reduced to prac-
tice; so happily were all his virtues tempered together,
«o justly were they blended, and so powerfully did each
prevent the other from exceeding its proper bounds. He
knew how to conciliate the most enterprising spirit with
E
m
r
m
• if
' i:
li
98
THE ENGLISH READER.
VAlttl
the coolest moderatioii; the most ohiCinate perteTerance,
with the easiest flexibilitj ; the most severe justice, with
the greatest lenity ; the greatest rigour in command, with
the greatest affitbility of deportment; the highest capacitj
and inclination for science, with the most shining talents
for action.
Nature, also, as if desirous that so bright a production
id her skill should be set in the fairest light, had bestowed
on him all bodily accomplishments; vigour of limbs, dig-
nity of shape and air, and a pleasant, engaging, and open
countenance. By living in that barbarous age, he was
deprived of historians worthy to transmit his fame to pos-
terity ; and we wish to see him delineated in more lively
colours, and with more particular strokes, that we might
at least perceive some of those small specks and blemishes,
from which, as a man, it was impossible he could be en-
tirely exempted. Hum.
Sect. X. — Character of Queen Elizabeth,
Thexis are few personages in history, who have been more
exposed to the calumny of enemies, and the adulation of
friends, than Queen Elizabeth ; and yet there is scarcely
any, whose reputation has been more certainly determined
by the unanimous consent of posterity. The unusual
length of her administration, and the strong features of
her character, were able to Overcome all prejudices ; and,
obliging her detractors to abate much of their invectives,
and her admirers somewhat of their panegyrics, have, at
last, in spite of political factions, and, what is more, of
religious animosities, produced a uniform judgment with
regard to her conduct. Her vigour, her constancy, her
magnanimity, her penetrati(»i, vigilance, and address, are
allowed to merit the highest praise ; and appear not to have
been surpassed by any person who ever filled a throne:
a conduct less rigorous, less imperious, more sincere,
more indulgent to her people, would have been requisite
to form a perfect character. By the force of her mind,
she controlled all her more active, and stronger qualities:
and prevented them firom running into excess. Her hero-
ism was exempted from all temerity; her frugality from
avarice ; her friendship from partiality; her enterprise firom
turbulency and vain ambition She guarded not herself,
with equal care, or equal success, from less infirmities;
Cbap. V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
^d
the rivabhip of beauty, the desite of admiration, the jeal-
ousy of love, and the sallies of anger.
Her singular talents for government were founded
equally on her temper, and on her capacity. Endowed
with a great command over herself, she soon obtained an
uncontrolled ascendant over the people. Few sovereigns
(^ England succeeded to the throne in more difficult cir-
cumstances; and none ever conducted the government
with such uniform success and felicity. — Though unac-
quainted with the practice of toleration, the true secret for
managing religious factions, she preserved her people, by
her superior prudence, from those confusions in which
theological controversy had involved all the neighbouring
nations; and, though her enemies were the most powerful
princes of Europe, the most active, the most enterprising,
the least scrupulous, she was able, by her vigour, to make
deep impressions on their states ; her own greatness, mean-
while, remaining untouched and unimpaired.
The wise ministers and brave men who flourished during
her reign, shared the praise of her success ; but, instead of
lessening the applause due to her, they make great addi-
tion to it. They owed, all of them, their advancement to
her choice ; they were supported by her constancy ; and,
with all theii ability, they were never able to acquire an
undue ascendant over her. In her family, in her court,
in her kingdom, she remained equally mistress. The
force of the tender passions was great over her, but the
force of her mind was still superior; and the combat which
her victory visibly cost her, serves only to display the
firmness of her resolution, and the loftiness of her ambi-
tious sentiments.
The fame of this princess, though it has surmounted the
prejudices both of faction and of bigotry, yet lies still ex-
posed to another prejudice, which is more durable, because
more natural ; and which, according to the difierent views
in which we survey her, is capable either of exalting be-
yond measure, or diminishing, the lustre of her character.
This prejudice is founded on the consideration of her sex.
When we contemplate her as a woman, we are apt to be
struck with the highest admiration of her qualities and ex-
tensive capacity :; but we are also apt to require some more
nftness of disposition, some greater lenity of temper, some
of those amiable weaknesses by which her sex is distin-
guished. Sat the true method of estimating her merit, is,
m
s, I
■■'1 I
t I
100
THE ENGLISH READER. Part I.
to lay aside all theso considerations ; and to consider her
merely as a rational being, placed in authority, and in-
trusted vvith the government of mankind. Humk.
• SscT. XL — On England.
ExGLAND is as classic j^round to an American, as Italy u
to an Euglishmau; and old London tccnis with as much
historical association "s mighty Rome. But what more
especially attracts his .luticc, are those peculiarities which
difltiiiguish an old country, and an old state of society,
from a now one. I have never yet grown familiar enough
with the crumbling monuments^ of past ages, to blunt the
intense interest with which f at first beheld them. Accus-
tomed always to scenes where history was, in a manner, in
anticii)ation ; where evcTy thing in art was new and pro-
gressive, and pointed to the future rather than to the past;
where, in short, the works of man gave no ideas but those
of young existence, or prospective improvement; there
was something inexpresrjibly touching in the sight of enor-
mous piles of architecture, gray with antiquity, and sink-
ing to decay. I cannot describe the mute, but deep-felt
enthusiasui with which I have contemplated a vast nionai-
tic ruii, like Tintern Abbey, buried in the bosom of a
quiet valley, a!id shut up from the world, as though it had
existed merely for itself; or a warrior pile, like Conway
Castle, standikig in stern loneliness, on its rocky height,
a mere hollow, yet threatening phantom of departed power.
They spread a grand luid melancholy, and, to me, an un-
usual charm over the landscape. I for the first time be-
held signs of national old ago, and empire's decay, and
proofs of the transient and perishing glories of art, amidst
the «vcr-springing and reviving fertility of nature.
But, hi fact, to me every thing was full of matter: the
footsteps of history wore every where to be traced; and
poetry had breathed over and sanctified the land. I ex-
perienced the delightful freshness of feeling as a child, to
whom every thing is new. I pictured to myself a set of
inhabitants, and a mode of life, for every habitation that
I saw — from the aristocratical mansion, amidst the lordly
repose of stately groves and solitary parks, to the straw-
thatched cottage, with its scanty garden, and itf cherished
woodbine. I thought I never could be sat^d with th«
Crap. V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
101
iwcetness and freshness of a country so completely carpeted
with verdure ; where every air breathed of the balmy pas-
ture, and the honeysuckled IiccItc. I was continually
cominq^ upon sc ne little document of poetry, in the blos-
somed hawthorn, the daisy, the cowslip, the primrose, or
fome other simple object that has received a supernatural
value from the Muse. The fir lime that 1 heard tho
song of the nightinja^alo, I was intoxicated more by the
delicious crowd of remembered associations, than by the
raelody of its notes ; and I shall never foriifot the thrill of
ocsticy with which I first sav/ the lark arise, almost from
beneath my feet, and wing its musical flight up into the
morning sky. Wasul^otox Iuvinq.
•Sect. XIL — The Christian Mother,
Ir tho sex, in their intercourse, arc of the hiqfhcst impor-
tance to the moral and rclif^ious state of Society, tbcy are
Btill more so in their domestic relations. What a public
blessing, what an instrument of the most exalted good, if
a viiiTuous Chiustian Mothku ! It would require a far
other pen than mine, to trace the merits of such a charac-
ter. How many, perhaps, who now hear me, feel that
they ov/e to it all the virtue and piety that adorns them ;
or may recollect at this moment, »some saint in heaven,
that brought them into light, to labour for their happiness,
temporal and eternal! No one can be ignorant of the
irresistible influence which such a mother possesses, in
forming the henrts of her children, at a season when na-
ture takes in lesson and example at every pore. Confined
by duly and inclination within the walls of her own house,
every hour of our life becomes an hour of instruction;
overy feature of her conduct, a transplanted virtue. Me-
thiuks I behold her encircled by her beloved charge, like
a being more than human, to whom every mind is bent,
and every eyo directed ; the eager simplicity of infancy
iniialing from her lips tho sacred truths of religion, in
adapted phrase, and familiar story ; the whole rule of their
moral and religious duties simplified ibr easier infusion;
Ihe countenance of this fond and anxious parent, all beam-
ing with delight and love ; and her eye raised occasionally
to heaven, in fervent supplication for a blessing on her
*ork. Oh ! what a glorious part docs such a woman act
i
¥ "
m
'iifi
^n
1' ^ '^ii<
1
J
102
THE ENGLISH READER.
PaetL
on the great theatre of humanity; and how much is the
mortal to be pitied, who is not struck with the image of
such excellence ! When I look to its consequences, direct
and remote, I see the plant she has raised and cultivated,
spreading through the community with the richest increase
of fruit ; I see her diffusing happiness and virtue through
ft great portion of the human race ; I can fancy genera*
tions yet unborn, rising to prove and to hiil her worth;
and I adore that God, who can destine a siitole Hrxiir
cBBiTURE to be the stem of such extended and incalcu-
lable benefit to the world. Kirwav.
•Sect. XIII. — On the Dissolution of all Visible Things,
Evert thing around us is subject to dissolution, and ii
actually dissolving. Every year we behold proofs and
symptoms of this. The flowers wither, and the corn is cut
down. Trees and shrubs drop their leaves, and wear
symptoms of decay. The mountain oak, which flourished
for ages, now stands a blighted trunk, inspiring melan-
choly. Places ronowned of old for beauty and defence,
are known to us only by their names. Here and there arc
ruins of temples where our fathers worshipped. Of Jeru-
salem and the temples of Mount Zion, of which such glo-
rious thmgs are said, there is not one stone left upon
another. Babylon the Great is iallcn. Families, and
states, and empires, have their rise, their glory, and their
decline. The earth itself is waxing old. The sun, and
stars, and elements, shall at last dissolve. Years, as they
pass, speak to us of the consummation of all things.
Listen to their parting voice. In still, but solemn lan-
guage, they tell of the angel, who shall lift up his hand
to heaven, and swear by him that liveth for ever and ever,
" Time shall be no more." Cuartkri.
•Sect. XIV.—T/ic Puritans,
Till Puritans were men whose minds had derived a pecu-
liar character from the daily contemplation of superior
beings and eternal interests. Not content with acknow-
ledging, in general terms, an over-ruling Providence, they
habitually ascribed every event to the will of the Great
Being, for whoso power nothing was too vast, — for whoM
ClAP. V.
DESCRIPTIVB PIECES.
103
inipection nothing was too minute. To know him, to
•erve him, to enjoy him, was with them the gpreat end of
existence. They rejected with contempt the ceremonious
homage which other jsects substituted for the pure worship
,ef the soul. Instead cf catching occasional glimpse*
of the Deity through an obscuring veil, they aspired to
gaze full on the intolerable brightness, and to commune
with him face to face. Hence originated their contempt
for terrestrial dist^.nctions. The difference between the
greatest and meanest of mankind seemed to vanish, when
compared with the boundless interval which separated the
whole race from Him on whom their own eyes were con-
stantly fixed. They recognized no title to superiority, but
his favour; and, confident of that favour, they despised all
the accomplishments and all the dignities of the world.
If they were unacquainted with the works of philosophers
and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of God.
If their names were not found in the registers of heralds,
they felt assured that they were recorded in the Book of
Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a splendid
train of menials, legions of ministering angels had charge
over them. Their palaces were houses not made with
hands; their diadems, crowns of glory which should never
fade away ! On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and
priests, they looked down with contempt : for they esteemed
themselves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent
in a more sublime language; nobles by the right of an
earlier creation, and priests by the imposition of a might,
ier hand. The very meanest of them was a being to whose
fate a mysterious and terrible importance belonged; on
whoso slightest action the spirits of light and darkness
looked with anxious interest ; who had been destined, bc'
fore heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity
which should continue when heaven and earth should have
passed away. Events which short-sighted politicians
ascribed to earthly causes, had been ordained on his ac-
count. For his sake, empires had risen, and flourished,
and decayed. For his sake, the Almighty had proclaimed
his will by the pen of the Evangelist, and the harp of the
Prophet. He had l)een wrested by no common deliverer,
from the grasp of no common foe. He had been ransomed
by the sweat of no vulgar agony, — by the blood of no
earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the sun had been
darkened, that tho rocks had been rent, that the dead bad
104
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I. ■ Ciap. V.
!, |l'
I I \
arisen, that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of
her expiring God !
Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men:
the one all self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion;
the other proud, calm, inflexible, sagacious. He pros-,
trated himself in the dust before his Maker; but he set
his foot on the neck of his king. In his devotional re-
tirement, he prayed with convulsions, and groans, and
tears. He was half-maddened by glorious or terrible
illusions. He heard the lyres of angels, or the tempting
whispers of fiends. He caught a gleam of the Beatific
Vision, or woke screaming from dreams of everlasting fire.
Like Vane, he thought himself intrusted with the sceptre
of the millcnial year. Like Fleetwood, he cried, in the
bitterness of his soul, that God had hid his face from him.
But, when he took his seat in the council, or girt on his
sword for war, these tempestuous workings of the soul had
left no perceptible trace behind them. People, who saw
nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, and heard
nothing from the n but their groans and their whining
hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little reason
to laugh who encountered them in the hall of debate, or
in the field of battle. These fanatics brought to civil and
military afTuirs, a coolness of judgment, and an immuta-
bility of purpose, which some writers have thought incon-
sistent with their religious zeal ; but which were, in fact,
the necessary effects of it. The intensity of their feelings
on one subject, made them tranquil on every other. One
overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pity and
hatred, ambition and fear. Death had lost its terrors,, and
pleasure its charms. They had their smiles and their
tears, their raptures and their sorrows, but not for the
tilings of this world. Enthusiasm had made them stoics,
had cleared their minds from every vulgar passion and
prejudice, and raised them above the influence of danger
and of corruption. It sometimes might lead them to pur-
sue unwise ends, but never to choose unwise means. They
went through the world like Sir Artcgale's iron man,
Talus, with his flail, crushing and trampling down opprcs-
Kors, mingling with human beings, but having neitlier part
nor lot in human infirmities ; insensible to fatigue, to ple»-
sure, and to pain ; not to bo pierced by any weapon, not
to be withstood by any barrier.
Edinburgh Kcview>
Part I. ■ Ceap. V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
105
•Sect. XV. — The Ititellectual Character of Milton,
TiK very splendour of Milton's poetic fame, has tended
to obscure or conceal the extent of his mind, and the va-
riety of its energies and attainments. To many, he seems
only a poet, when, in truth, he was a profound scholar, a
man of vast compass of thought, imbued thoroughly with
all ancient and modem learning, and able to master, to
mould, to impregnate with his own intellectual power, his
great and various acquisitions. He had not learned the
superficial doctrine of a later day, that poetry flourishes
roost in an uncultivated soil, and that imagination shapcii
its brightest visions from the mists of a superstitious age ;
and he had no dread of accumulating knowledge, lest it
should oppress and smother his genius. He was conscious
of that within him, which could quicken all knowledge,
and wield it with case and might ; which could give fresh-
ness to old truths, and harmony to discordant thoughts;
which could bipd together, by living ties and mysterious
affinities, the most remote discoveries ; and rear fabrics of
glory and beauty, from the rude materials which other
minds had collected.
Milton had that universality, which marks the highest
order of intellect. Though accustomed, .ilmost from in-
fancy, to drink at the fountains of classical literature, ho
had nothing of the pedantry and fastidiousness which dis-
dain all other draughts. His healthy mind delighted in
genius, on whatever soil, or in whatever age, it burst forth,
and poured out its fulness. He .nderstood too well the
rights, and dignity, and pride of creative imagination, to
lay on it the laws of the Greek or Roman school. Par-
nassus was not to him the only holy ground of genius. He
felt, that poetry was as a universal presence. Great minds
were every where his kindred. He felt the enchantment
of oriental fiction ; surrendered himself to the strange crea-
tions of " Araby the blest;" and delighted still more in the
romantic spirit of chivalry, and in the tales of wonder in
which it was embodied. Accordingly, his poetry reminds
U8 of the ocean, which adds to its own boundlessness, con*
tributions from all regions under heaven.
Nor was it only in the department of imagination, that
His acquisitions were vast. He travelled over the whole
^U of knowledge, as far as it had then been explored,
3b
1
■'
I
I
10.6
_V1
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pa»t I.
His ^.iripufl philological attainments were used to put
him in possession of the wisdom stored in all countries,
where k the intellect had been cultivated. The natural
philosophy, metaphysics, ethics, history, theoloienr, and
politioal science of his own and former times, were fami.
liarrta him» Never was there a more unconfined mlid;
anxit wie would cite Milton as a practical exampi<:$ of the
ben«fij« of that universal culture of intellect, which formi
Otto. distinction of our times, but which some dread as un-
fiiondjy to original thought. Let such remeraber, that
mind, is- in its own nature diffusive. Its object is the uni-
vef«e,iwhich is strictly one, or bound together by infinite
conxiBctions and correspondences; and, accordingly, i>g
natucnl progress is Irom one to another field of thought;
and wherever original power, creative genius, exists, the
mind,!. far. from being distracted or oppressed by the va-
rietgr of its acquisitions, will see more and more common
bcariiigs, and hidden and beautiful analogies in all the ob-
jectTi iji knowledge, — ^vidll see mutual light shed from truth
to truthf-^-and will compel, as with a kingly power, what<
ever: it understands, to yield some tribute of proof, or illus-
tration, or splendour, to whatever topic it would unfold.
. *Sect. XVL — On Day and Night, and the Seasons,
Natubv is always grand in her designs, but frugal in her
exfvcuiion of them : sublimity and simplicity are the strik-
ing^ characteristics of her workmanship. From a few aim-
pie principles, she produces the most astonishing effects;
and charms us no less by the infinite diversity of her
operations, than by the skill and contrivance whic{i are
manifested in the performance of them. The sun, moon,
planets, and fixed stars, are all governed by the same in-
variable laws: the single principle of gravitation pervades
the. whole universe, and puts every spring and wheel of it
in Diotion. From the indiscemable atom, to the vast and
immeasurable luminaries of heaven, every thing is subject
to its. dominating influence ; and from this active, inTisi*
ble, and invigoratihg agent, proceed that order, harmony,
beauty, and variety, which so eminently distinguish the
woi^s of creation.
Bii t, of all the effects resulting from this admirable scene
of th ngSy nothing can ba moro pleasing and agreeable to
Ciir. V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
a philosophic mind, than the alternate suooeMion oC^day
tad night, and the regular return of the seasons ' * When
the tun first appears in the horizon, aline ture k aniteated
fay his presence ; the magnificent theiitre of the uiiiverst>
opens gradually to our view; and every object aroundfus
excites ideas of pleasure, admiration, and wonder.' ^ After
riding in all his brightness through the vault of he«(vexl> he
is again hidden from our sight; and we are now preaentcd
with a new spectacle of equal grandcur^ and suMiitiity.
The heavens arc, on a sudden, covered with inntmierable
ttars; the moon, rising in clouded majesty, unveik h«r
peerless light ; whilst the silent solemnity of the scene filis
the mind with sentiments and ideas beyond the power of
language to express. « -. * t.*;
Variety is the source of every pleasure ; and the hoHJi-
tiful Author of nature, in the magnificent display ^ hin
wisdom and power, has afforded us every possible -means
of entertainment and instruction. What a pleasing- suc-
cession of scenes results from the gradual vicisMtudes of
the seasons ! Summer^ winter, spring, and autumn, lead
us insensibly through the varied circle of the year; and
are no less pleasing to the mind, than necessary toward «
Mnging to maturity the various productions of the carih.
Whether the sun flames in the solstice, or pouri» his :mild
effulgence from the equator, we equally rejoice in hia^res-
ence, and adore that omniscient Being who gave himr His
appointed course, and prescribed the bounds which he can
never pass. Bo2rirTCAaTi.t.
<>■■■'' '<
*Sect. XVII. — Rural Life in England^
NoTHixo can be more imposing than the magnificence of
Knglish park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like eheels
of vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigantit*,
trees, heaping ip rich piles of foliage — the solemn pomp
of groves and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in
silent herds across them, the hare bounding avray to the
covert, or the pheasant suddenly bursting upon the win^;
—the brook, taught to wind in natural mcanderings, or
expand into a glassy lake — the sequestered pool, reflecting
the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its
lHNK>ni, and the trout roaming fearlessly above ita limpid
waters; while some rustic temple or sylvan statue, grown
m
KiHnr
'I
ics
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pam I. ■ CiiP. V.
^cen and dank with age, gives an air of classic sanctity
to the seclusion.
These are but a few of the features of park scenery. But
what most delights me, is the creative talent with v;hich
the English decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle
life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromising and
scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of
taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely-discrimi-
nating eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, and
pictures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile spot
grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet the opera-
tions of art, which produce the effect, are scarcely to be
perceived. The cherisliing and training of some trees;
the cautious pruning of others; the nice distribution of
flowers and plants, of tender and graceful foliage ; the in-
troduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the partial opcki-
ing to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of water:
all these arc managed with a delicate tact, a pervading,
yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with which a
painter finishes up a favourite picture.
The residence of people of fortune and refinement in
the country, has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in
rural economy, that descends to the lowest class. The
very labourer, with his thatched cottage, and narrow slip of
ground, attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge;
the grass-plot before the door ; the little flower-bed, bor-
dered with snug box; the woodbine, trained up against the
wall, and hanging its blossoms about the lattice ; the pot of
flowers in the window; the holly, providently planted about
the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, and to throw
in a semblance of greerj summer to cheer the fireside : all
these bespeak the influence of taste, flowing down from
high sources, and pervading the lowest levels of the public
mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cot-
tage, it must be the cottage of an English peasant.
The fondness lor rural life among the higher classes of
the English, ha^ had a great and salutary elfect upon the
national character. I do not know a finer race of men than
the English gentlemen. Instead of the soilness and cf-
Icminacy ^vhich characterize the man of rank in most
countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, a
robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which I
am inclined to attribute to their li-'ing so much in the open
air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recreations
Pa»t I. ■ CiiP. V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
109
of the country. These hardy exercises produce also a
healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and
limplicity of manners, which even the follies and dissipa-
tions of the town cannot easily pervcit, and can never en-
tirely destroy. In the country, too, the dilfercnt orders of
society seem to approach n»ore freely, — to be more dis]K>sed
to blend and operate favourably upon each other. The
distinctions between them do not appear to be so marked
and impassable as in the cities. The manner in which
property has been distributed into small estates and farms,
has established a regular gradation from the nobleman,
through the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors,
and substantial farmers, down to the labouring peasantry ;
and, while it has thus banded the extrcmca of society to-
gether, has infused into eaci; intermediate rank a spirit jof
independence. This, it must be confessed, is not so uni-
Tcrsally the case at present as it was formerly; the larger
estates having, in late years of distress, absorbed the
smaller, and, in some parts of the country, almost annihi-
lated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, however.
I believe, are but casual breaks in the general system I
have mentioned.
In rural occupation, there is nothing mean and debas-
ing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural gran-
deur and beauty : it leaves him to the workings of his own
hand, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of
citcrnal influences. Such a man may be simple and rough,
but he cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, there-
fore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the
lower orders of moral life, as he does when he casually
mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his
distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of
rank, and to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoyments of
common life. Indeed, the very amusements of the country
bring men more and more together; and the sound of
hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I be-
lieve this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry
arc more popular among the inferior orders in England,
than they arc in any other country ; and why the latter
have endured so many excessive pressures and extremities,
without repining more generally at the unequal distribu-
tion of fortune and privilege.
To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society, may
also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through Brit.
I
'lUS' -
\^m
tt
pi
. Vm
' ,i
':M
\m
^ %
f, \ vi
110
THE ENGLISH READER.
Put I.
ish literature ; the frequent use of illustrations from rund
life; tbose incomparabie descriptions of nature that abound
in the British poets — that have continued down from *< the
Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and have brought into
our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy
landscape. The pastoral writ^^a of other countries appear
as if they had paid nature .casional visit, and become
acquainted with her general charms; but the British pocU
have lived and revelled with her — they have wooed her in
her most secret haunts — they have watched her minutest
caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze— «
leaf could not ructle to the ground — a diamond drop could
not patter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale
from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints
to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impas*
sioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some
beautiful moral. - Washinotoit lavus.
* Sect. XVIIL— O/i Poetry.
PoETRT seems to us the divinest of all arts ; for it is the
breathing or expression of that principle or sentiment,
which is deepest and sublimest in human nature — we mean,
of that thirst or aspiration, to which no mind is wholly a
stranger, for something purer and lovelier, something more
powerful, lofty, and thrilling, than ordinary and real life
affords. No doctrine is more common among Christians,
than that of man's immortality ; but it is not so generally
understood) that the germs or principles of his whole fu-
ture being, are now wrapped up in his soul as the rudi-
ments of the future plant in the seed. As a necessary
result of this constitution, the soul, possessed and moved
by these mighty though infant energies, is perpetually
stretching beyond what is present and visible, struggling
against the bounds of its earthly prison-house, and seek-
ing relief and joy in imaginings of unseen and ideal being.
This virw of our nature, which has never been fully de-
veloped, and which goes farther towards explaining the
contradictions of human life, than all others, carries us to
the very foundation and sources of poetry.
He who cannot interpret, by his own consciousness, what
we now have said, wants the true key to works of genius.
He has not penetrated those sacred recesses of the soul,
CiA». V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
Ill
where poetiy is bom and nourished, and inhales immortal
rigour, and win^ herself for her heavervward flight. In
in intellectual nature, framed for progress and for higher
modes of being, there must be creative energies, power of
original and ever-growing thought ; and poetry is the form
in which these energies arc chiefly manifested. It is the
glorious prerogative of this art, that it " makes all things
new," for the gratification of a divine instinct. It indeed
finds its elements, in what it actual/y sees and expencncci
in the worlds of matter and mind : but it combines and
blends these into new forms, and according to new oflini-
ties; breaks down, if we may so say, the distinctions and
bounds of nature ; imparts to material objects life, and sen-
timent, and emotion, and invests the mind with the powers
and splendours of the outward creation ; describes the sur-
rounding universe in the colours which the passions throw
over it, and depicts the mind in those modes of repose or
agitation, of tenderness or sublime emotion, which mani-
fest its thirst for a more powerful and joyful existence. To
a man of a literal and prosaic character, the mind may seem -
lawless in these workings ; but it observes higher laws than
it transgresses, the laws of the immortal intellect; it is
trying and developing its best faculties; and, in the objects
which it describes, or in the emotions which it awakens,
anticipates those states of progressive power, splendour,
beauty, and happiness, for which it was created.
We accordingly believe, that poetry, far from injuring
wciety, is one of the great instruments of its refinement
and exaltation. It lif\s the mind above ordinary life,
gives it a respite from depressing cares, and awakens the
consciousness of its aflinity with what is pure and noble.
In its legitimate and highest efforts, it has the same ten-
dency and aim with Christianity ; that is, to spiritualize
cur nature. True, poetry has been made the instrument
of vice, the pander of bad passions : but when genius thus
stoops, it dims its fires, and parts with much of its power;
and even when poetry is enslaved to licentiousness or
misanthropy, she cannot wholly forget her true vocation.
Strains <^ pure feeling, touches of tenderness, images of
innocent happiness, sympathies with what is good in our
nature, bursts of scorn or indignation at the hoUownesii
of the world, passages true to our moral nature, often
eicape in an immoral worl , and show us how hard it is
for a gtfWd spirit to divorce itself wholly from what is good.
m
a J
'4
fi
, -I
112
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I. ■Ciaf.V.
Poetry has a natural alliance with our best affections. It
delights in the beauty and sublimity of outward nature,
and of the soul. It indeed pourtrays, with terrible energy,
the excesses of the passions; but they are passions which
«how a mighty nature, which are full of power, which
command awe, and excite a deep, though shuddering sym-
pathy. Its great tendency and purpose is, to carry the
mind beyond and above the beaten, dusty, weary walks of
ordinary life ; to lift it into a purer element, and to breathe
into it more profound and generous emotion. It reveals
to us the loveliness of nature, brings back the freshness
of youthful feeling, revives the relish of simple plea-
sures, keeps unquenched the enthusiasm which warmed the
spring-time of our being, refines youthfi^l love, strengthens
our interest in human nature by vivid delineations of its
tenderest and loftiest feelings, spreads our sympathies over
all classes of society, knits us by new ties with universal
being, and, through the brightness of its prophetic visions,
helps faith to lay hold on the future life. Channiko.
•Sect. XIX. — On Westminster Abbe i/,
I ROSS, ai. J prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended
the flight of steps which led into the body of the build-
ing, my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward the Con-
fessor, and I ascended the small staircase that conducts
to it, to take from thence a general survey of this wilder-
ness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a kind of
platform, and close around it are the sepulchres of various
kings and queens. From this eminence, the eye looks
down between pillars and funeral trophies, to the chapels
and chambers below, crowded with tombs; where warriors,
prelates, courtiers, and statesmen, lie mouldering in their
"beds of darkness." Close by me stood the great chair
of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous taste
of a remote and gothic age. The scene seemed almost as
if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to produce an effeii
upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning
and the end of human pomp and power; here it was lit-
erally but a step from the throne to the sepulchre.
Would not one think, that these incongruous mementoes
had been gathered together as a lesson to living greatness 1
''^to show it, even in the moment of its proudest exalta-
PaktI. ICiAF.V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
113
(ion, the neglect and dishonour to which it must soon
arrive ; how soon that crown which encircles its brow must
pass away; and it must lie down in the dust and disgraces
of the ^Jinb, and be trampled upon by the feet of the
meanest of the multitude. For, strange to tell, even the
;rravc is here no longer a sanctuary. There is a shocking
leTity in some natures, which leads them to sport with
a?rful and hallowed things; and there are base minds,
which delight to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject
homage and grovelling servility which they pay to the
living. The colIin of Edward the Confessor has been
broken open, and his remains despoiled of their funeral
ornaments; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of
the imperious Elizabeth ; and the effigy of Henry the Fifth
lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears some
proof how false and fugitive is the homage of mankind,
borne are plundered; some mutilated; some covered with
ribaldry and insult — all more or less outraged and dis-
honoured !
The .-last beams of day were now faintly streaming
through the painted windows, in the high vaults above me :
the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped in the
obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew darker
and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into shadows ;
(he marble figures of the monuments assumed strange
shapes, in the uncer|ain light ; the evening breeze crept
through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave; and.
t'vcn the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poet's
Comer, had something strange and dreary in its sound.
I slowly retraced my morning's walk ; and as I passed
out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a
jarring noise behind me, filled the whole building with
echoes.
I endeavoured to form some arrangement in my mind
of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they
were already falling into indistinctness and confusion*
Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become confounded
in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken my foot
from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this vast
assemblage of sepulchres, but a treasury of humiliation ; a
huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of re«
nown, and the certainty of oblivion! It is, indeed, the
empire of death; his great shadowy palace; where he
iHts in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, and
w
■'i''
s
Iv
' ^' i
^ml
'^
m
' t
■ ff]
.■ii
114
THE ENGLISH READER. Pam I.Bcaf. V.
,'t'
f ,
■1
I'l
Jl
' ^^B ■
11
^.,
Spreading dust and forge tfulness on the monumenU of
princes. How idle a boast after all, is the immortali^
of a name ! Time is ever silently turning over his pages;
we are too much engrossed by the story of the present, to
think of the characters and anecxlotes that gave interest
to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown aside, to be
speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the hero of |
yesterday out of our recollection; and will, in turn, b«[
supplanted by his successor of to-morrow.
4 :. . Washington Ibvim. I
rl--'-<
•Sect. XX. — On the Advantages of the Telescope and]
Microscope,
It was the telescope that pierced the obscurity which lies
between us and dibtant worlds. But, about the time of|
its invention, another instrument was formed, which laid
open a scene no less wonderful. This was the microscope.
The one led me to see a system in every star; the other
leads me to see a world in every atom. The one taught
me, that this mighty globe, with the whole burden of iti
people, and of its countries, is lut a grain of sand on the
high field of immensity : the other tecS^es me, that evcrj
grain of sand may harbour within it the tribes and tho
families of a busy population. The one told mo of the
insignificance of the world I tread upon : the other redeems
it from all its insignificance ; for it tells me, that, in the
leaves of every forest, and in the flowers of every garden,
and in the waters of every rivulet, there are worlds teem.
ing with life, and numberless as are the glories of the fir*
mament. The one has suggested to me, that beyond and
above all that is visible to man, there may lie fieUla of
creation which sweep immeasurably along, and carry tho
impress of the Almighty's hand to the remotest scrno of
the universe : the other suggests to me, that, within and
beneath all that minuteness which the aided eye of man
has been able to explore, there may lie a region of invisi.
blcs ; and that, could wo draw aside the mysterious cur*
tain which shrouds it from our senses, we might there see
a theatre of as many wonders as astronomy has unfolded,
a universe within tho compass of a point so small, as to
elude all the powers of the microscope, but where the won-
der-working God findff room for ^e exercise of all hu
Ltributes, wher
Ud fill and ar
Ijlory.
•Sec
Tax Divine Be
nitration al! tha
hrenerable and 1
ties to the utm
and benignity,
from the grande
bis infinite nat
the greatness ;"
ityof his ere at
tcean — than ar
I the power;" ai
exerted, direct
I rare. " His in
bis presence fa
"His is the vi
ovcrcomer, ani
won by power
lliul all the pd
tcmptible worn
to be his footst
wth is his:"
tile supreme ai
i» the kingdom
ail powers and
grandeur is be
ii a purity, bef
and liis a beni
a mother's her
Hgure. And
should acknow
and in the inr
natures, yield 1
rovcrcncc an(
piancc to the
of his soul, br
ihovc the hen
"Let all the
of the world i
^^»» mctif. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
115
luments of
^mmortalitj
his pages;
■present, to
}ve interest!
side, to be
Ithe hero of
|n turn, U
foJT Ie71»8.
lescope and\
r which liei .
•he time of I
which laid
microscope.
; the other
one taught
irJen of it«
sand on tlie
, that every
cs and tho
mo of tha
icr redeenu
that, in the
ery garden,
>rlds tcen}>
8 of the fir-
tcyond and
ie fields of
il carry tho
t scenea of
within and
iye of man
n of invifii*
crioufl cur*
t there see
A unfolded,
nail, as to
e the won-
of all tiii
iltribntes, where he can raise another mechanism of worlds,
md fill and animate them all witi; the evidences of his
I glory. CuALMSBs.
* Sect. XXI. — The Divine Cliarader.
Tbs Divine Being combines in his character and admin-
iitration al! that is great and good, fair and excellent,
venerable and lovely. When we have strained our facul-
ties to the utmost in conceiving of grandeur, and purity,
land benignity, we are still at an immeasurable distance
from the grandeur, itnd purity, and benignity, which mako
bis infinite nature their eternal dwelling-place. *<His is
the greatness ;" and the highest of his creatures, the total-
it}' of his creation, is before him less than a drop to the
acean — than an atom to the universe of matter. "His is
the power;" and all created might is in his hand, to bo
exerted, directed, restrained, and resumed, at his plea-
I rare. " His w the glory ;" and all created splendour in
his presence fades into obscurity — vanishes into nothing.
His is the victory:" in all his purposes, he ever is tha
ovcrcomer, and all victories gained by his creatures are
won by power derived frjin him. " His is the majesty ;"
I Ind all the p(^tentates of the earth before Him are con-
temptible worms, and their loftiest thrones arc not worthy
to be his footstool. "All that is in the heaven and in the
earth is his:" he is the Maker, Preserver and Governor—
the supreme and the sole Proprietor of the universe. « Hii
ui the kingdom :" unbounded dominion belongs to him, and
all powers and authorities arc under his feet; and all thia
i;randeur is beautified by absolute moral perfection. Hif
i< a purity, before which the holiness of angels waxes dim;
uid his a benignant tenderness, of which the yearnings of
a mother's heart over the son of her womb, is but a feeble
fif^rc. And is it not meet, that all intelligent beinga
fhould acknowledge this supreme excellence and loveliness;
and in the inmost sanctuary of their intellectual and active
natures, yield him to whom it belongs the tribute of supreme
rovcrcnce and of love 1 Who, that has a spark of alle-
pance to the supreme" authority, will not, from the bottom
of his soul, breathe out the wish, " Be thou exalted, God,
»hove the heavens; let thy glory be above all the earth."
"Let all the earth fear the Lord; let all ihe inhabitants
of the world stand in awe of him." Baoww.
116
THE ENdLISH READER. PaitlIchip- V-
li:i
•Sect. XXIL — On the ^''reainess of Bonaparte,
TuEKE are different orders of greatness. Among these,
the first rank is unquestionably due to moral gre:itnes8, or
magnanimity; to that sublime energy, hj which the soul,
smitten with the love of virtue, binds itself indissolublv.
for life and for death, to truth and duty ; espouses, as its
own, the interests of human nature ; scorns all meanness,
and deiies all peril ; hears, in its own conscience, a voice
louder than threatenings and thunders ; withstandK all the
powers of the universe, which would sever it from the
cause of freedom, virtue, and religion ; reposes an unfalter-
ing trust in God in the darkest hour^ and is ever " rcadv
to be offered up" on the altar of its country or of mankind.
Of this moral greatness, which throws all other forms of
greatness into obscurity, we see not a trace or spark in
Napoleon. Though clothed with the power of a God, the
thought of consecrating himself to the introduction of a
new and higher era, to the exaltation of the character and
condition of his race, seems never to have dawned on hiu
mind. The spirit of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice,
seems not to have waged a mojaent's war with self-will
and ambition. His ruling passions, indeed, were sinp-
larly at variance with magnanimity. Moral greatness hai
too much simplicity, is too unostentatious, too self-subsi?t-
cnt, and enters into others' interests with too nmch hearti-
ness, to live a day for what Napoleon always lived, — to
make itself the theme, and gaze, and wonder of a dazzled
world.
Next to moral comes intellectual greatness, or genius
in the highest sense of that word ; and by this wc mean
that sublime capacity of thought, through which the sou!,
smitten with the love of the true and the beautiful, essays
to comprehend the universe, soars into the heavens, pene-
trates the earth, penetrates itself; questions the past,
anticipates the future ; truces out the general and nil-com-
prehending laws of nature ; binds together, by innumerable
affinities and relations, all the objects of its knowleilge;
and, not satisfied with what exists und what is finite,
frames to itself ideal excellence, loveliness, and grandeur.
This ii the greatness which belongs to ])hilo8ophers, inspi-
red poets, and to the master-spirits in the fine arts.
Next comot the greatness of action,' an^ by thii we
Lean the sublin
and extensive pi
on a mighty o
energies and i
outward effects
1 Bonaparte; ant
land none will
raised himself
the face of the \
fuland civilize
across seas and
feared as dcsti
1 antechamber v
! broke down th
a highway, an<
daries of civil i
the deserts of
of himself in h
I tion, whether 1
j to him a sublin
I effects.
We are not
! eminent even
chief sphere.
llie sword. B
I talent ; and IS
truth. The gl
would not hav
take his plac(
It was as the
a time to cot
other talents
vailed fame,
cannot award
empire, howc
tionary goven
can we consi(
wc remember
wai large en
Napoleon brii
it by bold ai
of civilization
citcmcnti I
Did ho frame
PaitiIchap.V. descriptive PIECES.
117
iaparie.
long these,
reatness, orj
ch the soul,
ndissolubly.
uses, as its
meanness,
cc, a voice
ands all the
it from the
an unfaltcr.
vcr "ready
of mankind.
er forms of
or spark in
a God, the
uction of a
aracter and
vmd on hi«
elf-sacrifice,
ith self-will
ivere singu-
•eatness hai
self-subsist'
luch hcarti*
s lived, — to
f a dazzled
, or genius
9 we mean
li the soul,
tiful, eseavs
Venn, pone-
J the past,
Liid iill-t'om-
n numerable
mowledge;
it is finite.
[I grandeur,
hers, inspi*
rts.
Ijy this we
mean the sublime power of conceiving and executing bold
and extensive plans ; of constructing and bringing to bear
on a mighty object, a complicated machinery of means,
energies and arrangement, and of accomplishing great
outward elVects. To this head belongs the greatness of
I Bonaparte ; and that he possessed it, we need not prove,
land none will be hardy enough to deny. A man who
raised himself from obscurity to a throne, who changed
the face of the world, who made himself felt through pow^er-
ful and civilized nations, who sent the terror of his name
j across seas and oceans, whose will was pronounced and
feared as destiny, whose donatives were crowns, whose
i iiitechamber was thronged by suhmissive princes, who
broke down the awful barrier of the Alps and made them
I a highway, and whose fame was spread beyond the boun-
daries of civilization to the steppes of the Cossack, and
the deserts of the Arab ; a man who has left this record
of himself in history, has taken out of our hands the ques-
tion, whether he shall be called great. All must concede
tohira a sublime power of action, an energy equal to great
effects.
We are not disposed, however, to consider him as pre-
eminent even in this order of greatness. War was hi.s
chief sphere. He gained his ascendency in Europe by
llie sword. But war is not the field for the highest active
talent ; and Napoleon we suspect was conscious of this
truth. The glory of being the greatest general of his age,
would not have satisfied him. He would have scorned to
take his place by the side of Marlborough or Turenne.
It was as the founder of an empire, which threatened for
a time to comprehend the world, and which demanded
other talents besides that of war, that he challenged unri-
valled fame. And here wo question his claim. Here we
cannot award him supremacy. The project of universal
empiro, however imposing, was not original. The revolu-
tionary governments of France had adopted it before ; nor
can we consider it as a sure indication of greatness, when
we remember that the weak and vain mind of Louis XIV.
wai large enough to cherish it. The question is, Did
Napoleon bring to this design the capacity of advancing
it by bold and original conceptions, adapted to an ago
of civilization, and of singular intellectual and moral ex-
citement? Did he discover new foundations of power"?
l^id ho frame new bonds of union for subjugated nations ?
I I
118
THE ENGLISH READER.
PaitI.
li 'i
iii
ij ^
m
■■•I •'•
I
Did he discover, or originate, some common interests, bv
which his empire might be held together? Did he breathe I
a spirit which should supplant the old national attach*
ments? or did he invent any substitutes for those vulgar
instruments of force and corruption, which any and every
usurper would have used? Never in the records of time,
did the world furnish such materials to work with, such
means of modelling nations afresh, of building up anew |
power, of introducing a new era, as did Europe at the pe
riod of the French revolution. Never was the human mind I
so capable of new impulses. And did Napoleon prove
himself equal to the condition of the world? Do wede.
tect one original conception in his means of universal em.
pire ? Did he seize on the enthusiasm of his age, that
powerful principle, more efficient than arms or policy, and
bend it to his purpose ? What did he do, but follow the
beaten track? — but apply force and fraud, in their very
coarsest forms ? Napoleon showed a vulgar mind, when
he assumed self-interest as the sole spring of human action.
With the sword in one hand and bribes in the other, he
imagined himself absolute master of the human mind.
The strength of moral, national, and domestic feeling, he
could not comprehend. The finest, and, after all, the
most powerful elements in human nature, hardly entered
into his conceptions of it ; and howr, then, could he have
established a durable power over the human race ? We
want little more to show his want of originality and com*
prehensivencss as the founder of an empire, than the nm*
pie fact, that he chose as his chief counsellors Talleyrand
and Fouche, names which speak for themselves. We may
judge of the greatness of the master-spirit, from the min(li|
which he found most congenial with his own. In war,
Bonaparte was great ; for he was bold, original, and crca*
tive. Beyond the camp, he indeed showed talent, but not |
superior to that of other eminent men.
'^ Chahnik«>
119
CHAPTER VI.
PATHETIC PIECES.
Skct. I. — The Good Man's Comfort in Affliction.
THE religion' of ChrisO not only arms us with fortitude^
against the approach of eviK, but supposing evils to
y upon us with their heavieht' pressure, it lightens tho
hoad^ by many consolations' to which others' are strangers.^
While bad men trace^, in the calamities' with which they
iTe visited\ the hand of an offended Sovereign'; Christians^
are taught to view' them as the well-intended chastise-
ments' of a merciful Father^. They hear^, amidst them\
thtt still voice' which a good conscience' brings to their
etr^: " Fear not\ for I am with thee'; be not dismayed',
for I am thy God\" They apply to themselves' the com-
fortable promises' with which the gospel abounds^ They
diicover in these^ the happy issuc^ decreed to their troubles';
ud waiO with patience' till Providence shall have accom-
jpiished its {jreaf and good^ designs. In the meantime',
DeTotion opens to them its blessed' and holy^ sanctuary :
that' sanctuary in which the wounded heart is healed', and
Ithe weary mind is at rest\ where the cares of the world
lire forgottcn\ where its tumults are hushed', and its mis-
leriea disappear^ where greater objects open to our view^
Itban any which the world presents'; where a more serene
iky shines', and a sweeter^ and calmer' light beams on the
afflicted heart\ In those' moments of dcvotion\ a pious
intn\ pouring out his wants and sorrows to an Almighty
Supporter/ feels that he is not left solitary^ and forsaken'
in a vale of wo\ God' is with^ him ; Christ^ and the Holy
SpiriO are with' him ; and though he should be bereaved
ofetery friend on earth', he can look up in heaven^ to a
friend' that will never' deserO him. Bi^iR.
8
SicT. II. — An Eminent Instance of True Fortitude,
|AiL who have ucen distinguished as servants of God, or
jbenefactors of men ; all who, in perilous situations, have
kted their parts with such honour as to render their names
120
THE ENGLISH READER. Pm l.l ^■^»- ^^'
t
p if
I ei.
■i^
illustrious through succeeding ages, have been eminent I
for fortitude of mind. Of this, we have one conspicuous
example in the apostle Paul, whom it will be instructive
for us to view in a rcmeyrkable occurrence of his life. After
having long acted as the apostle ©f the Gentiles, his mis-
sion called him to go to.lcrusalem, where he knew that he
was to encounter the utmost violence of his enemies. Just
before he set sail, he culled together the elders of his fa-
vourite church at Ephcsus ; and, in a pathetic speech,!
which docs great honour to his character, gave them hisl
last farewell. Deeply affected by their knowledge of thel
certain dangers to wliich he was exposing himself, all the
assembly were filled with distress, and melted into tears.)
The circumstances were such as might have conveyed de-
jection even into a resolute mind, and would have totallyl
overwhelmed the feeble. "They all wept sore, and felloul
Paul's neck, and kissed him; sorrowing most of all fori
the words which he spoke, that they should see his faccnoj
more." What were, then, the sentiments — what was the!
language, of this great and good man? Hear the woriisl
which ^ipoke his firm and undaunted mind; "Behold, Igoj
bound in the spirit to Jerusalem, not knowing the thing«|
that shall befall me there, save that the Holy Spirit wit-
nesseth in every city, saying, that bonds and afflictionsl
abide me. But none of these things move me ; neitherl
count I my life dear to myself, so that I might finish mTJ
course with joy, and the ministry which I have received!
from the Lord Jesus, to testify the gospel of the grace otj
God." There was uttered the voice — there breathed thcj
spirit, of a brave and virtuous man. Such a man knowl
not what it is to shrink from danger, when conscienrel
points out his path. In that path he is determined to walk.j
let the consequences be what they may.
This was the magnanimous behaviour of that grcatl
apostle, when he had persecution and distress full in vicw.l
Attend now to the sentiments of the same excellent man.
when the time of his last sufl'ering approached ; and remirkj
the majesty and the ease with whicli he looked on death.
" I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my depar-j
ture is at hand. I have fought the good fight. 1 have
finished my course. I have kept the faith. Henceforth
there is laid up for mo a crown of righteousness." — How|
many years of life does such a dying moment overbalance.
Who would not choose, in thii manner, to go off the itage.l
with such a i
prolong his ex
with sin and i
i
Wheit we cor
of man's desi
among those \
who can avoi(]
and tender 1
of humanity 1
revolving the
Behold the
of his wearisc
load of povert;
lent calls of h
wages. No n
on his bed of
meal, to unde
his humble gi
neighbours ai
think, that tl
the aged and
wtep; that, m
perhaps, both
and is now a
—At no grea
receive the ]
emphasis ^
wis buried."
sharing the si
loxury, they
mourners go ;
and magnifies
impatient to
with jealous
the division
ilong the col
u it began t
<U7,webeho
iig form an
While the fi;
MBpany, wl
Put 1 1 ^■^'- ^^' PATHETIC PIECES.
121
5n eminent I
conspicuous
instructive
life. After
!s, his mis.
lew that lie I
mies. Just I
rs of his fa.
tic speech,!
vc them his
edge of thel
self, all the
into tears.!
onveycd de-
have totally I
, and fell ou
st of all for
e his faccnol
If hat was the
ir the woriis
Behold, I go
ig the tliingij
y Spirit wit-
id afHictionsI
me ; neither
ht finish mT
ave received
the grace oil
breathed the
man know
n conscienrcj
incd to walk,!
f that great!
full in view.
tcellent man.
; and rcmiik
:cd on death. |
of my dcpar-
ght. 1 have I
Henceforth
lesn."— How
overbalance!
offthestftge.
with such a song of triumph in his mouth, rather than
prolong his existence through a. wretched old age, stained
with sin and shame ? Blair.
Sect. III.-— TAc Close of Life,
Wheit we contemplate the close of life ; the termination
of man's designs and hopes ; the silence that now reigns
among those who, a little while ago, were so husy or so gay •'
who can avoid being touched with sensations at once aw^
and tender 1 What heart but then warms with the glow
of humanity ? In whose eye does not the tear gather, on
revolving the fate of passing and short-lived man 1
Behold the poor man, who lays down at last the burden
of his wearisome life. No more shall he groan under the
losd of poverty and toil. No more shall he hear the inso-
lent calls of his master, from whom he received his scanty
wages. No more shall he be raised from needful slumber
on his bed of straw, nor be hurried away from his homely
meal, to undergo the repeated labours of the day. While
his humble grave is preparing, and a few poor and decayed
neighbours are carrying him thither, it is good for ua to
think, that this man too was our brother; that for him
the aged and. destitute wife, and the needy children, now
vtep; that, neglected as he was by the world, he possessed,
perhaps, both a sound understanding and a worthy heart ;
and is now carried by angels to rest in Abraham's bosom.
—At nq great distance from him, the grave is opened to
receive the rich and proud man. For, as it is said with
emphasis fh the parable, "The rich man also died, and
was buried." He also died. His riches prevented not his
ifaaring the same fate with the poor man : perhaps, through
loxury, they accelerated his doom. Then, indeed, "the
mourners go about the streets ;" and while, in all the pomp
and magnificence of wo, his funeral is preparing, his heirs,
impatient to examine his will, are looking on one another
with jealous eyes, and already beginning to dispute about
the division of his substance. — One day, we see carried
ilong the coffin of the smiling infant ; the flower just nipped
u it began to blossom in the parent's view : and the next
itjt we behold the young man, or youi^ woman, of bloom-
iig form and promising hopes, laid in an untimely grave,
while the funeral is attended by a numerous unconcerned
Mnpany, who art diacouming with one another about tho
f 1
132
THE ENGLISH HEADER.
PaitI. I Chap. VI.
I
' lb
il
nawf of the day, or the ordinary affairs of life^ let our
thoughts rpther follow to the house of mourning, and rep>
resent to ourselves what is passing there. There we should
8<'!0 a disconsolate family, sitting in silent grief, thinking
of the sad breach that is made in their little society ; and,
with tears in their eyes, looking to the chamber that is
now left vacant, and to every memorial that presents itself
of their departed friend. By such attention to the woes of
others, the selfish hardness of our hearts will be gradually
softened, and melted down into humanity.
Another day, we follow to the grave one who, in old age,
and after a long career of life, has, in full maturit}'^, sunk
at last into rest. As we are going along to the mansion
of the dead, it is natural for us to think and to discourse
of all the changes which such a person has seen during the
course of his life. He has passed, it is likely, through
varieties of fortune. He has experienced prosperity and
adversity. He has seen families and kindreds rise and
fall. He has seen peace and war succeeding in their turns;
the face of his country undergoing many alterations ; and
the very city in which he dwelt rising, in a manner, new
around him. After all he has beheld, his eyes are now
dosed for ever. He was becoming a stranger in the midst
of a new succession of men. A race who knew him not
had arisen to fill the earth. — ^Thus parses the world away.
Throughout all ranks and conditions, "one generation
ptisseth, and another generation cometh; and this great
inn is by turns evacuated and replenished by troops of
succeeding pilgrims." O vain and inconstant world!
ilooiing and transient life ! When will the sons of men
loairn to think of thee as they ought 7 When will they
loam humanity from the afflictions of their brethren; or
moderation and wisdom from a sense of their own fugitive
^tel Blaib.
8bot. IV. — The Ckmency and Amiable Character of the
Patriarch Joseph,
W^' kHMai chatacteir, exhibited in the records of Scripture,
is inpra^emarkable and instructive, than that of t? Patri-
avj^ f (in^ph. He is one whom we behold tried in all the
v|dilMbtd^B of fortune ; from the condition of a slave, rising
^'W- fUler of the land of Egypt, and, in every station,
Mo^^illiHiAf, by Ilk nrtae and wisdom, favour with Grod and
PaitI. I Chap. VI.
PATHETIC PIECES.
123
i,r,
man. When overseer of Potiphar's house, his fidelity was
proved by strong temptations, which he honourably resisted.
When thrown into prison by the artifices of a false woman,
bis integrity and prudence soon rendered him conspicuous,
even in that dark mansion. When called into the presence
of Pharaoh, the wise and extensive plan which he formed,
for saving the kingdom from the miseries of impending
famine, justly raised him to a high station, wherein his
abilities were eminently displayed in the public service.
But in his whole history there is no circumstance so striking
and interesting, as his behaviour to his brethren, who had
sold him into slavery. The moment in which he made
himself known to them, was the most critical one of his
life, and the most decisive of his character. It is such as
rarely occurs in the course of human events ; and is cal-
culated to draw the highest attention of all who are en-
dowed with any degree of sensibility of heart.
From the whole tenor of the narration, it appears, that
though Joseph, upon the arrival of his brethren in Egypt,
made himself strange to them, yet from the beginning he
intended to discover himself; and studied tso to conduct
the discovery, as might render the surprise of joy com-
plete. For this end, by affected severity, he took measures
for bringing down into Egypt all his father's children.
They were now arrived there ; and Benjamin among the
rest, who was his younger brother by the same mother,
and was particularly beloved by Joseph. Him he threat-
ened to detain ; and seemed willing to allow the rest to
depart. This incident renewed their distress. They all
knew their father's extreme anxiety about the safety of
Benjamin, and with what difficulty he had yielded to his
undertaking this journey. Should he be prevented from
reiuming, they dreaded that grief would overpower the
old man's spirits, and prove fatal to his life. Judah,
therefore, who had particularly urged the necessity of
Benjamin's accompanying his brothers, and had solemnly
pledged himself to their father for his safe return, craved,
upon this occasion, an audience of the governor; and
gave him a full account of the circumstances of Jacob's
family.
Nothing can be more interesting and pathetic than this
(liicourse of Judah. Little knowing to whom he spoke, ha
paints, in all ilio colours of simple and natural eloquence,
tht distressed situation of the aged patriarch, hastening
I il
124
THE ENGLISH READER,
^^*^ '• I Cii». VI.
^ i»i
'%.
!^
to the close of life ; long afflicted for the loss of a favoor*
ite son, whom he supposed to have heen torn to pieces by
a beast of prey ; labouring now under anxious concem
about his youngest son, the child of his old age, who alone
wtts left alive of his mother, and whom nothing but \ht
calamities of severe famine could have moved a tender
father to send from home and expose to the dangers of a
foreign land. " If we bring him not back with us, we shall
bring down the gray hairs of thy servant, our father, with
sorrow to the grave. I pray thee, therefore, let thy ser-
vant abide, instead of the young man, a bondman to our
lord. For how shall I go up to my father, and Benjamin
not with me, lest I see the evil that shall come on my
father?"
Upon this relation, Joseph could no longer restrain
himself. The tender ideas of his father, and his father's
house, of his ancient home, his country, and his kindred,
of the distress of his family, and his own exaltation, all
rushed too strongly upon his mind to bear any farther
concealment. " He cried, Cause every man to go out from
me ; and he wept aloud." The tears which he shed were
not the tears of grief. They wese the burst of affec-
tion. They were the effusions of a heart overflowing with
all the tender sensibilities of nature. Formerly he had
been moved in the same manner, when lie first saw his
brethren before him. ** His bowels yearned upon them ;
he sought for a place where to weep. He went into his
chamber ; and then washed his face, and returned to them."
At that period, his generous plans were not completed.
But now, when there was no further occasion for constrain*
ing himself, he gave free vent to the strong emotions of his
heart. The first minister to the king of Egypt was not
ashamed to show, that he felt as a man and a broiher.
' He wept aloud ; and the Egyptians, and the house of
Pharaoh, heard him."
The first words which his swelling heart allowed him to
pronounce, are the most suitable to such an affecting situ*
ation that were ever uttered : " I am Joseph : doth my ft-
ther yet live ?" — What could he, what ought he, in that
impassioned moment, to have said more 1 This is the
voice of nature herself, speaking her own language; and
it penetrates the heart : no pomp of expression, no parade
of kindness : but strong affection hastening to utter what it
strongly felt « Hit brethren coold not aniwer him; for
Pa»t I. P c,^. VI.
PATHETIC PIECES.
125
they were troubled at his presence." Their silence is as
expressive of those emotions of repentance and shame,
which, on this amazing discovery, filled their breasts, and
itopped their utterance, as the few words which Joseph
gpeaks, are expressive of the generous agitations which
struggled for vent within him. No painter could seize a
nore striking moment, for displaying the characteristic
features of the human heart, than what is here presented.
Never was there a situation of more tender and virtuous
joy, on the one hand ; nor, on the other, of more over-
whelming confusion and conscious guilt. In the simple
narration of the sacred historian, it is set before us with
greater energy and higher effect, than if it had been
wrought up with all the colouring of the most admired
modern eloquence. ,. w v- Blai».
* Sect. V.— TA« Elder's Deathbed,
At this affecting time, the Minister took the family bible
on hit: 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 beautiful verses:
Within thy taberrjacle, Lord,
Who shall abide with theel
And in thy high and holy hill,
Who shall a dweller be? —
The man that walketh uprightly, i\ i
And worketh righteousness, ^ ^,
And as he thinketh in his heart,
So doth he truth express.
Ere tho psalm was yet over, the door was opened ; and
la tall, fine-looking man entered, but with a lowering and
dark countenance, seemingly in sorrow, misery, and re-
fflwse. Agitated, confounded, and awe-struck by the
melancholy and dirge-like music, he sat down on a chair,
and looked with a ghastly face towards his father's bed.
Wh'in the psalm, ceased, the Elder said, with a solemn
vwce, "My son, thou art come in time to receive thy fa-
ther's blessing. May the remembrance of what will hap-
pen in this room, before the morning again shine over the
Hazel-glen, win thee from the error of thy ways ! Thou
Itft here to witness the mercy of thy God and thy Saviour,
Iwhom thou hast forgotten."
126
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pa»t I.
The Minister looked, if not with a stern, yet with an up-
braiding countenance, on the young man, who had not
recovered his speech, and said, " William ! for three yean
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 tho
moment I heard that the minister had been seen riding
towards our house. I hope that you will yet recover; and,
if I have ever made you unhappy, I ask your forsriveness;
for though I may not think as you do on matters of religion.
I have a human heart. Father ! I may have been 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;j
for blindness is coming fast upon me. Thou wert my first-
born, and thou art my only living son. All thy brotheri|
and sisters are lying in the church-yard, beside Iker whose
sweet face thine own, William, did once so much resemble.
Long wert thou the joy, the pride of my S(;ul, — ay, too
much the pride ; for there was not in all tho parish sich
a man, such a son, as my own William. If thy heart has
since been changed, God may inspire it again with riglii
thoughts. I have sorely wept for thee — ay, William, when
there was none near me — «. ^n as David wept for Absalom |
— for thee, my son, my son !"
A long deep groan was the only reply: but the vrholel
body of the kneeling man was convulsed; and it was easy
to see his sufferings, his contrition, his remorse, and hii
despair. The Pastor said, with a sterner voice, and more
austere countenance, than were natural to him, " Know you
whose hand is now lying on your rebellious headi But
what signifies the word father to him who has denied God,
the Father of us all 1" — '^ Oh! press him not too hardly,"
said his weeping wife, coming forward from a dark comcrl
of the room, where she tried to conceal herself in griefJ
fear, and shame. " Spare, oh ! spare my husband — he huj
ever been kind to me;" and with that, she knelt dowB|
beside him, with her long soft white arms mournfully an^
affectionately laid across his neck.- "Go thou, likewitt.!
Cbi». VI.
PATHETIC PIECES.
127
my iweet little Jamie," said the Elder, " go even out of snj
bofBom, and kneel down beside thy father and thy mother,
that I may bless you all at once, and with one yeani-
ing prayer." The child did as the solemn voice coiii-
manded, and knelt down somewhat timidly by his father's
side; nor did the unhappy man decline encircling with hie
arm, the child too much neglected, but still dear to him
as his own blood, in spite of the deadening and debasing
influence of infidelity.
" 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 accord-
ing to St. John. The Pastor went up to the kneelerp,
and with a voice of pity, condolence, and pardon, said,
« There was a time, William, when none could read the
Scriptures better than couldst thou— can it be that the son
of my friend hath forgotten the lessons of his youth 1" He
had not forgotten them: there was no need for the repent-
ant sinner to lift up his eyes from the bedside. The sacred
stream of the Gospel had worn a channel in his heart, and
the waters were again flowing. With a choked voice, he
aaid, "Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the
life; and whosoever liveth, and believeth in me, shall
never die. Belicvcst 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 unbeliever's
heart. Say that thou believest in what thou hast now read,
and thy father will die happy !" — " I do believe ; and as
thou forgivcst 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. His faded eyes kindled — his
pale cheeks glowed — his palsied hands seemed to wax
strong — and his voice was clear as that of manhood in its
prime. "Into thy hands, O God! I commit my spirit;*'
and, so saying, he gently 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, ro«e
from their knees. The eyes of us all were turned towards
the white placid face of the figure now stretched in ever-
lasting rest; and, without lamentations, save the silent
lamentations of the resigned soul, we stood around tha
DfiATUBltD OF TU£ ElDKR. WiI.S0I«.
128
THE ENGLISH READER.
:i*' . :.i
'!h.i *■ I
•SiCT. VI. — War, a Fragment,
" That spirit, which fired the Athenian soul, when Ari*.
tides led forth his legions, seems to animate them : they
are fighting for glory, for their religion and liberty !* cried
my father, raising his voice. "Glory!" said Yorick—
*< glory blooms on the olive. I never see a laurel, but
methinks I sec blood upon its leaf: — the laurel springs
near the wolf; the olive is a shelter for the lamb. To
bind up the wounds of affliction, to feed the hungry, to
make Wo forget her troubles, and Misery smile, is gloiy !
— It is glory to shelter our fellow-creatures I — but ambi-
tion and rapine, retired behind the walls of their castles,
level their engines of destruction on the heads of the help-
less , — myriads, actuated by them, and blind to fear, rise
with the sun, and mingle with the blessed dews of heaven
the blood of their fellow-creatures."
"Peace! peace!" cried Dr. Slop; "though France were
depopulated, Germany revolutionized, and the hordes of
Russia driven back to the frozen regions from which they
have issued, there must be war ! for it is a war of religion
against infidelity, of order against anarchy and confu-
sion !" — " It is a crusade against public opinion," cried my
uncle Toby.
" It is the sentiment of cowardice, of cruelty," exclaimed
Yorick, " to force opinion by invective, by the bayonet, by
the dungeon, by the rack, or by any force, but the force
of reason ! If there be any absolute power, let it be the
power of truth : it yields to none ; sooner or later, it con-
quers all. Let blood henceforth be banished ! I see the
starving children of thousands torn from their homes to
fight ambition's quarrels. I see the supplicating eye of
Want ask its famished mother for a morsel ! ' Cling not
round her knees, for she has nothing to give.' I see,"
continued Yorick, casting his eyes on Dr. Slop, " I see,
in this war of legitimacy — of religion, her best duties pro-
faned. I ace the virgin ravished before the eyes of age,
before eyes filled with a father's tears ! I see his silver
locks spotted over with blood — his hut in fiames — his
fields trampled on — his children murdered — his wife no
more — his heart broken ! Ye princes of the earth ! look
down upon this scene, and learn the novelty of feeling."
My father, my undo Toby, and Yorick, drew clos' '
Pait I. I CiAP. VI.
PATHETIC PIECES.
129
roand the fire, which seemed to burn brighter while th«
genius of humanity hovered over their heads, and smiled
upon the scene.
Benevolence ! eternal fountain of our joys ! source
(liTine of pure delight! what being would not cast his cup
within thy stream, and drink the precious draught ? Thou
art the spring of comfort, which bloweth to birth all the
blossoms life can give, or mortals can enjoy. 'Tis thou
who causest the lovely dewdrop of gratitude to gem the
eye of human nature — promptost thy children to relieve
the helpless^to pour the balm of consolation into the
wounded spirit, and shed the tear of fellow-feeling ! Thou
art the noblest link in the great chain of existence ; and
when thou breakest, nature herself must dissolve.
. Anonymout,
•SiCT. VII. — Comal and Galvtna.
"MouRNFUt is thy tale, son of the car," said Carril of
other times. — " It sends my soul back to the ages of old,
tnd to the days of other years. — Often have I heard of
Comal, who slew the friend he loved ; yet victory attended
his steel, and the battle was consumed in his presence."
« Comal was the son of Albion ; the chief of a hun-
dred hills. — His deer drank of a thousand streams. — A
thousand rocks replied to the voice of his dogs. — His face
wts the mildness of youth; his hand, the death of heroes.
—One was his love, and fair was she ! the daughter of
mighty Conloch. — She appeared like a sunbeam among
women.— Her hair was like the wing of the raven. — Her
dogs were taught to the chase. — Her bow-string sounded
on the winds of the forest. — Her soul was fixed on Comal.
- -Often met their eyes of love. — Their course in the chase
was one. — Happy were their words in secret. — But Gor-
tnal loved the maid, the dark cluef of the gloomy Ardren.
He watched her lone steps in the heath ; the foe of un-
happy Comal !
'* One day, tired of the chase, when the mist had con-
cealed their friends, Comal and the daughter of Conloch
met in the cave of Ronan. — It was the wonted haunt of
Comal. — Its sides were hung with his arms. — A hundred
shields of thongs were there ; a hundred helms of sound-
ing steel. — ^ Rest here,' he said, ' my love, Galvina ; thou
light of the cave of Ronan ! A deer appean on Mora'f
tf
Aa
130
THE ENGLISH READER.
Paht I.
brow. I go ; but I will soon return.* — * I fear/ she said,
* dark Gormal, my foe ; he haunts the cave of Ronan. — I
will rest among the arms ; hut soon return, my love.'
" He went to the deer of Mora. — The daughter of Con-
loch would try his love. — She clothed her white sides with
his armour, and strode from the cave of Ronan! — He
thought it was his foe. — His heart beat high ; his colour
•hanged, and darkness dimmed his eyes. — He drew the
bow. — The arrow flew. — Galvina fell in blood! — He ran
with wildness in his steps, and called the daughter of Con-
loch. — No answer in the lonely rock. — * Where art thou,
O my love !'--He saw, at length, her heaving heart beat-
ing around the feathered arrow. — ♦ O Conloch's daughter,
is it thou V — He sunk upon her breast.
"The hunters found the hapless pair. He afterwards
walked the hill ; but many and silent were his steps round
the dark dwelling of his love. — The fleet of the ocean
came. — He fought; the strangers fled. — He searched for
death along the field. — But who could slay the mighty
Comal ! — He threw away his dark-brown shield. — An arrow
found his manly breast. — He sleeps with his loved Galvina,
amidst the noise of the sounding surge ! — Their green
tombs are seen by the mariner, when he bounds over the
waves of the north." Ossuv.
• SxcT. Vni. — The Widow and her Son.
Dual NO my residence in the country, I used frequently to
attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its
mouldering monuments, Its dark oaken pannelling, all
reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it
for the haunt of solemn meditation. But in this church I
felt myself continually thrown back upon the world by the
fri^ridity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The
oniy being that seemed thoroughly to feel the humble and
prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor decrepid old
woman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities.
She bore the traces of something better than abject poverty.
The lingerings of decent pride wore visible in her appear-
ance. Her dross, though humble in the extreme, wai
scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, hod been
awarded her ; for she did not take her seat among the vil-
lage poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She
seemed to have survived all love, all friendship, all society;
PaktI. I ^«^'-VI.
PATHETIC PIECES.
131
and to have nothing left her but the hopea of heaven.
When I saw her feebly rising, and bending her aged form
in prayer — habitually conning her prayer-book, which her
palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to
read, but which she evidently knew by heart — I felt per-
suaded, that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose
to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell
of the organ, or the chanting of the choir.
I am fond of loitering about country churches; and this
was 80 delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me.
It stood on a knoll, round which a small stream made a
beautiful bend, and then wound its way tlirough a long
reach of soft meadow scenery. The church was surround-
ed by yew-trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself.
Its tall gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with
rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated
there, one still sunny morning, watching two labourers who
were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most
remote and neglected corners of the churchyard ; where,
from the number of nameless graves around, it would
appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into
the earth. I was told that the new-made grave was for
the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on
the distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down
into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced the ap-
proach of thti funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty,
with which ,)ride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plain-
est materials, without pall or other covering, was borno by
some of the villagers. The sexton walked before, with an
air of cold indinerence. There were no mock mourners,
in the trappings of alfectcd wo ; but there was one real
mourner, who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the
aged mother of the deceased — the poor old woman whom
I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was sup-
ported by an humble friend, who was endeavouring to
comfort her. A few of the neighbouring poor had j«incJ
tlie train ; and some children of the village were running
hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and
now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief
of the mourner. — I approached the grave. The coHin was
placed on the ground, (in it were inscribed the name and
aifc of the deceased — " George Soniors, ag(;d 2G years.**
The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the
head of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in
P' ^
"=
i
132
THE ENGLISH READER.
PabtL I Chip. VJ-
■1
prayer ; but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the
body, aad a convulsive movement of the lips, that she wai
gazing on the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of
a mother's heart.
Preparations were made to deposit the coffin into the
earth. Theic was that bustling stir which breaks so harsh.
ly on the feelings of grief and affection ; directions given
iu the cold tones of business ; the striking of spades into
sand and gravel ; which, at the grave of those we love, is,
of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle around
seemed to awaken the mother from a wretched reverie.
She rai5*^d her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint
wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the
coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke into
an agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her
took her by the arm, endeavouring to raise her from the
earth, and to whisper something like consolation : " Nay,
now — nay, now — -don't take it so sorely to heart" She
could only shake her head, and wring her hands, as one
not to be comforted.
As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking
of the cords seemed to agonize her : but when, on some
accidental obstruction, there was a justling of the coffin,
all the tenderness of the mother burst forth ; as if any
harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of
worldly suffering. I could see no more — my heart swelled
into my throat — my eyes filled with tears — I felt as if I
were acting a barbarous part, in standing by, and gazing
idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to
another part of the churchyard, where I remained until
the funeral train had dispersed.
When I saw the mothor slowly and painfully quitting
the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was
dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitu*.
tion, my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the
distresses of the rich ! They have friends to soothe — plea-
sures to beguile — a world to divert and dissipate their griefs.
What are the sorrows of the young ! Their growing minds
soon close above the wound ; their elastic spirits soon riee
above the pressure ; their green and ductile affections «oon
twine round new objects. But the sorrows of the poor,
who have no outward appliances to soothe — the sorrows
of the aged, with whom life at bes^ is but a wintry day,
and who can look for no after-growth of joy — the sorrows
PabtL I Chip. VI.
PATHETIC PIECES.
13S
of a widow, agpd, solitary, destitute, mourning over an
only son, the last solace of her years ; these are, indeed,
sorrows which make us feel the impotency of consolation
•Sect. IX. — The Widoiu and her Son, continued*
It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my
way homeward, I met with the woman who had acted a«
comforter ; she was just returning from accompanying the
mother to her lonely habitation ; and I drew from her some
particulars connected with the affecting scene I had wit-
nessed. — The parents of the deceased had resided in the
village from childhood. They had inhabited one of the
neatest cottages; and, by various rural occupations, and
the assistance of a small garden, had supported themselves
creditably and comfortably, and led a happy and a blame-
less life. They had only one son, who had grown up to
be the staff and pride of their age. — " Oh, sir," said the
good woman, " he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tem-
pered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to hit
parents ! It did one's heart good, to see him of a Sunday,
dressed out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery,
supporting his old mother to church — for she was always
fonder of leaning on George's arm than on her good man's ;
and, poor soul ! she might well be proud of him, for a liner
lad there was not in the country round."
Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of
scarcity and agricultural hardship, to enter into the ser-
vice of one of the small craft that plied on a neighbouring
river. He had not been long in this employ when he was
entrapped by a press-gang, and carried off to sea. His
parents received tidings of his seizure ; but, beyond that,
they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main
prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew heartless
and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The widow,
left lonely, in her age and feebleness, could no longer sup-
port herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a
kind of feeling towards her throughout the village, and a
certain respect as being one of the oldest inhabitunts. As
no one applied for the cottage, in which she had passed
•0 many happy days, she was permitted to remain in it,
where she lived solitary, and almost helpless. The few
wants of nature were chiefly supplied from the scanty pro-
134
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I. I cbap. VI.
1
s.f'^ .
ductions of her little garden, which the neighbours would
now and then cultivate for her. It was but a few days
before the time at which these circumstances were told me,
that she was gathering some vegetables for a repast, when
she heard the cottage door which faced the garden sudden-
ly open. A stranger came out, and seemed to be looking
eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's
clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the ai:
of one broken by sickness and hardships. Ho saw her,
and hastened towards her : but his steps were faint and
faltering, he sank on his knees before her, and sobbed
like a child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a
vacant and wandering eye. — " Oh, my dear, dear mother !
don't you know your son? — your poor boy George?" It
was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad ; who, shatter-
ed by wounds, by sickness, and foreign imprisonment, had,
at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose
among the scenes of his childhood.
I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a
meeting, where joy a I sorrow were so completely blended:
still he was alive ! he was come home ! he might yet live
to comfort and cherish her old age ! Nature, however, was
exhausted in him ; and if any thing had been wanting to
fmish the work of fate, the desolation of hia native cottage
would have been sufficient. He stretched himself on the
paUet, on which his widowed mother had passed many a
sleepless night, and never rose from it again.
The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had
returned, crowded to see him, offering every comfort and
assistance that their humble means afforded. He was too
weak, however, to talk — he could only look his thanks.
His mother was his constant attendant; and he seemed
unwilling to bo helped by any other hand.
There is something in sicknos* that breaks down the
pride of manhood, that softens the heart, and bringa it
back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished,
even in advanced life, in sickness and despondency ; who
that has pined on a weary bed, in the neglect and loneli-
ness of a foreign land ; but has thought on the mother
" that looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow
and administered to his helplessness] Oh! there is an
enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son, that
transcends all other affcctio.is of the heart. It is neither
to bo chilled by seliishness, nor daunted by danger, nor
^^»T I- I Cbap. VI.
PATHETIC PIECES.
135
weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude.
She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience ; she
will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment ; she will
glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity ; and, if mis-
fortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from his
misfortunes; and, if disgrace settle upon his name, she will
Btill love and cherish him, in spite of his disgrace ; and, if
all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world
to him.
Poor George Somcrs had known what it was to be in
sickness, and none to soothe — lonely and in prison, and
none to visit him. He could not endure his mother from
his sight : if she moved away, his eye would follow her.
She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as he
slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream,
and look anxiously up tJntil he saw her bending over him ;
when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom, and
fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he
died.
My first impulse on hearing this humble talc of affliction,
was to visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer
pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I found,
however, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the villagers
had prompted them to do every thing that the case admit-
ted ; and, as the poor know best how to console each other's
sorrows, I did not venture to intrude.
The next Sunday I was at the village church ; when, to
.my surprise, I saw the poor old woman tottering down the
aisle, to her accustomed seat on the steps of the altar. She
had made an effort to put on something like mourning for
her son; and nothing could be more touching, than this
struggle between pious affection and utter poverty : a black
riband or so — a faded black handkerchief, and one or two
more such humble attempts to express by outward signs
that grief which passes show. When I looked round upon
the storied monument' — the stately hatchments — the cold
marbb pomp, with which grandeur mourned magnificently
over departed pride ; and turned to this poor widow, bowed
down by age and sorrow at the altar of he r God, and offer-
ing up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken
heart; I felt that this living monument ot real grief wm
worth them all.
I related her story to some of the wealthy members of
the congregation, and they were moved by it. They ex-
136
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pait L I CiAF. VI.
•rted themselves to render her situation more comfort-
able, and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but
smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course of i
Sunday or two after, she was missed from her usual sett
at church ; and before I left the neighbourhood I heard,
with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed
her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that
world where sorrow is never known, and friends are never
parted. WAsniNaToif Iutiks.
•Sect. X. — The Head-stone.
This coffin was let down to the bottom of the gn*ave, the
planks were removed from the hcaped-up brink, the first
rattling clods had struck their knell, the quick shovelling
was over; and the long, broad, skilfully-cut pieces of turf
were aptly joined together, and trimly laid by the beating
spade, so that the newest mound in the churchyard was
scarcely distinguishable from those that were grown over
by the undisturbed grass and daisies of a luxuriant spring.
The burial was soon over; and the party, with one con-
senting motion, having uncovered their heads in decent
reverence of the place and occasion, were beginning to
separate, and about to leave the churchyard. Here, some
acquaintances, from distant parts of the parish, who had
not had an opportunity of addressing each other in the
house that had belonged to the deceased, nor in course of
the few hundred yards that the little procession had to
move over from his bed to his grave, were shaking handi
quietly but cheerfully, and inquiring after the welfare of
each other's families. There, a small knot of neighbour!
were speaking, without exaggeration, of the respectable
character which the deceased had borne, and mentioning
to one another little incidents of his life, some of them m
remote as to be known only to the grey-headed persons
of the group. While a few yards farther removgd from
the spot, were standing together parties who discussed
ordinary concerns, altogether unconnected with the fune-
ral, such OS the state of the markets, the promise of the
•eason, or change of tenants; but still with a sobiiety of
manner and voice, that was insensibly produced by the
influence of the simple ceremony now closed, by the quiet
gravel around, and the shadow of the Bpiro and grey walls
of tha house of God.
Pait I I ClAf . VI.
PATHETIC PIECES.
137
IVo men yet stood together at the head of the grave,
with countenances of sincere, but unimpassioned grief.
They were brothers, the only sons of him who had been
buried. And there was something in their situation that
naturally kept the eyes of many directed upon them, for
t longer time, and more intently, than v^ould have been
the case, had there been nothing more observable about
them than the common symptoms of a common sorrow
But these two brothers, who were now standing at the
head of their father's grave, had for some years been
totally estranged from each other; and the only words
that had passed between them, during all that time, had
been uttered within a few days past, during the necessary
preparations for the old man's funeral.
No deep and deadly quar/el was between these brothers;
and neither of them could distinctly tell the cause of this
unnatural estrangement. Perhaps dim jealousies of their
father's favour — selfish thoughts, that will sometimes force
themselves into poor men's hearts, respecting temporal
expectations — unaccommodating manners on both sides —
taunting words that mean little when uttered, but which
rankle and fester in remembrance — imagined opposition
of interests, that, duly considered, would have been found
one and the same — these, and many other causes, slight
when single, but strong when rising up together in one
baneful band, had gradually, but fatally infected their
hearts, till at last they who in youth had been seldom
separate and truly attached., now met at market, and —
miserable to say — at church, with dark and averted faces,
like different clansmen during a feud.
Surely if any thing could have softened their hearts
towards each other, it must have been to stand silently,
side by side, while the earth, stones, and clods, were fall-
ing down upon their father's coffin. And doubtless their
hearts were so soflened. But pride, though it cannot pre-
vent the holy affections of nature from being felt, may
prevent them from being shown ; and these two brothers
stood there together, determined not to let each other
know the mutual tenderness that, in spite of them, was
gushing up in their hearts, and teaching them the uncon*
fessed folly and wickedness of their cau'^eless quarrel.
A head-dtone had been prepared, and a person came
forward to plant it The elder brother directed him how
to place it — a plain stone, with a sand-glass, skull, and
m»
138
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pait I. I Chap- ^^'
I
^ i
«ro8S-bones, chisellod not rudely, and a few words in-
scribed. The younqer brother regarded the operation
with a troubled eye, und snid, loudly enough to he hearil
by several of the by-standora, " William, this wns not
kind in you : you should have told mo of this. I lovrd
xny father as well as you could love him. You were tlie
older, and, -t may be, the favourite son ; but I had a rij^ht
in nature ti> have joined you in ordering this head.stonr
—had I not 1"
For a while, the elder brother said nothing;; for he had
a consciousness in his heart, that he ou)|ifht to have con-
sulted his father's son in desii^ning this last becoming
mark of alVoction and respect to his memory ; so the stone
was planted in silence, and now stood erect, decently and
simply among the other unostentatious memorials of the
humble dead. The inscription merely gave the name and
age of the deceaseil, and told that the stone had been
erected " by his attbctionate sons." The sight of thcsr
words seemed to soften the displeasure of the angry man ;
and he said, somewhat more mildly, " Ye«, we were his
aifectionatc sons; and since ?ny name is on the stone, I
am satisfied, brother. We have not drawn together kindly
of late years, and perhaps never may : but I acknowledge
and respect your worth ; and here, before our own friends,
and before the friends of our father, with my foot above
his hoad, I express my willingness to be on better and
other terms with you , and if we cannot command love in
our hearts, let us, at least, brother, bar out all unkind-
ness."
The minister, who had attended the funeral, and had
•omething intrusted to him to say publicly before he left
the churchyard, now came forward, and asked the elder
brother why he spake not regarding this matter. He
saw that there was something of a cold and sullen pride
rising up in his heart; for not easily may any man hope
to dismiss from the chamber of his heart even the vilest
gnesit, if once cherished there. With a solemn and al-
most severe air, he looked upon the relenting man; and
then, changing his countenance into serenity, said gently,
Behold how good a thing it is,
And how becominp well,
Together such as brethern are
In unity to dwell!
The time, the place, and this beautiful expression of a
natural sent
kind, if nol
appealed to
vour hand,
of satisfacti
more kindly
As the br
ing each otl
the grave c
father, who
of dust to c
sant count
made to yo
a few won
tongue den
the last tin
that you w
long as se
YOU two, a
I saw then
came from
this paper |
to read it
sons, if yo
the dv t o
the name <
as you us
Some t
needed pc
leased eac
went up
their joy
themselv<
with the 1
they wer
and it w
Bible, an
same psu
which 01
A larger
plate for
And eve
this life,
unUl de
Chap. VI.
PATHE'nC PIECES.
13d
f«r he had
'lavo oon-
heromiijjj
the stone
gently and
rials of the
name and
had been
It of thcsf
ngry man ;
e were his
iG stone, I
ther kindly
(knowledge
tvn friends,
foot above
better and
ind love in
H unkind-
j and had
►re he left
the elder
itter. He
len pride
nan hope
the vilest
n and al*
nan; and
id gently,
sion of a
natural Rcntimcnt, quite overcame a heart, in which many
kind, if not warm, atfcctions dwelt; and the man thus
appealed to bowed down his head and wept. " Give me
your hand, brother ;" and it was given, while a murmur
of satisfaction arose from all present, and all hearts felt
more kindiy and more humanely towards each other.
As the brothers stood fervently, but composedly, grasp-
ing each other's hands, in the little hollow that lay between
the grave of their mother, long since dead, and of their
father, whose shroud was haply not yet still from the fall
of dust to dust, the minister stood beside them with a plea-
sant countenance, and said " I must fulfil the promise I
made to your father on his deathbed. I must read to you
a few words which his hand wrote at an hour when his
tongue denied its office. When the palsy struck him for
the last time, you wore both absent ; nor was it your fault,
that you were not beside the old man when he died. Ai:
long as sense continued with him here, did he think of
you two, and of you two alone. Tears wore in his eyes :
I saw them there, and on his cheek too, when no breath
came from his lips. But of this no more. He died with
this paper in his hand ; and he made me know, that I was
to read it to you over his grave. I now obey him. — * My
sons, if you will let ray bones lie quiet in the grave, near
the dv t of your'mother, depart not from my burial, till, in
the name of God and Christ, you promise to love one another
as you used to do. My dear boys receive my blessing.'"
•Some turned their heads away to hide the tears that
needed pot to be hidden ; and when the brothers had re-
leased each other from a long and sobbing embrace, many
went up to them, and in a single word or two, expressed
their joy at this perfect reconcilement. The brothers
themselves walked away from the churchyard, arm in arm
with the minister to the manse. On the following Sabbath,
they were seen sitting with their families in the same pew;
and it was observed, that they read together off the samo
Bible, and sang togcthnr from ihc same psalm-book. The
same psalm was sung — given out at their own request — of
which one verse had been repeated at their father's grave.
A larger sum than usual was on that Sabbath found in the
plate for the poor ; for Love and Charity are twin-sisters.
And ever after, both during the peace and the troubles of
this life, the hearts of the brothers were as one, and even
until death they were not divided. WiLioir.
¥'
140
THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. I ^•*^'' ^^'
hm
•SxcT. XL— TAc Village Teacher.
Most readers must have witnessed with delight the joy-
ous burst which attends the dismissing of a village-school
on a fine summer evening. The buoyant spirit of philci.
hood, repressed with so much difficulty during the tedious
hours of discipline, may then be seen to explode, as it were,
in shout, and song, and frolic, as the little urchins join in
groups on their play-ground, and arrange their matches
of sport for the evening. But there is one individual who
partakes of the relief afforded by the moment of dismis-
sion whose feelings are not so obvious to the eye of the
spectator, or so apt to receive his sympathy. I mean the
teacher himself, who, stunned with the hum, and suffo^-
cated with the closeness of his school-room, has spent the
whole day — ^himself against a host — in controlling petu.
lence, exciting indifference to action, striving to enlighten
stupidity, and labouring to soften obstinacy ; and whose
very powers of intellect have been confounded by hearing
the same dull lesson repeated a hundred times by rote,
and only varied by the various blunders of the reciters.
Even the flowers of classic genius, with which his solitary
fancy is most gratified, have been rendered degraded, in
his imagination, by their connexion with tears, with er-
rors, and with punishments ; so that the Eclogues of Virgil
and Odes of Horace are each inseparably allied in asso*
ciation with the sullen figure and monotonous recitation
of some blubbering school-boy. If to these mental dis-
tresses are added a delicate frame of body, and a mind
ambitious of some higher distinction than that o( being
the tyrant of childhood, the reader may have some slight
conception of the relief which a solitary walk, in the cool
of a fine summer evening, affords to the head which has
ached, and the nerves which have been shattered, for so
many hours, in plying the irksome task of public instruc-
tion.
To me, thQSe evening strolls have been the happiest
hours of an unhappy life. My chief haunt is the banks
of the smalt stream, which, winding through a " lone vale
of green bracken," passes in front of the village school-
house of Gandercleugh. For the first quarter of a mile,
perhaps, I may be disturbed fVom my meditations, in order
to return the scrape; or doffed bonnet, of such stragglers
n
among my p
tie brook, or
But, beyond
anglers do n
cursions. T
and in a rece
steep heathy
the little co
light. To
charm. It
walks, and
my mortal pi
It is a spo
attached to
more unplet
used for man
level plain f
The monum
eight, are hi
moss. No I
of our reflec
no rank-spri
recollection,
fettering rei
Hie daisy w
hangs over i
of heaven ;
ding or disj
here, and it
and deprive
period whei
sleep benea
that they 1
as their reli
ouri shall,
formation.
Pxm I. I ^^^'' ^^*
PATHETIC PIECES.
141
among my pupils as fish for trouU or minnows in the lit-
tle brook, or seek rushes and wild-flowers by its margin.
But, beyond the space I have mentioned, the juvenile
anglers do not, after sunset, voluntarily extend their ex-
cursions. The cause is, that farther up the narrow valley,
and in a recess which seems scooped out of the side of the
steep heathy bank, there is a deserted burial-ground which
the little cowards are fearful of approaching in the twi-
light. To me, however, the place has an inexpressible
charm. It has long been the favourite termination of my
walks, and will probably be my final resting-place after
my mortal pilgrimage.
It is a spot which possesses all the solemnity of feeling
attached to a burial-ground, without exciting those of a
more unpleasing description. Having been very little
used for many years, the few hillocks which rise above the
level plain are covered with the same short velvet turf.
The monuments, of which there are not above seven or
eight, are half sunk in the ground, and overgrown with
moss. No newly-erected tomb disturbs the sober serenity
of our reflections, by reminding us of recent calamity ; and
no rank-springing grass for es upon our imagination the
recollection, that it owes its dark luxuriance to the foul and
fettering remnants of mortality which ferment beneath,
llie daisy which sprinkles the sod, and the hair-bell which
hangs over it, derive their pure nourishment from the dew
of heaven ; and their growth impresses us with no degra-
ding or disgusting recollections. Death has indeed been
here, and its traces are before us ; but they are softened,
and deprived of their horror, by our distance from the
period when they have been first impressed. Those who
sleep beneath are only connected with us by the reflection
that they have once been what we now are ; and that,
as their relics are now identified with their motiier eartii,
ours shall, at some future period, undergo the same trans-
fiormation. Acorr.
142
CHAPTER VII.
DIALOGUES.
Sbct. I. — Christianity defended against Scepticism.
LOCKS AXI) nATLB.
Bayle. YES\ we both were philosophers'; but my' phi-
losophy was the d6epest\ You dogmatised'; I doubtcd\
Locke, Do you make doubting^ a proof of depth' in phi-
losophy] It may be a good beginning' of it; but it is a
bad end\
Bayle* No^: the more profound^ our researches are imo
tho nr^ture' of things, the more uncertainty^ we shall find;
and t'^:e most subtle^ minds see objections and difficulties
in. every^ system, which are overlooked or undiscoverablc'
by ordinary^ understandings.
Locke. It would be better, then, to be no' philosopher,
and to continue in the vulgar herd^ of mankind, that one
may have the convenience of thinking that one knowi
something'. I fmd that the eyes which nature^ has given
me see many things very clearly\ though some' are out of
tlieir roach, or discerned but dimly\ What opinion ought
I to havt'of i'^ physician\ who should offer me an eyc-watci^,
the use of which would at first so sharpen^ my sight, as to
carry it farther tlnan ordinary' vision; but would, in the
end, put out' my eyes? Your philosophy is to the eyes of
the mind', what I have supposed the doctor's nostrum' to be
to those of the body\ It actually brought your own^ excel-
lent understanding, which was by nature quick-sighted\
and rendered morc^ so by art and subtilty of logic peculiar
to yourself ' — it brought, I say, your^ very acute under-
standing to sec nothing clearly'; and enveloped all the
great truths of reason and religion' in the mists of doubO
Bayle. I own^ it did; but your comparison' is not juBt\
I did not see well, before^ I used my philosophic eye-
water : I only supposed^ I saw well ; but I was in an error'
with all the rest^ of m:\nkind. The blindness' was real':
tho perceptions' were i!naginery\ I cured myself first of
those false' imaginations, and then I laudably endeavoured
to cure other^ men.
CflAF. VII.
DIALOGUES.
143
Ijocke. A great cure' indeed ! — and do you not think,
that, in return^ for the service you did them, they ought to
erect you a statue'?
liayle. Yes': it is good for human nature' to know
its own weakness^ When we arrogantly presume on a
•trcngth we have not', we are always in great danger of
hurting^ ourselves, or at least of deserving ridicule and
contempt' by vain and idle efforts^
Locke. I agrec^ with you, that human nature should
know its own weakness'; but it should also feel its strength^
and try to improve^ it. This was my^ employment as a
philosopher'. I endeavoured to discoyer the reaP powers
of the mind, to see what it could do', and what it could
not'; to restrain it from efforts beyond its ability'; but to
teach it how to advance as far as the faculties given to it
by nature\ with the utmost exertion\ and most proper
culture' of them, would allow it to go.^ In the vast ocean'
of philosophy, I had the linc^ and the plummet' always in
my hands\ Many^ of its depths I found myself unable to
fathom'; but, by caution in sounding\ and the careful
obserrations I made in the course of my voyage\ I found
out gome truths of so much use' to mankind, that they ac-
knowledge me to have been their benefactor.^
Baylp' Their ignorance makes them think^ so. Some
other' philosopher will come hereafter, and show those
truths to be fa!8ehoods\ He' will pretend to discover
other truths of equar importance. A later' sago will arise,
perhaps among men now barbarous and unlcarned\ whose
liiigacious discoveries' wilji discredit the opinions of his
admired predecessor^ In philosophy', as in nature^, all'
changes its form\ and one' thing exists by the destruction
of auother\
l^ke. Opinions taken up without a patient investiga-
tioD\ depending on terms not accurately defined', and
principles begged without prooP, like theories to explain
the phenomena of nature', built on suppositions^ instead
of experiments', must perpetually ;.hange and destroy^ one
another. But some' opinions there are, even in matters
not obvious to the common senso^ of mankind, which they
have received on such rational' grounds of assent, that they
>re as immoveable as the pillars of heaven'; or (to speak
philosophically'), as the great laws of nature\ by which,
under God', the universe^ is sustained. Can you serioualy
^nk, that, because the hypothesis of your countryman
iHBii
'W^
i
i ' '
j
i
144
THE ENGUSH READER.
Put I. I Ctf AP. Vn.
Descartes^ which was nothing but an ingenious, well-ima.
gined romance^ has been lately exploded', the system of
Newton', which is built on experiments and geonietry\ the
two most certain^ methods of discovering truth, will ever
fail'; or that, because the whims of fanatics^ and the divi.
nity of schoolmen', cannot now' be supported, the doc>
trines of that^ religion, which I, the declared enemy of all
enthusiasm and false reasoning', firmly believed and mtin-
tained^, will ever be shaken'?
Bayle, If you^ had asked Descartes', while he was in the
height of his vogue, whether his' system would ever be
confuted by any other^ philosophers, as that of Aristotle
had been by his', what answer^ do you suppose he would
have returned ?
Locke, Come', come^: you yourseir know the difference
between the foundations on which the credit of those' iji.
tems, and that of Newton^ is placed. Your' scepticism is
more affected^ than real'. You found it a shorter way to
a great reputation^ (the only^ wish of your heart), to object^,
than to defend^; to pull down', th>m to set up\ And yoor
talents w^re admirable' for that kmd of work. Then your
huddling together in a critical dictionary\ a pleasant Ude',
or obc'^ene jest^ and a grave argument against the Chrii*
lian religion', a witty confutation of some absurd author\
and an artful sophism to impeach some respectable truth',
was particularly^ commodious to all our young smarti^
and smatterers in frce^-thinking. But what mischief have
you not done to human society^! You have endeavoured',
with some degree of success\ to shake those foundationi
on which the whole morar world, and the great fabric of I
social happiness', entirly resO. How could youS as a phi*
losopher, in the sober hours of reflection', answer for thii
to your conscience^; even supposing you had^ doubts of the
truth of a system', which gives to virtue' its sweetest hopei\
to impenitent vice^ its greatest 'fears', and to true' peni*
tence its best consolations^; which restrains even the leiit^
approaches to guilt', and yet makes those allowances for
the infirmities' of our nature, which the steic pride denied*
to it, but which its real imperfection\ and the goodneM of
its infinitely benevolent Creator', so evidently require^l
BayU* The mind is free^; and it lovei to exert^ its frM-
dom. Any restraint' upon it iv a violence done to iti i
Rttiire^ and a tyranny' againit whieb it baa a ligbt n
labaP.
PaIT I. I CilAP. VII.
DIALOGUES.
145
hcnJce. The mmd\ though free', has a governor' \ ithin
itaelf \ which may', and ought^ to limiO the exercise of its
fireedom. That' governor is rcason\
Bayk. Yes^; but reason', like other^ governors, has t
policy more dependent on uncertain caprice', than upon
gny fixed laws^. And if that reason, which rules my' mind
or your8\ has happened to set up a favourite notion', it
not only submits implicitly' to it, but desires that the same
respect should be paid to it by all the rest^ of mankind.
Now, I hold that any^ man may lawfully oppose this' de-
sire in another^; and that, if he is wise', he will use his
atiDost endeavours to check it in himself \
Locke. Is there not also a weakness of a contrary^ na-
ture to this you are now ridiculing'1 Do we not often
\ake a pleasure in showing our own power^, and gratifying
our own pride\ by degrading the notions set up by other'
men, and generally respected ?
Bayle. I believe we do^; and by this' means it often
happens^ that, if one^ man builds and consecrates a tern-
pie to folly', another' pulls it down\
Locke. Do you think it beneficial to human society, to
have all' temples pulled downl »
Bayle. I cannot say that I do\ . m
Locke. Yet I find not in your writings' any mark of dis-
tinction, to show us which you mean to save\
Bayle. A true^ philosopher, like an impartial historian',
must be of no^ sect.
Locke. Is there no medium^ between the blind zeal 'of a
sectary^ and a total indifference to all' religion 1
Bayle. With regard to morality', I was not indifferent\
Locke, How could you, then, be indifferent with regard
to the sanctions^ which religion^ gives to morality 1 How
could you publish what tends so directly^ and apparently
to weaken in mankind' the belier of those sanctions? Wa;j
not this sacrificing the great interests of virtue^ to the little
motives of vanity'1 - ""s^ "^^ '
Bayle. A man may act indiscreetly', but he cannot do
wrong\ by declaring thaO which, on a full discussion' of
the question, he sincerely thinks to bo true\
Locke. An enthusiast, who advances doctrines projudi-
eial to society^ or opposes any that are useful' to it, has
the strength of opinion, and the heat of a disturbed imagi-
Bation\ to plead in alleviation of his fault'. But youi^
tool hcad^ and iound^ judgment', can have no^ such ex-
O
146
THE ENGLISH READER.
P^Jifl. icMip.vn.
cuse. I know very weir there are passages in air your
works, and those not a few\ where you talk like a rigid
moralist/ I have also heard that your character^ was
irreproachably good'. But when, in the most laboured^
parts of your writings, you sap the surest foundations of
all moral duties'; what avails it that in others^ or in the
conduct of your life', you appeared to respect^ them 1 How
many, who have stronger passions^ than you' had, and are
desirous to get rid of the curb^ that restrains' them, will
lay hold of your scepticism', to set themselves loose from
air obhgations of virtue ! What a misfortune^ it is to have
TTiade such' a use of such talentsM It would have been
better for you, tuid for mankind', if ^ou had been one of
the dullest of Dutch theologians^ u. the most credulous
monk', in a Portuguese convent\ The riches of the niiud,
like those of fortune, may be employed so perversely', as
to become a nuisance and pest\ instead of an ornumcnt
and support', to society.
Bayk. You are very severe^ upon me. — Bui, do you
count it no^ merit, no^ service to mankind, to deliver them
iroxw the irauds and fetters of priestcraft', from the deli-
riums ot fanaticism^ and from the terrors and follies of
superstition'] Consider how much mischief these have
done to the worlds Even in the last^ age, what massa-
cres\ what civil wars\ what convulsions of government^
what confusion' in society, did they produce^! Nay, in
that we both lived^ in, though much more enUghtened than
the former', did I not see them occasion a violent perse-
cution in my own' country 1 And can you blame mc for
striking at the root' of these evils]
> Locke, The root' of these evils, you well know, was
false^ religion ; but you struck at the true\ Heaven^ and
heir are not more dillercnt', than the system of faith I'
dei'ended, and that which produced the horrors of which
you^ speak. Why would you so fallaciously confound^
ihcm together in some' of your writings, that it requires
much more judgment^ and a mo*o diligent attention\ than
ordinary' readers have, to separate^ them again, and to
make the proper distinctions ] This', indeed, is the great
art of the most celebrated free-thinkers. They recommend
themselves to warm and ingenuous minds', by lively stiokes
of wit', and by arguments really strong\ against supersti-
tion\ enthusiasm^ and priestcraft'. But, at the same time',
they inisidiously^ throw the colours of these' upon the fair
Sect. II.— T?
IIPahtL I Chip. VII.
DIALOGUES.
147
face of true^ religion ; and dress her' out in their garb,
with a malignant intention to render her odious or despi-
cable\ to those who have not penetration' enough to dis-
cern^ the impious fraud. Some of them may have thus
deceived themselves\ as well as others'. Yet it is certain,
no book that ever was written by the most acute^ of these
gentlemen, is so repugnant to priestcraft', to spiritual ty-
ranny\ to all absurd superstitions\ to all that can tend to
disturb or injure society', as thaO gospel' they so much
affect to despised
Bayle. Mankind arc so made, that when they have been
overheated', they cannot be brought to a proper temper'
again, till they have been overcooled\ My' scepticism
might be necessary, to abate the fever and frenzy of false
religion.
Locke. A wise prescription, indeed, to bring on a para-
lytical state of the mind' (for such a scepticism as yours'
is a palsy\ which deprives the mind' of all vigour\ and
deadens^ its natural and vital powers), in order to take off
a fever, which temperance, and the milk of the evangeli
cal doctrines\ would probably cure.
Bayle. I acknowledge^ that those ^Ticdicines have a great
powe?. But few doctors apply them untainted with the
mixture of some harsher^ drugs, or some unsafe and ridi-
culous nostrums' of their own\
Locke. What you now' say is too true\ God has given
us a most excellent^ physic for the soul' in air its diseases;
but bad and interested physicians', or ignorant and con-
ceited quacks', administer it so iir to the rest' of mankind,
that much of the benefit of it is unhappily lost\
LrTTLKTOW.
:vt tjv
Sect. II. — TTie Vices and Follies of Men should excite Com'
passion rather than Ridicule.
BEMOCIHTUS AND HEHACL1TU8.
Democritus. I und it impossible to reconcile myself to
a melancholy philosophy.
Heraclitus. And I am equally unable to approve of that
vain philosophy, which teaches men to despise and ridi-
cule one another. To a wise and feeling mii?d, the world
appears in a wretched and painful light.
Dem. Thou art too much affected with (he state of things ;
and this is a source of misery to thee. ^
' i
14S
THE ENGLISH READER. Put I.
n
Her, And I think thou art too little moved by it Thy
mirth and ridicule bespeak the buffoon, rather than the
philosopher. Does it not excite thy compassion, to see
mankind so frail, so blind, so far departed from the rulei
of virtue ?
Dem. I am excited to laughter, when I see so much im-
pertinence and folly.
Her. And yet, after all, they, who are the objects of thy
ridicule, include, net only mankind in general, but the
persons v^rith whom thou livest, thy friends, thy family, nay,
even thyself. '^
Dem, I care very little for all the silly persons I meet
with ; and think I am justifiable in diverting myself with
their folly.
Her. If they are weak and foolish, it marks neither
wisdorji nor humanity, to insult rather than pity them.
But is it certain, that thou art not as extiavagant as they
arel
Dem. I presume that I am not ; since, in every point,
my sentiments are the very reverse of theirs.
Her. There are follies of difterent kinds. By constant-
ly amusing thyself with the errors and misconduct of
others, thou mayest render thyself equally ridiculous and
culpable.
Dem. Thou art at liberty to indulge such sentiraenti;
and to weep over me too, if thou hast any tears to spare.
For my part, I cannot refrain from pleasing myself with
the levities and ill conduct of the world about me. Are
not all men foolish, or irregular in their lives 1
Her. Alas ! th^re is but too much reason to believe
they are so ; and on this ground, I pity and deplore their
condition. We agree in this point, that men do not con-
duct themselves according to reasonable and just princi-
ples : but I, who do not sufTer myself '-o act as they do,
must yet regard the dictates of my understanding and
foclinga, which compel me to love them; and that love fills
me with compassion for their mistakes and irregularities.
Canst thou condemn me for pitying my own species, ray
brethren, persons born in the same condition of life, and
destined to the same hopes and privileges'? If thou
•houldst enter an hospital, where sick and wounded per-
sons reside, would their wounds and distresses excite thy
mirth ? And yet, the evils of the body bear no compari*
mm with those of tho mind. Thou wouldst certainty bluih
DIALOGUES.
149
barity, if thou hadst been so unfeeling as to
r. despise a miserable being, who had lost one of
'<jlLnd yet thou art so destitute of humanity, as to
|i|^e who appear to be deprived of the noble
the understanding, by Uie little regard which
Jk its dictates.
•ji^who has lost a leg is to be pitied, because the
j^be imputed to himself; but he who rejects
V*_ .,„««„ „„.i ^^„„„: — «„ voluntarily deprives
in his own folly.
be pitied ! A
'i» ould pluck out his own eyes, would
than an ordinary blind man.
^commodate the business. There
>«v.^'^^^^«jtfi8on and conscience, volu
»)tvJU?Jt^(*; O' ^ The loss originates i
•i([iil^f .{^.'i^ h the more is he to
M
.- ^>A.^«:|i^
on each side of the question.
■ Ml for laughing, and reason for
^"j^'jculous, and I laugh at it; it
^' V '^st over it. Every person
./ -i .^rding to his own temper.
/ mankind are preposter-
J^^f- '-. '^&' *»» we must think and
.o submit to the authority,
- oT the greater part of men, would
IV. ..,x/ii8a and miserable.
Htr. All this is, indeed, true ; but then thou hast no
real love or feeling for thy species. The calamities of
mankind excite thy mirth ; and this proves that thou hast no
regard for men, nor any true respect for the virtues which
they have unhappily abandoned. Fewelok.
•^
Sect. III. — The Glory of a Wise and Peaceful King is
more solid than that of an Unjust Conqueror,
ROHULUS AND NUMA FOMPILIUS.
Romulus. You have been a long time in coming here:
you havo had a surprising long reign.
Numa Pompilius. The reason is, it has been very peace-
able. The means of arriving at a good old age upon a
throne is, to injure nobody ; not to abuse authority ; and
*a act in such a manner that no man may have any inter-
est in wishing our death.
Rom. When one governs so moderately, he lives obscure-
ly, and dies without glory : he has the trouble of govern-
I"'''' ^
14S
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pam I.
Her, And I think thou art too little moved by i* "^j
mirth and ridicule bespeak the buffoon, ratherf .
philosopher. Does it not excite thy compasf
mankind so frail, so blind, so far departed froi/ «|
of virtue 1 C^
Devi. I am excited to laughter, when I see bc'
pertinence and folly. /
Her. And yet, after all, they, who are the o'
ridicule, include, net only mankind in g'-
persons with whom thoulivest, thy frienc'
even thyself.
Dem, I care very little for all Ihf
with ; and think I am justifiable ir ^
their folly.
Her. If they are weak and fr '
wisdom nor humanity, to insu'
But is it certain, that thou ar^
mrel /
Dem. I presume that I
my sentiments are the ^
Her. There are folli'
ly amusing thyself vfu
others, thou mayest render lu^
culpable.
Dem. Thou art at liberty to indulge such seiiumenta;
Mid to weep over me too, if thou hast any tears to spare.
For my part, J cannot refrain from pleasing myself with
the levities and ill conduct of the world about me. Are
not all men foolish, or irregular in their lives 1
Her. Alas ! there is but too much reason to beliere
they are so ; and on this ground, I pity and deplore their
condition. We agree in this point, that men do not con-
duct themselves according to reasonable and just princi*
pics : but I, who do not suffer myself to act as they do,
must yet regard the dictates of my understanding and
feelings, which compel mc to love them; and that love fills
me with compassion for their mistakes and irregularities.
Canst thou condemn me for pitying my own species, my
brethren, persons born in the same condition of life, and
destined to the same hopes and privileges 1 If thoa
dikouldst enter an hospital, where sick and wounded per*
tons reside, would their wounds and distresses excite thy
mirth t And yet, the evils of the body bear no compari*
MW with those of the mind. Thou wouldst certainly bluih
'•'1
ciiF. vn.
DIALOGUES.
149
it thy barbarity, if thou hadst been so unfeeling as to
laugh at or despise a miserable being, ivho had lost one of
bis legs ; and yet thou art so destitute of humanity, as to
ridicule those who appear to be deprived of the noble
powers of the understanding, by the little regard which
they pay to its dictates.
Dem. He who has lost a leg is to be pitied, because the
loss is not to be imputed to himself; but he who rejects
the dictates of reason and conscience, voluntarily deprives
himself of their aid. The loss originates in his own folly.
Her. Ah ! so much the more is he to be pitied ! A
furious maniac, who should pluck out his own eyes, would
deserve more compassion than an ordinary blind man.
Dem. Come, let us accommodate the business. There
is something to be said on each side of the question.
There is every where reason for laughing, and reason for
weeping. The world is ridiculous, and I laugh at it : it
is deplorable, and thou lamentest over it. Every person
views it in his own way, and according to his own temper.
One point is unquestionable, that mankind are preposter-
ous: to think right and to act well, we must think and
act differently from them. To submit to the authority,
and follow the example of the greater part of men, would
render us foolish and miserable.
Her. All this is, indeed, true ; but then thou hast no
real love or feeling for thy species. The calamities of
mankind excite thy mirth ; and this proves that thou hast no
regard for men, nor any true respect for the virtues which
they have unhappily abandoned. Feitelok.
•li
Sect. III. — The Glory of a Wise and Peaceful King it
more solid than that of an Unjust Conqueror.
ROMULUS AND SVUlk P0MP1LIU8.
Romulus. You have been a long time in coming here:
you have had a surprising long reign.
Numa PompilivH. The reason is, it has been very peacc-
ible. The means of arriving at a good old age upon a
throne is, to injure nobody ; not to abuse authority ; and
to act in such a manner that no man may have any inter-
wt in wishing our death.
Rom. When one governs so moderately, he lives obscure-
ly, aiid dies without glory : be has the trouble of govern-
150
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I. I CaiF. VII.
\SH'\
ing, and authority gives him no pleasure : it is far better
to conquer, to bear down all opposition, and to aspire to
immortality.
Numa Pom. But in what, I pray you, consists your im-
mortality] I heard you were in the rank of the gods',
quaffing nectar at the table of Jove : how happens it, then,
that I find you here 1
Rom. To speak ingenuously, the senators, grown jealous
of my power, made eiway with me, and loaded me with
honours after pulling me to pieces; they chose rather to
invoke me as a god, than obey me as their king.
Numa Pom. How! there was no truth in Proculus's
atory, then 1
Rom. Oh! do you not know how many things the peo-
pie are made to believe 1 — But why say I sol Nobody
knows better than you, who persuaded them that you were
inspired by the nymph Egeria. Proculus, seeing the peo-
ple exasperated at my death was willing to soothe them
by a fable. Men love to be deceived : flattery assuages
the greatest griefs.
Numa Pom. All your immortality, then, was only some
mortal stabs,
Rom. But I have had altars, priests, victims, and incense.
Numa Pom. That incense is no sort of balsam ; you are
nothing the less here, a vain and impotent shadow, without
hopes of ever seeing again the light of day. You see, then,
that there is nothing so solidly advantageous as being
good, just, moderate, and beloved by one's people: for,
provided a person lives long, and is always in peace, he
has no incense indeed, and does not pass for immortal;
but he enjoys good health, reigns without disturbance,
9.n(ji does a great deal of good to the people he governs.
Rom. You, who lived so long, were not young when you
were crowned^
Numa Pom. I was forty years old, and that was my
happiness: had I begun to reign sooner, I had been with-
out experience and without wisdom, exposed to all my
passions. Power is too dangerous a thing when one is
young and fiery ; and of that, you had fatal experience, by
killing your brother when you were in a passion, which
made you insupportable to all your citizens.
Rom. To have lived so long, you must have had a
■trong and faithful guard about you.
Numa Pom. So far from that, the first thing I did yrtt
Part I. I Cb4F. VII.
DIALOGUES.
151
to part with those three hundred guards you had selected,
which were called Celeres. A man who reluctantly ac-
cepts the royalty, who does not choose it but for the pul>-
lic good, and would be content to resign it, is not afraid
of death like a tyrant. For my part, I thought I did the
Romans a favour in governing them: I lived poor, to
make the people rich ; all the neighbcuring nations would
have wished to be under my conduct. In this situation,
what occasion had I for guards 1 As for mc, a poor mor-
tal, it was nobody's interest to bestow on me the immor-
tality of which the senate thought you worthy. My guard
was the affection of the citizens, who regarded me as thei-
father. May not a king trust his life to a people which
trusts jhim with their property, their peace, their preser-
vation 1 The confidence is equal on both sides.
Rom. To hear you talk, one would imagine you had
been king contrary to your inclination: but you deceived
the people in that, as you imposed on them in the affair
of religion. .*'
Numa Pom. They came and brought mc out of my re-
tirement at Cures : at first I represented that I was by ro
means fit to govern a warlike people, accustomed to con-
quests; that thcy'would need a Romulus, always ready to
vanquish : I added, that Tatius's death and yours made
me not over ambitious of succeeding those two kings ; in
short, I represented that I had never been at war. They
persisted in desirin^T me : I yielded; but I always lived
poor, plain, moderate in the royalty, without preferring
myself to any citizen. I so united the two nations of the
Sabincs and Romans that they cannot now be distinguish-
ed. I revived the golden age; all the nations, not only
adjacent to Rome, but even throughout Italy, tasted the
plenty I every where diffused ; agriculture, brought into
repute, civilized the savage people, and attached them to
their country, without giving them a restless passion to in-
vade the lands of their neighbours.
Rom. Such peace and plenty only serve to puff up a
people, to render tlicm stubborn to their sovereign, and
effeminate in themselves, insomuch that they are never
able to support the toils and dangers of war. Had any
power come to attack you, what would you have done ; —
you who hai never seen any thing of warl You must
have told the enemy to stay till you had consulted tht
nymph.
['-._),
152
THE ENGLISH READER.
Paet I.
Numa Pom, If I did not know how to make war like jon,
I knew how to avoid it, and to get myself respected and
beloved by all my neighbours. I gave the Romans laws,
which, by making them just, laborious, and sober, vrilj
render them for ever sufficiently formidable to any who
would wish to attack them. I still greatly fear, that they
retain too much of the spirit of rapine and violence which
you had inculcated into them. Fenelox.
•Sect. IV. — Reyno and Alpin,
Reyno. The wind and rain are over; calm is the noon
of day. The clouds are divided in heaven ; over the green
hill flies the inconstant sun ; red, through the stony vale,
comes down the stream of the hill. — Sweet are thy mur-
murs, 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 corn-
plainest thou as a blast in the wood — as a wave on the
lonely shore 1
Alpin, My tears, O Reyno! 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 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, Morar ! 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 liko
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 ! Four stones,
with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of thee.
A tree, with scarce a leaf^ — long grass whistling in tho
wind — mark, to the hunter's eye, the grave of the mighty
Moral. — Morar ! thou art low indeed : thou hast no mother
to mourn thee; no maid with her tears of love: dead is
Chap. VH.
WALOGUES.
153
she that brought thee forth ; fallen is the daughter of Mor-
glan. — 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 1 — It is thy father, O Morar ! the father of no
son but thee. — Weep, thou father of Morar ! w«:;ep ; but
thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of ^^.s, 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 1 — Farewell : thou
bravest of men :, thou conqueror in the field ; but the field
shall see thee no more ; nor the gloomy wood he lightened
with the splendour of thy steel. — Thou hast left no son—
but the song shall preserve«thy name. Ossiax.
• Sect. V. — Moderate Wishesy the Source of Happinese.
MEXALCUS AND ESCIIINUS.
The young shepherd Menalcus, being in search of a stray
lamb from his Hock, discovered, in the recesses of the
forest, a hunter stretched at the foot of a tree, exhausted
with fatigue and with hunger. " Alas! shepherd," he ex-
claimed, " I came hither yesterday in pursuit of game ;
and have been unable to retrace the path by which I en-
tered tliis frightful solitude, or to discover a single vestige
of a human footstep. I faint with hunger: give me relief,
or I die !" — Menalcus, supporting the stranger in his arms,
fed him with bread from his scrip, and afterwards con-
ducted him through the intricate mazes of the forest in
safety. ««r w. -«j;r ,:. j.
Menalcus, being about to take leave of the hunter Eschi-
nus, was detained by him. " Thou hast preserved my life,
shepherd," he said, " and I will make thine happy. Pol-
low me to the city. Thou shalt no longer dwell in a
miserable cottage, but inhabit a superb palace surrounded
with lofty columns of marble. Thou shalt drink high-
flavoured wines out of golden goblets, and eat the most
costly viands from plates of silver."
Menalcus replied, " Why should I go to the city 1 My
httle cottage shelters mo from the rain and the wind. It
is not surrounded with marble columns, but with delicious
fruit-trees, from which I gather my repasts ; and nothing
can be more pure than the water which I draw in my
earthen pitcher from the stream that runs by my door.
2o
• i
B
154
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part!. I Cmp. VIL
Thon on holydays I gather roses and lilies, to ornament
my little table ; and those roses and lilies are more beauti-
ful, and smell sweeter, than vases of gold and silver."
JEsck, Come with me, shepherd. I shall lead thee
through sumptuous gardens, embellished with fountains
And statues : thou shalt behold women whose dazzling
beauties the rays of the sun have never tarnished, habited
in silks of the richest hues, and sparkling with jewels ; and
thou shalt hear concerts of musicians, whose transcendent
fiki)l will at once astonish and enchant thee.
^Icn» Our sun-burnt shepherdesses arc very handsome.
How beautiful they look on holydays, when they put on
garUnds of fresh flowers, and "we dance under the shade
of pur trees, or retire to the woods to listen to the song of
tHp birds! Can your musicians sing more melodiously
Uilatn our nightingale, blackbird, and linnet? No: I will
not go to the city.
Esch. Then take this gold, and with it supply all thy
wants.
Men* Gold is useless to me. My fruit-trees, my little
(vardon, and the milk of my goats, supply all my wants.
EscJi* How shall I recompense tliy kindness, happy
shepherd 1 — What wilt thou accept from me 1
Men» Give mc only the horn that hangs to thy belt.
Uorn is not easily broken ; therefore it will be more use-
ful to me than my earthen pitcher.
The hunter, with a smile, took the horn from his kit,
and presented it to the shepherd, who hastened buck to
his cottage, the abode of contentment and happiness.
G£Sii!fSB>
♦ Bbct. VL — Beauty and Utility combined in thi ProduC'.
, , tions of Nature
THBROIf AND ASPASIO.
Tdkbom and Aspasio took a morning walk into the fieldi;
thoir spirits cheered, and their imaginations lively ; grati-
tude glowing in their hearts, and the whole creation smil-
ing around them.
After sufficient exorcise, they seated themselves on ft
mossy hillock, which offered its couch. The rising tun
had visited the spot, to dry up the dews, and exhale the
dampa, that might endanger health ; to open the violets,
and to expand the primroses, that decked the green. The
PahtL I Chip. VIL
DIALOGUES.
155
whole shade of the wood was collected behind them ; and
a beautiful, extensive, diversified landscape spread itMit
before them.
Theron, according to his usual manner, made many
improving remarks on the prospect, and its furniture. He
traced the footsteps of an ali-compr<shending contrivance,
and pointed out the strokes of inimitable skill. He ob-
served the grand exertions of power, and the rich e:^-
uberance of goodnei^s, most signally, most charmingly
conspicuous throughout the whole. — Upon one circiin;-
stance he enlarged, with particular satisfaction.
Theron. See, Aspasio, how all is calculated to admin-
ister the highest delight to mankind. Those trees and
hedges, which skirt the extremities of the landscape, steal-
ing away from tlicir present bulk, and lessening by gentle
diminutions, appear like elegant pictures in miniature.
Those which occupy the nearer situations, are a set o'i
noble images, swelling upon the eye, in fu!l proportion,
and in a variety of graceful attitudes; both of them orna-
menting the several apartments of our common abode,
with a mixture of delicacy and grandeur. The blossomn
that array the branches, the flowers that embroider the
mead, address and entertain our eyes with every charm of
beauty ; whereas, to other creatures, they are destitute
of all those attractions, which result from a combination
of the loveliest colours, and the most alluring forratf.
Yonder streams, that glide, with smooth serenity, alon^
the valleys, — glittering to the distant view like sheets oi
poiiishcd crystal, or soothing the attentive ear with the
softness of aquatic murmur.^, — are not less exhilarating to
the fancy, than refreshing to the soil through which they
pass. The huge, enormous mountain ; the steep and diz2.y
precipice; the i)endeiit horrors of the craggy promontory,
wild and awful as they are, furnish an agreeable enter-
tainment to the human mind, and please even while
they amuse: wliereas tlie beasts take no other notice of
those majestic deiormities, than to avoid the dangers they
throaton.
Aspasio. How wonderfully do such considerations cicnlt
our idea of tlie Creator's goodness, his very distinguishint;
poodncsfl to mankind ! And should they not proportion-
ably endear the eternal Benefactor to our hearts? Hik;
ever-bountiful hand has, with profuse liberality, scattered
blessings among all the ranks of animated existence. Bui
156
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I.
m ?l
to us he exercises a beneficence of a very superior kind.
We are treated with peculiar attention. We are admitted
to scenes of delight, which none but ourselves are capable
of relishing.
Theron, Another remark, though very obvious, is equally
important. The destination of all those external things
is no less advantageous, than their formation is beautiful.
The bloom, which engages the eye with its Jclicate hues,
is cherishing the embryo fruit; and forming, within its
silken folds, the rudiments of a future desert. — Those
streams, which shine from afar, like fluid silver, are much
more valuable in their productions, and beneficial in their
services, than they arc beautiful in their appearance.
They distribute, as they roll along their winding banks,
cleanliness to our houses, and fruitfulness to our lands.
They nourish, at their own expense, a never-failing supply
of the finest fish. They visit our cities, and attend our
wharfs, as so many public vehicles, ready to set out at
all hours. — Those sheep, which give their udders to be
drained by the busy frisking lambs, are fattening their
flesh for our support ; and, while they fill their own fleeces,
are providing for our comfortable clothing. Yonder kinc,
some of which are brousing upon the tender herb ; others,
satiated with pasturage, and ruminating under the shady
covert, though conscious of no such design, are concoct-
ing, for our use, one of the softest, purest, most salutar)'
of liquors. The bees, that fly humming about our scat,
and pursue their work on the fragrant blossoms, are col-
lecting balm and sweetness, to compose the richest of sir-
ups ; which, though the produce of their toil', is intended
for our good. Nature and her whole family are our obse-
quious servants, our ever-active labourers. They brin?
the fruits of their united industry, and pour them into our
lap, or deposite them in our store-rooms.
Aspaslo. Who can ever sufFiciently admire this immense
benignity ! — The Supreme Disposer of events has com-
manded delight and profit to walk hand in hand, through
his ample creation : making all things so perfectly pleas-
ing, as if beauty was their only end ; yet all things so
eminently serviceable, as if usefulness had been their wholo
design. And, as a most winning invitation to our grati-
tude, he has rendered man the centre, in which all the
emanations of his beneficence, diffused through this ter-
roatrial system, finally terminate. Heuvit.
misc', our
157
CHAPTER VIII.
PUBLIC SPEECHES.
SicT. I. — The Apostle PauVs noble Defence before Festus
and Agrippa.
A GRIPPAL said unto Paul', "Thou art permitted' to
speak for thysclf\"— Then Paul stretched forth his
hand', and answered for himself \
I THrxK myself happy\ king Agrippa', because I "hall
answer for myselP this day before thee', concerning all
the things whereof I am accused of the Jews: especially'
as I know thee to be expert^ in all customs and questions'
which are among the Jcws\ Wherefore\ I beseech thee'
to hear me patiently\
My manner of life' from my youth\ which was at the first
among my own nation at Jorusalom', know all the Jews^;
who knew me from the beginning' (if they would testify),
that, after the straitcst sect^ of our religion', I lived a Pha-
risee. And now I statid^ and am judged' for the hope of
the promise^ made by God to our fathers^ to which pro-
mise', our twelve tribes^ continually serving God^ day and
night', hope to come': and, for this hope's sake\ king
Agrippa', I am accused by the Jews\
Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you',
that God should raise the dead'] I verily thought with
mysdf, that I ouuht to do many things^ contrary to the
name' of Jesus of Nazareth': and this I did in Jerusalem\
Many of the saints^ I shut up in prison', having received
authority' from the chief jmests^ and, when they were put
to death', I gave my voice against' them. And I often^
punished them in every synagogue', and compelled them
to blaspheme'; and, being exceedingly mad^ against them',
I persecuted them' even unto strange cities'. Hut, as I
went to Damascus', with authority and commission from
the chief priests', at mid'-day, O king'! I saw in the way^
a light from heaven', above the brightness of the 8un\
•hining round about me', and them who journeyed with m«\
. ■•^■^■.^;'-
' 3HkI
^' 1
t
' ' A
; ..|
m
158
THE ENGLISH READER.
Paut I.
And when we were all fallen to the earth', I heard a voice
ipeakini? to me\ and saying, in the Hebrew tongue, " Saul',
SauK, why pcrsecutest thou me^? It is hard for thee' to
kick against the goads\" And I said', " Who art thou\
lordl" And he replicd\ "I am Jesus', whom thou per-
sccutest\ But rise', and stand upon thy feet^; for I have
appeared to thee for this purpose', to make thee a minis-
tei\ and a witness both of these things which thou hast
seen', and of those things in which' I will appear to thee\
delivering thee from the people', and from the Gcntilcs\ to
whom I now send thee', to open their eyes\ and to turn
them^ from darkness to light', and from the power^ of Satar
to God^; that they may receive^ forgiveness of sins', and
inheritance^ amongst them' who are sanctified^ by faith'
that is in me.
Whereupon', O king^ Agrippa'! I was not disobedient^
to the heavenly vision'; but showed' first to them of Da-
mascus\ and at Jerusalem\ and through all the coasts of
JudeaS and then to the Gentiles', that they should repent^
and turn to God', and do works meet for repentance. For
these causes\ the Jews caui^ht me in the temple', and went
about to kill me. Having, however, obtained help from
God', I continue, to this diiy\ witnessing both to small and
great', saying no other things' than those which the pro-
phets^ and Moses' declared should come\ — that Christ
should sufler^; that he' would be the first^ who should rise
from the dead'; and that he would show light^ to the peo-
ple', and to the Gentiles. ,
And, as he tlius spoke for himself, Festus said\ with a
loud voice', «'Paul', thou art beside thv self \* much learn-
ing' hath made th(;e mad\" But he replied', " I am not
mad\ most noble Festus', but speak the words of truth and
soberne8s\ For the king knoweth these things', before
whom I also speak freely'. I am persuaded^ that none of
these tilings are hidrliMi from him': for this thing' was not
done in a eornnr. King Agrippa\ liciievest thou the pro-
phetsV' I know that thou believest." Then AgrippaV«<aid
to Paul', " Almost thou persuadest mo to be a Christian."
And Paul replied', '' I would to God\ that not only' thou\
but also all that hear me this day', were both almost\ and
altogether such as I am', except these bonds."
Jleti zxtI.
Chaf. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES.
SscT. II Cicero against Verres.
159
The time is come, Fathers! when that which has long
been wished for, towards allaying the envy your order has
been 8ul>jcct to, and removing? the imputations against
trials, is effectually put in your power. An opinion has
long prevailed, not only here at home, but likewise in
foreign countries, both dangerous to you and pernicious
to the state, — that, in prosecutions, men of wealth arc
always safe, however clearly convicted. There is now to
be brought upon his trial before you, — to the confusion, I
hope, of the propagators of this slanderous imputation, —
one whose life and actions condemn him in the opinion of
all impartial persons; but who, according to his own reck-
oning, and declared dependence upon his riches, is already-
acquitted : I mean Cains Verves. I demand justice of
you. Fathers ! upon the robbe. if the public treasury, the
oppressor of Asia Minor and Pamphylia, the invader of the
rights and privileges of Romans, the scourge and curM
of Sicily. If that sentence is passed uj>on him which his
crimes deserve, your authority, Fathers! will be venerable
and sacred in the eyes of the public; but if his great riches
should bias you in his favour, T shall still gain one point, —
to "ake it apparent to all the world, that what vas want-
ing in this case, was, not a criminal nor a prosecutor, but
justice and adequate punishment.
To pass over the shameful irregularities of his youth,
what does his qujBstorship, the first public employment he
held, what does it exhibit, but one continued scene of vil-
lanics'! — Cneius Carbo plundered of the public money by
his own treasurer, a consul stri{)ped and betrayed, an array
deserted and reduced to want, a province robbed, the civil
and religious rights of a people violated. The employ-
ment he held in Asia Minor and Pamphylia, what did it
produce but the ruin of those countries; in which houses,
cities, and temples, were robbed by him "? What was his
conduct in his prietorship here at home 1 Let the plun-
dered temples, and public works neglected, that he might
embezzle the money intended for carrying them on, bear
witness. How did he discharge the ollice o( a judge 1 Let
those who suffered by his injustice answer. But his pra>-
torship in Sicily crowns all his works of wickedness, and
fmlshes a Luung monument to his infamy. The mischiefs
160
THE ENGLISH READER.
Paet I
1 1 '-'1
l! s^'i
ii
done by him in that unhappy country, during the three
years of his iniquitous administration, are such, that many
years, under the wisest and best of praetors, will not be
sufficient to restore things to the condition in which he
found them: for it is notorious, that, during the time of his
tyranny, the Sicilians neither enjoyed the protection of
their own original laws ; of the regulations made for their
benefit by the Roman senate, upon their coming under
the protection of the commonwealth ; nor of the natural
and unalienable rights of men. His nod has decided all
causes in Sicily for these three years ; and his decisions
have broken all law, all precedent, all right. The sums
he has, by arbitrary taxes, and unheal d-of impositions,
extorted from the industrious poor, are not to be com-
puted. The most faithful allies of the commonwealth
have been treated as enemies. Roman citizens have, like
slaves, been put to death with tortures. The most atro-
cious criminals, for money, have been exempted from the
deserved punishments ; and men of the most unexception-
able characters, condemned and banished unheard. The
harbours, though sufficiently fortified, and the gates of
strong towns, have been opened to pirates and ravagers.
The soldiery and sailors, belonging to a province under
the protection of the commonwealth, have been starved to
death ; whole fleets, to the great detriment of the province,
suffered to perish. The ancient monuments of either
Sicilian or Roman greatness, the statutes of heroes and
princes, have been carried off; and the temples stripped of
the images. — Having, by his iniquitous sentences, filled
the prisons with the most industrious and deserving of
the people, he then proceeded to order numbers of Roman
citizens to be strangled in the gaols; so that the exclama-
tion, " I am a citizen of Rome !" — which has often, in the
most distant regions, and among the most barbarous peo-
ple, been a protection, — was of no service to them ; but, on
the contrary, brought a speedier and a more severe pun-
ishment upon them.
I ask now, Verres I what thou hast to advance against
this charge ] AVilt thou pretend to deny iti Wilt thou
pretend, that any thhig false, that even any thing aggra-
vated, is alleged against thee ? Had any prince, or any
state, committed the same outrage against the privileges
of Roman citizens, should we not think we had sufficient
ground for demanding satisfaction? What punishment
Chip. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES.
161
ought, then, to be inflicted upon a tyrannical and i^>.;ked
prctor, who dared, at no greater distance than Sicily,
within sight of the Italian coast, to put to the infamous
death of crucifixion, that unfortunate and innocent citi-
zen, Publius Gavius Cosanus, only for his having asserted
his privilege of citizenship, and declared his intention of
appealing to the justice of his country, against a cruel
oppressor, who had unjustly confined him in prison at
Syracuse, whence he had just made his escape] The un-
happy man, arrested as he was going to embark for his
native country, is brought before the wicked praetor. With
eyes darting fury, and a countenance distorted with cruelty,
he ordered the helpless victim of his rage to be stripped,
and reds to be brought; accusing him, but without the
least shadow of evidence, or even of suspicion, of having
come to Sicily as a spy. It was in vain that the unhappy
man cried out, "I am a Roman citizen: I have served
under Lucius Pretius, who is now at Panormus, and will
attest my innocence." The blood-thirsty praetor, deaf to
all he could urge in his own defence, ordered the infamous
punishment to be inflicted. Thus, Fathers ! was an inno-
cent Roman citizen publicly mangled with scourging;
whilst the only words he uttered, amidst his cruel suffer-
ings, were, " I am a Roman citizen ! With these he hoped
to defend himself from violence and infamy. But of so
little service was this privilege to him, that, while he was
thus asserting his citizenship, the order wag given for his
execution — for his execution upon the cross!
liberty! — sound once delightful to every Roman
cnr ! — sacred privilege of Roman citizenship ! — once
uacred ! — now trampled upon ! — But what then 1 Is it come
to this 1 Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor, who
holds his whole power of the Roman people, in a Roman
province, within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture with
fire and red-hot plates of iron, and at last put to the infa-
mous death cf the cross, a Roman citizen 1 Shall neither
the cries of innocence expiring in agony, nor the tears of
pitying spectators, nor the majesty of the Roman common-
wealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain
the licentious and wanton cruelty of a monster, who, in
confidence of his riches, strikes at the root of all liberty,
and sets mankind at defiance 7
1 coTiclude with expressing my hopes, that your wisdom
and justice, Fathers ! will not, by suffering the atrocious
162
THE ENGLISH READER.
Past I. | Cmp. VHl
and unexampled insolence of Caius Verres to escape due
punishment, leave room to apprehend the danger of a total
subversion of authority, and the introduction of general
anarchy and confusion.
!'.;
II .;
f
Skct. hi. — Lord ManfifieUVs Speech in the House of Pern,
1770, on the Bill for preventing the Delays of Justice,
by claiming the Privilege of Parliament.
Mt Louds, — When I consider the importance of this bill
to your ]• rdships, I am not surprised it has taken up m
m jh . your consideration. It is a bill, indeed, of no
C6i 5;v*( '?» r agnitude ; it is no less than to take away from
two :,b of the legislative l)ody of this great kingdom.
certain pri\>i;-,. esand immvfftitics, of which they have been
long possessed. Perhaps there is no situation the human
mind can be placed in, that is so difficult and so trying,
as when it is made a judge in its own cause. There u
something implanted in the breast of man so attached to
self, so tenacious of privileges once obtained, that in such
a situation, either to discuss with impartiality, or decide
with justice, has ever been hold the summit of all human
virtue. The bill now in question puts your lordships in
this very predicament ; and I have no doubt the wisdom
of your decision will convince the world, that where self-
interest and justice arc in opposite scales, the latter will
ever preponderate with your lordships.
Privileges have been granted to legislators in all ages.
and in all countries. The practice is founded in wisdom ;
and, indeed, it is peculiarly essential to the constitution
of this country, that the members of both houses shall bn
free in their persons, in case of civil suits ; for there may
come a time when the safety and welfare of this wholo
empire, may depend upon their attendance in parliament.
I am far from advising any measure that would in future
endanger the state : but tlie l)ill before your lordships haf.
I am confident, no such tendency ; for it expressly secures
the persons of members of either house in all civil suits.
This being the case, I confess, when I see many noble
lords, for whose judgment I have a very great respect,
standing up to oppose a bill which is calculated merely to
facilitate the recovery of just and legal debts, I am aston-
ished and amazed. They, I doubt not, oppose the bill
PahtI. I Chap. VIII.
PUBLIC SPEECHES.
163
upon public principles : I would not wish to insinuate,
that private interest had the least weight in their determi-
nation.
The bill has been frequently proposed, and as frequently
has miscarried : but it was always lost in the lower house.
Little did I think, when it had passed the Commons, that
it possibly could have met with such opposition here.
Shall it be said, that you, my lords, the grand council of
the nation, the highest judicial and legislative body of the
realm, endeavour to evade, by privilege, those very laws
which you enforcCiOn your fellow-subjects? Forbid it
justice ! — I am sure, were fhc noble lords as well acquaint-
ed as I am, with but half the difficulties and delays occa-
sioned in the courts of justice, under pretence of privilege,
they would not, nay they could not, oppose the bill.
I have waited with patience to hear what arguments
might be urged against this bill; but I have r ited in
vain: the truth is, there is no argument that ca.i ^ ngh
against it. The justice and expediency of tl, bill aro
luch as render it self-evident. It is a proposition of that
nature, which can neither be weakened by argUR ?nt, nor
entangled with sophistry. Much, indeed, hr " been said
by some noble lords, on the wisdom of our ai „estors, and
how differently they thought from us. They not only
decreed, that privilege should prevent all civil suits from
proceeding during the sitting of parliament, but likewise
granted protection to the very servants of members. I
shall say nothing on the wisdom of our ancestors: it might
perhaps appear invidious ; and is not necessary in the
present case. I shall only say, that the noble lords who
flatter thernsolves with the weight of that reflection, should
remember, that as circumstances 'alter, things themselves
should alter. Formerly, it was not so fashionable either
for masters or servants to run in debt, as it is at present.
Formerly, we were not that great commercial nation we
are at present ; nor formerly were merchants and manu-
facturers members of parliament, as at present. The case
is now very different : both merchants and raanufactureri
are, with great propriety, elected memlters of the lower
house. Commerce having thus got into the legislative
body of the kingdom, privilege must be done away. Wa
all know, that the very soul and esseneo of trade are regu-
lar payments ; and sad expoiienco teaches us, that theft
we men, who will not make their regular payments, witit-
164
THE ENGLISH READER-
Pam I.
hi/
§\
l!i!
out the compulsive power of the laws. The law, then,
ought to be equally open to all. Any exemption to par*
ticular men, or particular ranks of men, is, in a free and
commercial country, a solecism of the grossest nature.
But I will not trouble your lordships with argument*
for that, which is sufficiently evident without any. I shall
only say a few words to some noble lords, who foresee
much inconvenience from the persons of their servant*
being liable to be arrested. One noble lord observes, that
the coachman of a peer may be arrested, while he is driv-
ing his master to the house ; and that, consequently, he
will not be able to attend his duty in parliament. If this
were actually to happen, there are so many methods by
which the member might still get to the house, that I can
hardly think the noble lord is serious in his objection.
Another noble peer said, that, by this bill, one might lose
his most valuable and honest servants. This I hold to
be a contradiction in terms ; for he can neither be a valua.
ble servant, nor an honest man, who gets into debt which
he is neither able nor willing to pay, till compelled by
law. If my servant, by unforseen accidents, has got into
debt, and I still wish to retain him, I certainly would pay
the demand. But upon no principle of liberal legislation
whatever, can my servant have a title to set his creditors
at defiance; while, for forty shilUngs only, the honest
tradesman may be torn from his family, and locked up in
a gaol. It is monstrous injustice ! I flatter myself, how-
ever, the determination of this day will entirely put an end
to all these partial proceedings for the future, by passing
into a law the bill now under your lordships' considera-
tion.
I come now to spe^k/ upon what, indeed, I would have,
gladly avoided, had I not been particularly pointed at, for
the part I have taken in this bill. It has been said, by a
noble lord on my left hand, that I likewise am running
the race of popularity. If the noble lord means by popu-
larity, that applause bestowed by after-ages on good and
virtuous actions, I have long been struggling in that i?ace:
to what purpose, all-trying time can alone determine*
But if the noble lord means that mushroom popularity,
which is raised without merit, and lost without a crime,
he is much mistaken in his opinion. I defy the noblie lord
IP point out a single action of my life, in which the popu-
lliity of the times ever had the smallest influence on mj
Chip. VUI.
PUBLIC SPEECHES.
165
r servanif
detenninations. I thank God, I have a more pennanent
and steady rule for my conduct, — the dictates of my own
breast. Those who have foregone that pleasing adviser,
wid given up their mind to be the slave of every popular
impulse, I sincerely pity : I pity them still more, if their
Tanity leads them to mistake the shouts of a mob, for the
tmmpct'of fame. Experience might inform them, that
many, who have been saluted with the huzzas of a crowd
one day, have received their execrations the next; and
many, who, by the popularity of their times, have been
held up as spotless patriots, have, nevertheless, appeared
upon the historian^s page, when truth has triumphed over
delusion, the assassins of liberty. Why, then, the noble
lord can think I am ambitious of present popularity, that
echo of folly, and shadow of renown, I am at a loss to
determine. Besides, I do not know that the bill now be-
fore your lordships will be popular: it depends much upon
the caprice of the day. It may not be popular to compel
people to pay their debts; and, in that case, the present
must be a very unpopular bill. It may not be popular
neither to take away any of the privileges of parliament ;
for I very well remember, and many of your lordships may
remember, that, not long ago, the popular cry was for the
extension of privilege ; and so far did they carry it at that
time, that it was said, the privilege protected mernbers
even in criminal actions : nay, such was the power of popu-
lar prejudices over weak minds, that the very decisions of
some of the courts were tinctured with that doctrine. It
was undoubtedly an abominable doctrine. I thought so
then, and I think so still; but, nevertheless, it was a popu-
lar doctrine, and came immediately from those who are
called the friends of liberty ; how deservedly, time will
«how. True liberty, in my opinion, can only exist when
justice is equally administered to all — to the king, and to
the beggar. Where is the justice then, or where the law,
that protects a member of parliament, more than any other
man, from the punishment due to his crimes ? The law»
of tliis country allow of no place, nor any employment, to
be a sanctuary for crimes ; and where I have the honour
to sit as a judge, neither royal favour, nor popular ap-
plause, shall ever protect the guilty.
I have now only to beg pardon for having employed so
much of your lordships' time ; and I am sorry a bill«
fraught with so many good consequences, has not met with
I *
I
166
THE ENGLISH READER.
Piat I
an abler advocate : but I doubt not, your lordships' deter-
mination will convince the world, that a bill, calculated to
contribute so much to the equal distribution of justice ag
the present, requires with your lordships but very little
support.
Sect.
IV. — An Address to Young Persons.
I INTEND, in this address, to show you the importance of
beginning early to give serious attention to your conduct.
— As soon as you arc capable of reflection, you must per-
ceive, that there is a right and a wrong in human actions.
You see, that those who are born with the same advan-
tages of fortune, are not all equally prosperous In the
course of life. While some of them, by wise and steady
conduct, attain distinction in the w^orld, and pass their
days with comfort and honour; others of the same rank,
by mean and vicious behaviour, forfeit the advantages of
their birth, involve themselves in much misery, and end
in being a disgrace to their friends, and a burden on so-
ciety. Early, then, may you learn, that it is not on the
external condition in which you find yourselves placed,
but on the part which you are to act, that your welfare or
unhappiness, your honour or infamy, depends. Now,
when beginning to act that part, what can be of greater
moment than to regulate your plan of conduct with the
most serious attention, before you have yet committed any
fatal or irretrievable errors] If, instead of exerting re-
flection for this valuable purpose, you deliver yourselves
up, at so critical a time, to sloth and pleasure; if you
refuse to listen to any counsellor but humour, or to attend
to any pursuit except that of amusement; if you aiiow
yourselves to float loose and careless on the tide of life,
ready to receive any direction which the current of fashion
may chance to give you; what can you expect to follow
from such beginnings] While so many around you are
undergoing the sad consequences of a like indiscretion,
for what reason shall not those consequences extend to
youl Shall you attain success without that preparation
and escape dangers without that precaution, which are
required of others ] Shall happiness grow up to you, oi
its own accord, and solicit your acceptance, when, to the
rest of mankind, it is the fruit of long cultivation, and thi
aci]uisition of labour and care ?
Pah-t I. I CsiP. VIII.
PUBLIC SPEECHES.
167
Deceive not yourselves with those arrogant hopes.
Whatever be your rank, Providence will not, for your
sake, reverse its established order. The Author of your
being hath enjoined you to " take heed to your ways ; to
ponder the paths of your feet; to remember your Creator
in the days of your youth." He has decreed, that they
only "who seek after wisdom, shall find it; that fools shall
be afflicted, because of their transgressions; and that who-
ever refuse th instruction, sluiU destroy his own soul." By
listening to these admonitions, and tempering the vivacity
of youth with a proper mixture of serious thought, you
may ensure cheerfulness for the rest of life ; but, by deliv-
ering yourselves up at present to giddiness and levity, you
lay the foundation of lasting heaviness of heart.
When you look forward to those plans of life, which
cither your circumstances have suggested, or your friends
have proposed, you will not hesitate to acknowledge, that,
in order to pursue them with advantage, some previous
discipline is requisite. Be assured, that, whatever is to
be your profession, no education is more necessary to
your success, than the acquirement of virtuous disposi-
tions and habits. This is the universal pr naration for
every character, and every station in life. Bad as the
world is, respect is always paid to virtue. In the usual
course of human afluirs, it will be found, that a plain un-
derstanding, joined with acknowledged worth, contributes
more to prosperity, than the brightest parts without pro-
bity or honour. Whether science, or business, or public
life, be your aim, virtue still enters, for a principal share,
into all those great departrrients of society. It is con-
nected with eminence in every liberal art — with reputation
in every branch of fail" and useful business — with distinc-
tion in every public sUlion. The vigour which it gives
the mind, and the weight which it adds to cuuraL't'-r : the
generous sentiments which it breathes ; the undaunted
spirit which it inspires ; the ardour of diligence which it
quickens; the freedom which it procures from pernicious
and dishoij 'urable avocations ; arc the foundations of all
that is highly honourable, or greatly successful amoug
men.
Whatever ornamental or engaging endowments you now
possess, virtue is a necessary requisite, in order to their
shining with proper lustre. Feeble are the attractions of
the fairest form, if it be suspected that nothing within cor-
I
1
.
ll
ll
tl
168
THE ENGLISH READER. Put I. I chap. VIII
h
:
responds to the pleasing appearance without. Short are
the triumphs of wit, when it is supposed to be the vehicle
of malice. By whatever means you may at first attract
the attention, you can hold the esteem, and secure the
hearts of others, only by amiable dispositions, and the
Accomplishments of the mind. These arc the qualitiei
whose influence will last, when the lustre of all that once
sparkled and dazzled has passed away.
Let not, then, the season of youth be barren of improTc-
ments, so essential to your future felicity and honour.
Now is the seed-time of life ; and according to <' what you
sow, you shall reap." Your character is now, under Di.
vine assistance, of your own forming; your fate is, insooio
measure, put into your own handr. Your nature is as yet
pliant and soft. Habits have not established their do-
minion. Prejudices have not prc-occupied your under-
standing. The world has not had time to contract and
debase your af'^ctions. All your powers are more vigor-
ous, disembarrassed, and free, than they will be at any
future period. Whatever impulse you now give to your
desires and passions, the direction is likely to continue.
It will form the channel in which your life is to run ; nay,
it may determine its everlasting issue. Consider, then, the
employment of this important period, as the highest trust
which shall ever be committed to you ; as in a great mea-
sure decisive of your happiness, in time, and in eternity.
As in the succession of the seasons, each, by the invaria-
able laws of nature, affects the productions of what is next
in course ; so, in human life, every period of our age, ac-
cording as it is well or ill spent, influences the happinew
of that which is to follow. Virtuous youth gradually
brings forward accomplished and flourishing manhood;
and such manhood passes of itself, without uneasiness, into
respectable and tranquil old age. But when nature i«
turned out of its regular course, disorder takes place in
the moral, just as in the vegetable world. If the spring
put forth no blossoms, in summer there will be no beauty,
and in autumn, no fruit: so, if youth be trifled away with-
out improvement, manhood will probably be contemptible,
and old age miserable. If the beginnings of life have been
*■• vanity," its latter end can scarcely be any other than
♦* vexation of spirit."
I shall flnish this address, with calling your attention |
lo thai dcpendance on the blessing^ of Heaven, which,
Pait I I Cbap. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES.
169
Short are
the vehicle
first attract
[ secure the
ins, and the
he qualitiei
all that once
I of improve-
and honour.
" what you
w, under Di*
te is, in some
,ture is as yet
led their do-
your under.
contract ami
3 more vigor-
ill be at any
give to your
to continue.
; to run ; nay,
Jder, then, the
highest trust
a great mca-
d in eternity.
)y the invaria*
f what is next
f our age, ac-
the happincM
uth gradually
ng manhood;
icasincss, into
len nature i»
takes place in
If the spring
be no beauty,
ed away with-
contemptible,
life have been
ny other than
your attention I
caven, which,]
amidst all your endeavours after improvement, you ought
continually to preserve. It is too common with the young,
even when they resolve to tread the path of virtue and
honour, to set out with presumptuous confidence in them-
selves. Truieting to their own abilities for carrying them
successfully through life, they arc careless of applying to
(}od. or of deriving any assistance from what they are apt
t ) reckon the gloomy discipline of rclii^ion. Alas ! how
I'tlh; do they know the dangers which await them ! Nei-
ilipr human wisdom, nor human virtue, unsupported by
religion, is equal to the trying situations which often occur
ii) hfe. By the shock of temptation, how frequently have
ihe most virtuous intentions been overthrown ! Under the
jft'ssure of disaster, how often has tlio greatest constancy
funk ! "Every good and every perfect gift, is from above."
\Vi!?dt)m and virtue, as well as " riches and honour, come
from God." Destitute of his favour, you are in no better
Htuation, with all your boasted abilities, than orphans left
to wander in a trackless desert, without any guide to con-
duct them, or any shelter to cover thnm from the gather-
■rm; storm. Correct, then, this ill-founded arrogance.
Expect not that your happiness can be independent of
Him who made you. By faith and repentance, apply to
the Redeemer of the world. By piety and prayer, seek
the protection of the God of heaven.
I conclude with the solemn word^, in which a great
prince delivered his dying charge to his son; words, which
every young person ou^ht to consider as addressed to him-
|«elf, and to engrave deeply on his heart: "Solomon, my
wn, know thou the God of thy fathers ; and serve him with
|a perfect heart, and witli a willing mind. For the Lord
archeth all hearts, and vrnderstandeth all the imagina-
ions of the thoughts. If thou seek him, he will be found
f thee; but if thou forsake him, he will cast thee off for
Blaiu.
Ever.
»
*SscT. V. — Speech of Lord Chatham against the Auierican
Har, atid (igainat employing the Indiana in it. f
CAHNOT, my lords, I will not, join in congratulation on
listbrlune and disgrace. Thiti, my lords, is a perilous
hd tremendous moment. It is not a time for adulation:
the smootlinesfi of flatt(;ry cannot save us in this rugged
m awful crisif). It is now nccesiiary to instruct the
H
( i
U'-.i
170
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I. I Chap. VIII.
throne in the language of truth. We must, if possible,
dispel the delusion and darkness which envelope it; and
display, in its full danger and genuine colours, the ruin
which is brought to our doors. Can ministers still pre-
sume to expect support in their infatuation ? Can parlia-
ment be so dead to their dignity and duty, as to give their
support to measures thus obtruded and forced upon them'
— measures, my lords, wbich have reduced this late flour-
ishing cini)ire to scorn and contempt! "But yesterday,
and Britain might have stood against the world : now,
none so poor as to do her reverence." — The people whom
we at first despised as rebels, but whom we now acknow-
ledge as enemies, are abetted against us, supplied with
every military store, have their interest consulted, and
tlieir ambassadors entertained by our inveterate enemy—
and ministers do not, and dare not, interpose with aij^nit?
or effect. The desperate state of our army abroad is in
part known. No man more highly esteems and honourg
the British troops than I do : I know their virtues and
their valour ; I know they can achieve any thing, but im-
possibilities ; and I know, that the conquest of British
America is an impossibility. You cannot, my lords, you
cannot conquer America. What is your present situation
there 1 We do not know the worst : but we know, that in
tlirce campaigns we have done nothing, and suffered much.
You may swell every expense, accumulate every assistance,
and extend your traffic to the shambles of every German
despot : your attempts will be for ever vain and impotent
— doubly so, indeed, from this mercenary aid on which
you rely ; for it irritates, to an incurable resentment, the
minds of your adversaries, to over-run them with the mer-
cenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and their j
possessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty. If I were,
an American — as I am an Englishman, while a forcicnj
troop was landed in my country, I never would lay down
-Never ! — never ! — never !
my arms ;—
But, my lords, who is the man, that, in addition to the I
disgrace and mischiefs of tin; war, has dared to authoris«[
and associate to our arms the t(mtahawk and scalpins-
knife of the savage ? — to call into civilized alliance the!
wild and inhuman inhabitant of the woods'? — to delcgauf
to the merciless Indian the defence of disputed rights, amlj
to wage the horrors of his barbarous war against otfl
brethren ? My lords, these enormities cry aloud for re-f
Part I. I ^a^^' ^^^^' PUBLIC SPEECHES.
171
if possible,
►pe it; and
5, the ruin
s still prc-
Zan parlia-
) give their
ipon thi-m'
i late flour-
yesterday,
or Id : novr,
eople whom
)w acknow-
pplicd wiili
1 suited, and
te cnnTiiY—
with aiguiti
ibroad is in
ind honour*
virtues and
ling, but im-
jt of British
ly lords, jou
ent situation
now, that in
ilFered mucli.
ry assiBtanco,
very Gcrinan
ind impotent
lid on which
cntnient, the
m\\\ the mei-
em and their |
If I were
lile a forcicn
luld lay down
ddition to the
(1 to autlioris*
ad scalpini'i
I alliantc the
—to dclcgaU
ed rights, anil
against our J
aloud for r^j
dress and punishment. But, my lords, this barbarous
measure has been defended, not only on the principles of
policy and necessity, but also on those of morality ; " for
it id perfectly allowable," says Lord Suffolk, "to use all
the means, which God and nature have put into our
hands." I am astonished, I am shocked, to hear such
principles confessi d ; to hear them avowed in this House,
or in this country. My lords, I did not intend to en-
croach so much on your attention ; but I cannot repress
iny indignation — I feel myself impelled to speak. My
lords, we are called upon, as members of this House, as
men, as Christians, to protest against such horrible bar-
barity ! — "That God and nature have put into our hands !"
What ideas of God and nature, that noble lord may enter-
Uin, I know not ; but I know, that such detestable principles
I are equally abhorrent to religion and to humanity. What!
I to attribute the sacred sanction of God and nature, to the
massacres of the Indian seal ping-knife! — to the cannibal
savage, torturing, murdering, devouring, drinking the blood
of his mangled victims! Such notions shock every precept
lof morality, every feeline; of humanity, every sentiment of
jhonour. These abominable principles, and this more
laboniinablc avowal of them, demand the most decisive in-
[dignation.
I call upon that Right Reverend, and this most Learned
IBench, to vindicate tlie religion of their God, — to support
Ithc justice of their country. I call upon the Bishops, to
[interpose the unsullied sanctity of their lawn ; — upon the
ludges, to interpose the purity of their erniine, to save us
[from this pollution. I call upon the honour of your lord-
phips, to reverence the dignity of your ancestors, and to
maintain your own. I call upon the spirit and humanity
t»f my country, to vindicate the national character. I in-
vok? the Genius of the constitution. To send I'orth the
aercilebs cannibal, thirsting for blood! against whom? —
I>ur brethren ! — to lay waste their country, to desolate their
pwellings, and extirpate their race and name by the aid
id instrumentality of these horrible hounds of war! —
ppain can no longer boast pre-eminence in barbarity. She
^led herself with blood-hounds, to extirpate the vi^ retched
^atives of Mexico; we, more ruthless, loos<5 these dogs of
'ar against our countrymen in America, endeared to us
ly every tie that can sanctify humanity. I solemnly call
Ipon your lordiihips, and upon every order of man ia thu
172
THE ENGLISH READEK.
Past I
Htate, to stamp upon this infamous nrr cedu.e, thp irxielihifl
«li£fma of public abhorrence. More pa^'ticularly, I caii
upon tlie holy prelates of our rt*' rtn. i-: d'» A^vav ihir
ijiiquity : lot tnem perform a lustrpt.iou, to purir; the coun-
try from this d»^cp and deadly sin. — fti' IcndK, I &«.i old and
weak, and at present unable to say more ; but my feeliiiK
and indignation were too stron;^^ to have said less. I could
not liavo slept tliis nio^ht in my bed, nor even reposed my
hf,'ad upon my pillow, without giving vent to my oterna!
abhorroiice of iuich cnormoua and jirepo-^tiiroua principles.
IM
« ill
■'■*
*8kct. VI. — Grattan on ihc Dcclaratwn of Rights.
Sin, — We may hope to dazzle with illuminations, and w?
may sicken with addrfsses; but the public imagination wiil
never rest, nor will her heart bo well at ease: never! go
long as the p;irli;unent of England exercises or claims a
' logislation over this country. So lon^ as this shall be the
c»i»e, that vc-y free trade, otiierwisc a perpetual attach-
ment, will be the cause of new di^jccuiteou It will cr-.^ale
a pride to feel the indignity of bond»'4e ; ':t will furnish i
strength to bite your chain; and the lib'jfty withheld wiil
poison the good comrnunicaUMl.
The British minister mistukei the Irish character. Had
he intended to ni'ike Ireland a filavc, hi*, .should have kept
her a beggar. There is no middle policy: win her heart
by tho restoration of her right, or cut oirihc nation's right
hand; greatly cnj.tacipat.e, or fundamentally destroy. \Ve[
may ,ilk plausi' «) England ; but ho long as she exer-
cises a pvjwer to ;. . this country, .=0 long arc the nationi
in a state of war. The claims of tlie one go against the
liberty of the other; and the sf;ntimcnls of the latter go
to oppose those claims, to the last drop of her blood.
Tho English 0}>po-3ition, therefore, are right: mere trudt
will not satisfy Ireiaml. They judge of us by other p-cii
nations, by the nation whoso political life has been i|
(rtrugglc for liberty ; tliey judge of uh with a true Hnow-
lodge, and just deference for our character, — that a courvj
try. enlightened lu Ireland, chartered as Ireland, armedj
an Ireland, and injured aa Ireland, will be satittfied wit!i|
nothing less than liberty. '
I ^hall hear of ingraiitudc: I name tho argument s«j
cb<»pi^e it, and the ah who roakoa U8;> of it. I kno^ 'M
i
4iiP.
vin.
PUIiLIC SrESCHEa
173
jjii who use it arc /. M /utcful, they are insatiate; thrr
. m; '. lie extortioners, who would stop tlic tide of public
^rospt-nry, and turn it to the channel of their own cn>ohi-
mcnt. i know of no Fpocics of gratitude which ehould
prevent my country <rom l)oing free, — no gratitude wia^h
fhoulH oblige Ireland lobe the olave "f England. In cahea
ot' robber}' and usurpation, nothirtg is an object of gratitude
except the thing stolen, the cluirtcr spoliated. A nation'^
liberty cannot, like b.er treasure, be i^icUcd and parcelled
out in gratitude. ISo man can he gratofnl or liberal of his
(onscicnce, nor woman of her b.nnoiir, nor nation of licr
liberty. There arc certain uniniparUble, iuberent, invalu-
uble properties, not to ite alienate <] froiii tbe person, whether
body poliUc or body natural. With the j*anip conttnipt do
1 treat that charge Vvhi<h sjiys. that Ireland in insalialde ;
f.iying, that Ireland asks nclliing but that which Great
never ! ?o ■ IJritain has robbed her of, her rights and privileges. To
B.iy that Ireland will not be satisfied with liberty, because
#he is not satifficd with blavery, is folly. I laugh at that
man who supposes that Ireland will not be content with a
free tnlde, aiid a free constitution ; and would any inan
advise her to be content with less?
Do not then tolerate a power — the power of the British
parliament, over this laml, which has no ^'onndation in
utility or necettsity, or empire, or tbe laws of England, or
[the laws of Ireland, or tbe laws of* nature, or the laws of
God, — (lo not sutler it to have a duration in your mind.
wo not tolerate that ].!Ovver whi h blasted you for a cen-
tury, — that power which shattered your loonis, ])anished
your manufactures, dishonoured your peerage, and stepped
the growth of your peojde; do not, i say, be bribed by an
export of woollen, or an irnpoit of sugar, and permit tlmt
pcwRr which lias thus withered the land, to remain in your
[country, and have existence in your put'illanim y. Do
Jnot Gutfer the aiTogance of Englaiul to imagine a surviv-
|inj( hope in the fcirs of Ireland. Do not send the people
jto their own resolves for liberty. |)i.\ssing by the tribunal«
jot Justice, and the hi<>h court of rarliament ; neither ima-
|pne, that, by any furinaiion of apology, you can palliate
Ruch a commission to your hearts, still less to your eliil-
iffn, who will sting you with their curses in your grave,
^^•r having interposed between them and their Maker, roh-
''ing them of an imnjen«e occasion, and losing an opj)ortu-
iit>' which yen did noi create, and can never res ore.
174
THE ENGLISH READER.
Paiit I.
h.
; I"
Hereafter, wlien these things shall be history, your a|»c
of thraldom and poverty, your sudden resurrection, com-
mercial redress, and miraculous armament, shall the bis-
torian stop at liberty ; and observe, that here the principal
men amongst us. fell into mimic trances of gratitude ; that
they were awed by a weak ministry, and bribed by an
empty treasury ; and when liberty was within their grasp, I
and the temple opened her folding-doors, and the arms of |
the people clanged, and the zral of the nation urged and
f^ncouraged them on, that they fell down and were prosti-
tuted at the tiireshold.
I wish for nothing but to breathe, in this our island, in
common with my fellow-subj?cts, the air of liberty. Ij
have no ambition, unless it be the ambition to break your]
chain, and contemplate your glory. I never will be sati?-
fied, so long as the meanest cottager in Ireland has a link I
of the British chain clankinjr to his rags : he may be niikeoj
he shall not be in iron ; and I do see the time is at hand.
the spirit is gone forth, the declaration is planted; and!
though great men should apostatize, yet the cause will]
live; and though the public speaker should die, yet the
immortal fire sball outlast the organ which conveyed it;
nnd the breath of liberty, like the word of the holy man,[
will not die with the prophet, but survive him.
*Sect. VII. — Currcm for Hdinillon Rowan,
This ])aper, gentlemen, insis^ts upon the necessity of eman-
cipating the Catholics of Ireland; and that is charged ail
\ivci of the libel. If they had waited another year— ifl
they had kept this prosecution impending for anothcrj
year — how much would remain for a jiiry to decide iipoiij
I should be at a less to dificover. It seems as if tlie prol
jjress of public inform^rtion was eating away the ground ofl
the prosecution. Since the commencement of the prosc-F
cation, this ] art of the libel has received the sanction ofl
tlfO legislature. In that interval, our Catholic brethrfnj
have obtained that ndmissioti, which it seems it was a liWJ
to ^yropose. In what way to account for this, I am rcalijj
at a lo:?s. Have any alarms been occasioned by tlwl
emancipation of our Catholic brethren 1 Has the oii^'Oteiij
malignity of any individuals been crushed? or has the ^^\
bility of the government, or that of the country, bof'I
weakened ? or is one million of subjects stronger than ioinj
CaiP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES.
175
millions ? Do you think, that the benefit they received,
iihould be poisoned by the sting of vengeance ? If you
think so, you must say to them, " You have demanded
pmancipation, and you have got it: but we abhor your
persons ; we are outraged at your success ; and we will stig-
matize, by a criminal prosecution, the adviser of that relief
which you have obtained from the voice of your country."
I ask you, do you think, as honest men, anxious for the
public tranquillity, conscious that there are wounds not
yet completely cicatrized, that you ought to speak this
laneruage, at this time, to men who are too much disposed
to think, that in this very emancipation, they have been
Raved from their own parliament, by the humanity of their
sovereign 1 Or do you wish to prepare them for the revo-
cation of these improvident concessions ? Do you think it
wise or humane, at this moment, to insult them, by stick-
ing up in a pillory the man who dared to stand forth as
their advocate T I put it to your oaths: do you think, that
a blessing of that kind — that a victory obtained by justice
ov3r bigotry and oppression — should have a stigma cast
upon it, by an ignominious sentence upon men bold and
honest enough to propose that measure ? — to propose the
redeeming of religion from the abuses of the church, the
reclaiming of three millions of men from bondage, and giv-
ing liberty to all who had a right to demand it; giving, I
say, in the so-much-censured words of this paper, " Univer-
sal Emancipation !" I speak in the spirit of the British law,
which makes liherty commensurate with, and inseparable
from, British soil; which proclaims even to the stranger
and sojouiner, the moment he sets his foot upon British
earth, that the ground on which he treads is holy, and con-
Becrated by the genius of Universal Emancipation. No
matter in what language his doom may have Ixnm pro-
nounced; — no matter what complexion, incompatible with
freedom, an Indian or an African sun may have burned
upon him; — no matter in what disastrous battle his liberty
may have been cloven down^ — no matter with what solem-
nities lie may have been devoted on the altar of slavery:
the first moment he touches the sacred soil of Britain, the
altnr and the god sink together in the dust; his soul walk*
abroad in her* own majesty ; his body swells beyond the
measure of his chains, that burst from around him; and he
«tan(i« redeemed, regenerated, and disenthralled, by the
irresiiatiblc genius of Universal Emancipation.
I
176
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I. I Chap. VII
, *Sect. VII! Mr. Pitt on the African Slave Trade,
*■, . April 27, 1792.
: J,
1
ii
ii
It i '' !
Is: i
, ■ i
. -■■!
If . ,i-;l
'ii ;•;) I
m
Sir, — I laraent that my ciforts on this subject have hitlierlo
not been successful ; but I am consoled with the thought,
that the house has conic to a resolution declarative of tiie
infamy of this trade; that all parties have concurred in
reprobating it ; that even its advocates have been compelled
to acknowledge its infamy. The question now is only
the continuance of this abominable traffic, which even its
friends think so intolerable, that it ought to be crushed.
Jamaica has imi)ortcd 150,000 negroes in the course of
twenty years, and this is admitted to be only one-tenth of
the trade. Was there ever, — cgn there be, — any thing be-
yond the enormity of this infamous trafiic! The very
thought of it is beyond human endurance.
The point now in dispute is only one year, as I under-
stand; lor the amendment proposes the year 1795 for the
abolition, while the year 1790 is only contended for on the
other side. As to those vvho are concerned in the trade,
a year would not make much dilferencd ; 'mt does it make
no alteration to the unhappy slaves ] It is true, that, in
the course of cOinmerciul concerns in general, it is said
sometimes to be beneath the magnanimity of a man of
honour, to insist on a scrupulous exactness in his own
favour, upon a disputed item in accounts; but docs it
make any part of our magnanimity to be exact in our own
favour, in the traffic of human blood ! When a man gives
up £500 or £1000 against himself, upon a complicated
reckoning, he is called generous; and when he insists on
it in his own favour, he is deemed niggardly ; the common
course, when parties disagree, is, wi;at the vulgar phrase
calls " to split the dilference." If I could feel that 1 ain to
calculate upon the subject in this way, the side on Avhich
I should determine it, would be in favour of the unhajipy
sufferers, not of those who op])ress them. But this one
year is only to show the planters, that Parliament is willing
to be liberal to them. JSir, I do not understand compli-
menting away the lives of so many human beings. I do
not understand the principle on which a few individuals
are to be complimented, and their minds set at rest, at the
expense and totul sacrifice of the interest, the security', the
Part I. I Chap. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES.
177
}€ Trade,
ave hitherto
he thought,
•ative of tiie
oncurred iu
■n compelled
low is only
ich even its
be crushed,
le course ol'
one-lenth of
ny thing bc-
*The very
, as I under-
1795 for the
?il for on the
ill the trade,
does it make
true, that, in
il, it is said
of a man of
in his own
but does it
t in our own
a man gives
con)i)litated
he insists on
the comnicn
ulirar })hrase
that 1 am to
de on wliich
the unlui{)py
3ut this one
nt is wiilinij
Land compli-
,iein![5s. I ^I*^
individuals
t rest, at the
security, the
happiness of a whole quarter of the world, which, from our
foul practices, has, for a vast length of tinip, been a scene
of misery and horror. I say, because I tieel. that every
hour you continue this trade, you are guilty of an offence
beyond your power to atone for ; and, by your indulgence
to the planters, thousands of human beings are to be mis-
erable for ever. Notwithstanding the bill passed for regu-
lating the middle passage, even now the loss of the trade
is no less than ten per cent : such is still the mortality of
this deleterious tralhc ! Every year in which you continue
this abominable trade, you add thousands to the catalogue
of miserable beings, which, if you could behold in a single
instance, you would revolt with horror from the scene :
hut the size of the misery prevents you from beholding it.
Five hundred out of one thousand, that are taken in this
traflic, perish in this scene of horror ; are miserable victinn
brought to their graves: this is the elfect of this system of
slavery. The remaining part of this miserable group arie
tainted both in body and in mind, covered with disease
and infection, infecting the very earth on which they tread,
and the air in which they breathe, carrying with them the
seeds of pestilence and insurrection to your island. Let
me, then, ask, if I am improperly pressing upon the house
a question, whether they can derive any advantage from
these doubtful effects of a calculation on the continuance
of the traffic ; and whether they think that two will not be
better than three years for its continuance 1 I feel tl)c
infamy of the trade so heavily, the impolicy of it so clearly,
that I am ashamed I have not been able to persuade the
house to abandon it altogether at an instant, — to pro-
nounce, with one voice, its immediate and total abolition.
There is no excuse for us, seeing this infernal traffic as
we do. It is the very death of justice, to utter a syllable
in support of it. Sir, I know I state this subject with
warmth : I feel it is impossible for me not to do so; or, if it
were, I should detest myself for the exercise of moderation.
I cannot, without suffering every feeling and every paB-
sion that ought to rise in the cause of humanity to sleep
within me, speak coolly on such a subject. Did they &el
as I think they ought, I am sure the decision of the hou«e
would be, with us, for a total and immediate abolition of
thii abominable traffic.
2h ' '.r v.;
t
;» !
■ft
'IV
m
I7S
.ill;
THE ENGLISH READER,
* Sect. IX. — Cn the same Subject.
Part L
1..
V/aT ought tli(» slave trade to be abolished ? Because
it is incurable injustice. How nnich stronger, then, is
the argument for immediate, than for gradual abolition?
By allowing it to continue even for one hour, do not my
right honourable friends weaken — do not they desert thoir
own argument of its injustice 1 If, on the ground of in-
jnaticc, it ought to be abohi-hcd at last, why ought it not
now? Why is injustice to be suflcred to remain for a
single hour]
From what I hear wdthout doors, it is evident that there
19 a general conviction entertained, of its being far from
just; and from that very conviclicn of its injustice, some
men have been led, I fear, to the supposition, that the
slave trade never could have been pennittcd to begin, hut
iVom eome strong and irresistible necessity ; a necessity,
liowcver, v/hicJi, if it was fancied to exist at first, I haw
rthown cannot bo thought 1 y any man whatever to exist
r.ow^ This pica of necessity, thus presumed, — and pre-
aumed, as I suspect, from the circumstance of injustirc
itself, — has caused a sort of acquiescence in the continu-
£>noo of this evil. Men have l)een led to place it amonij
tho rank of those necessary evils, vt-liich are «uppo?cd to
}>e the lot of human creatures, and to be permitted to fall
upon some eounlrica or individuals, rather than uj)on
othcre, by that Being, whoso wavs arc inscrutable to u»,
and whose dispensations, it is conceived, we ought not to
look into.
' The ori[vin of evil is, indeed, a subject beyond the reach
of human understandings; and the permission of it by the
iS'.iprernc Being, is a subject into w'hich it belongs not to
U9 to inquire. But where the evil in question is a moral
ovil v/liicb a man can scrutiniz.e, and where that evil has
its origin with ourselves, let us not imagine that we can
eloar our eonbciences by this general, not to say irreh-
gious and impious way, of laying aside the question. If
we reflect at all on this subject, we must see that every
necessary evil supposes that some other and greater evil
wowld l.c incurred, were it removed : I therefore desire to
a»k, what can bo a gixjater evil, which can be slated to
tUAP. VIII.
PUBIJC SPEECHES.
179
overbalance the one in question ? I know of no evil that
ever has existed, nor can imagine any evil to exist, vror^*
than the tearing of seventy or eighty thousand jxirsonf,
annually from their native land, by a combination of the
most civilized nations, inhabiting the most enlightened
part of the globe; but more especially under the sanction
t»l' the laws of tliat nation which calls herself the most free
and the most happy of them all.
Reflect on these eij^hty thousand persons thus annually
taken oil! There is something in the horror of it, that
surpasses all the bounds of imagination. Admitting that
there exists in Africa something like to courts of justice :
yet, what an oftice of humiliation and meanness is it i-i
us, to take upon ourselves to carry into execution the
partial, the cruel, iniquitous sentences of such courts,
as if wc also were strangers to all religion, and to t'rv^
first principles of justice ! But that country, it is said,
has been in some degree civilized, and civilized by us.
Jt is said, they have gained some knowledge of the prin-
ciples of justice. What, sir ! Have they gained princi-
ples of justice from us 7 Tiicir civilization brought aboni
by us I ! Yes — v/e give them enough of our intercourse to
convey to them the means, and to initiate them in the
study of mutual destruction. We give them just enoii,v;h
ol' tbe forms of justice, to enable them to add the pretext
of legal trials to their other modes of pcrpi^trating the mo»i
atrocious iniquity. Wc give them just enough of European
improvements, to enable t licni the more ellectually to turn
Africa into a ravaged wilderness.
8ome evidences say, that the Africans are addicted to
the practice of gambling; that they even sell their wivtv;
and children, and, ultimately, tliemselves. Are these,
then, the legitimate sources of slavery ? Shall wc yrc-
tcnd, that we can tlius acquire an honest right to e\i\vx
tho labour of these people? Can wo pretend, that \vt*
have a right to carry away to distant regions, men c\
whom we know nothing by authentic inquiry, and of
whom there is every reasonable presumption to think,
that those who sell them to us, have no right to do so ?
lint the evil does not stop here. I feel that there is noi
time for me to make all the 'remarks v/hich the suhjeci
deserves, and I refrain from attempting to enumerate
-half the dreadful consequences of this system. Do you
think nothing of the ruin and the miseries, in which 8i>
is;
ii.
!'i
■^%
«^,
^A.^
.^A^^^
IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)
.**
^\^
t <.\4
%
1.0
1.1
11.25
IA£12.8
■tt Uii 12.2
1^ 1^ 12.0
I
^
o^
7
* • ^^iK*.
A
Photographic
Sciences
Corporation
as WIST MAIN STHIT
VVMSTM.N.Y. 14590
(71«) •73-4S03
180
THE ENGLISH READER.
Put I.
many other individuals, still remaining in Africa, are
iiiToived, in consequence of carrying off so many myriads
of people 1 Do you think nothing of their families which
arc left behind 1 — of the connections which are broken 1—
of the friendships, attachments, and relationships that are
burst asunder 1 Do you think nothing of the miseries.
in consequence, that arc felt from generation to genera-
tion 1— of the privation of that happiness which might be
communicated to them, by the introduction of civiliza-
tion, and of mental and moral improvement ? ^
• Sect. X. — Rolla to the Peruvians,
Mt brave associates — partners of my toil, my feelings, and
my fame ! Can Holla's words add vigour to the virtuous
energies which inspire your hearts 1 — No : you have judged,
as I have, the foulness of the crafty plea by which these
bold invaders would delude you. Your generous spirit
has compared, as mine has, the motives which, in a war
like this, can animate their minds and ours. They, by a
strange frenzy driven, fight for power, for plunder, and
extended rule ; — we, for our country, our altars, and our
homes. They follow an adventurer whom they fear, and
obey a power which they hate ; — we serve a monarch whora
we love, — a God whom we adore. Wherever they move
in anger, desolation tracks their progress : wherever they
pause in amity, affliction mourns thoir friends. They
boast, they come but to improve our state, enlarge our
thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error ! Yes — they
—•they will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who
are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride !
They offer us their protection — yes, such protection as
vultures give to lambs— covering and devouring them!
They call on us to barter the good we have inherited and
proved, for the desperate chance of something better which
they promise. Be our plain answer this: The throne we
honour, is the people's choice; the laws we reverence, are
our brave fathers' legacy ; the faith we follow, teaches u«
to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die with
hope of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this;
and tell them too, we seek no change ; and least of all,
tuch change as they would bring us! Bujkhidak,
CiiF. Vm. PUBLIC SPEECHES.
181
•SicT. XL — Funeral Eulogium on Dr. FranklHi.
Franklii7 is dead. — ^The genius who freed America, and
poured a copious stream of knowledge throughout Europe,
n returned into the bosom of the Divinity. The sage to
whom two worlds lay claim, the man for whom science
and politics arc disputing, indisputably enjoyed an eleva-
ted rank in human nature.
The cabinets of princes have long been in the habit of
notifying the death of those who were great only in their
funeral orations. Long hath the etiquette of courts pro-
claimed the mourning of hypocrisy. Nations should wear
mourning for none but their benefactors. The represen-
tatives of nations should recommend to public homage
those only who have been the heroes of humanity.
'fhc Congress of America hath ordered, in all the con-
federate states, a mourning of two months for the death
of Benjamin Franklin ; and America is, at this moment,
paying that tribute of veneration to one of the fathers of
her constitution. Were it not worthy of us, gentlemen,
to join the same religious act, to pay our Fir,are of that
homage now rendered in sight of the universe, at once to
the rights of man, and to the philosopher who most con-
tributed to extend the conquests of liberty over the face
of the whole earth 1
Antiquity would have raised altars to that vast and
mighty genius, who, for the advantage of human kind,
embracing earth and heaven in his ideas, could tame the
rage of thunder and of dcfpotiim. France, enlightened
and free, owes at least some testimony of remembrance
and regret, to one of the greatest men that ever served the
cause of philosophy and of liberty. MiiiABEAr.
¥m
182
CHAPTER IX.
PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
|tii
Sbct. I. — Excellence of the Holy Scrintures.
IS it bigotry' to believe the sublime truths of the Goapr 1',
with full assurance of faith'1 I glory' in such bipfotry'.
I would not part' with it for a thousand worldfi\ I con-
gratulate the man' who is possessed of it: for, amidst all
the vicissitudes and calamities of the present state', that
man enjoys an inexliaustible.fund of consolation', of which
it is not in the power of fortune to deprive^ him.
There is not a hook on earth' so favourable to all the
kind\ and all the sublime' af!cctions; or so unfriendly to
hatred' and persecutions\ to tyranny\ to injustice\ and
every sort of malevolence', as the gospeP. It breathes
nothing throughout^ but mercy', benevolence', and pcacc.^
Poetry is sul)!ime', when it awakens in the mind rht
great and good alfcclion', as piety', or patriotism\ This
is one^ of the noblest' effects of the art. The Psalms are
remarkable\ beyond all other' writings, for their power of
inspiring devout emotions^ But it is not in this respect'
only, that they are sublimed Of the divine nature\ they
contain the most rnaguiticent descriptions', that the rouI
of man can coniprt;liend\ The hundred and fourth
Psalra^ in particular', displays the power and goodne«s
of Providence^ in creating and preserving the world\ and
the various tribes of animals' in it, with such majestir
brevity and beauty', as it is in vain to look' for in any
human^ composition.
Such' of the doctrines of the Gospef as are level to hu-
man capacity', appear to be agreeable to the purest truth',
and the soundest morality\ AH the genius and learning'
of the heathen world'; all the penetration of Pythagorafi\
S5ocrates\ and Aristotle', had never been able to produce
such a system of moral duty\ and so rational an accojnil
of Providence' and of man', as are to be found in thf» New
Testament. Compared, indeed, with this', all other moril
mid theological wisdom'
Loses*, diBCuunt-.'nancwd', and like folly' ihow«.
Ckattib
CiAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
183
S«cT. II. — Earthquake at Calabriay in i/ie Year 1638.
A5 account of this dreadful earthquake is given by the
celebrated father Kirchcr. It happened whilat he was on
his journey to visit Mount iEtna, and the rest of the won-
ders that lie towards the south of Italy. Kircher is con-
sidered, by scholars, as one o{ the greatest prodigies of
luamin».
"Having hired a boat, in company with four more (two
friars of the order of St. Francis, and two seculars), wc
launched from the liarbour of Messina, in Sicily; and
arrived, the same day, at the promontory of Pelorus. Our
(iostination was for the city of Euphaemia, in Calabria;
where wc had soinc businof^ to Iransui'it, and where we
designed to tarry for some time. However, Providence
deemed wilUng to cross our design : for we were obliged to
continue three days at Pelorus, on account of tlie weather ;
and though we often put out to sea, yet we wore an often
driven back. At length, weari<>d with the delay, we rs-
(ifilvod to prosecute our voyage ; and, although the sea
appeared to be uncommonly agitated, we ventured forward.
The gulf of Charybdis, which wc approachedy seemed
whirled round in such a manner, as to form a vast hollow,
verging to a point in the centre. Proceeding onward, and
turning my eyes to .'Etna, I saw it cast Ibrth large volumes
of smoke, of mountainous si'Acs, which entirely covered the
island, and blotted out the very Bhonv<=» from my view.
This, together wi*h the dreadful noise, and the sulphurous
stench which was strongly perceived, filled me with appre-
hensions tliat some more dreadful calamity Wds impending.
The sea itself seemed to wear a very unusual appearance.
They who have ijcen a lake, in a violent shower of rain,
covered all over with bubbles, will conceive some idea of
its agitations. My surprise was still increased by the calm-
ness and serenity of the weather; not a breeze, not a cloud,
which might be supposed to put all nature thus into mo-
tion. I therefore warned my companions, that an earth-
quake was approaching; and, after some time, making for
the shore with all possible diligence, wc landed at Tropoa,
happy and thankful for having escaped the threatening
dangers of the sea.
'* But our triumphs at land were of short durittion ; for
we had scarcely arrived at the Jesuits' College in that city,
when our cars were stunned with a horrid sound, reMn^
184
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt I.
tLi W
bling that of an infinite number of chariots driven fiercely
forward ; the wheels rattling, and the thongs cracking. Soon
after this, a most dreadful earthquake ensued, so that the
whole tract upon which we stood seemed to vibrate, as if
we were in the scale of a balance that continued wavering.
This motion, however, soon grew more violent; and, being
no longer able to keep my legs, I was thrown prostrate upon
the ground. In the mean time, the universal ruin around
me redoubled my amazement. The crash of falling houses,
the tottering of towers, and the groans of the dying, all
contributed to increase my terror and despair. On ever)*
side of me, I saw nothing but a scene of ruin, and dan-
ger threatening wherever I should fiy. I recommended
myself to God, as my last great refuge. At that hour, oh
how vain was every sublunary happiness! Wealth, hon-
our, empire, wisdom, all mere useless sounds, and as empty
as the bubbles of the deep ! Just standing on the thresh.
old of eternity, nothing but God was my pleasure ; and
the nearer I approached, I only loved him the more. After
some time, however, finding that I remained unhurt amidst
the general concussion, I resolved to venture for safety;
and, running as fast as I could, I reached the shore, but
almost terrified out of my reason. I did not search long
here, till I found the boat in which I had landed; and
my companions also, whose terrors were even greater than
mine. Our meeting was not of that kind, where every one
is desirous of telling of his own happy escape : it was all
silence, and a gloomy dread of impending terrors.
*' Leaving this seat of desolation, we prosecuted our voy-
H'jc along the coast; and the next day came to Rochctla,
where we landed, although the earth still continued in vio-
lent agitations. But we had scarcely arrived at our inn,
when we were once more obliged to return to the boat ;
and, in about half an hour, we saw the greater part of the
town, 'ina the inn at which we had set up, dashed to tho
grou , and burying the inhabitants beneath the ruins.
'* In this manner, proceeding onward in our little vessel,
finding no safety at land, and yet, from the smallness of
our boat, having but a very dangerous continuance at sea,
we at length landed at Lopizium, a castle midway between
Tropsa and Euphcemia, the city to which, as I aaid before,
we were bound. Here, wherever I turned my eyes, nothing
but scenes of ruin and horror appeared ; towns and castlei
levelled to the ground ; Stromboli, though at fiiztf milei
Oiu*. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
185
distance, belching forth flames in an unusual manner, and
with a noise which I could distinctly hear. But my atten-
tion was quickly turned from more remote to contiguous
danger. The rumbling sound of an approaching earth-
quake, which we by this time were grown acquainted with,
alarmed us for the consequences. It every moment seemed
to grow louder, and to approach nearer. The place on
which we stood now began to shake most dreadfully ; so
that, being unable to stand, my companions and I caught
hold of whatever shrub grew next to us, and supported
ourselves in that manner.
♦• After some time, this violent paroxysm ceasing, wo
again stood up, in order to prosecute our voyage to Eu-
piiicmia, which lay within sight. In the mean time, while
we were preparing for this purpose, I turned my eyes to-
wards the city, but could sec only a frightful dark cloud,
that seemed to rest upon the place. This the more sur-
prised U3, as the weather was so very serene. We waited,
therefore, till the cloud had passed away; then turning to
look for the city, it was totally sunk. Wonderful to tell,
nothing but a dismal and putrid lake was seen where it
fetood ! We looked about to find some one that could tell
us of its sad catastrophe, but could see no person. AH
was become a melancholy solitude — a scene of hideous
desolation. Thus proceeding pensively along, in quest of
fome human being that could give us a little information,
we at length saw a boy sitting by the shore, and appearing
i»tupified with terror. Of him, therefore, we inquired con-
fcriiing the fate of the city ; but he could not be prevailed
on to give us an answer. We entreated him, with every
expression of tenderness and pity, to tell us ; but his senses
were quite v*'rapped up in the contemplation of the danger
he had escaped. We olfered him some victuals ; but he
seemed to loathe the sight. We still persisted in our of-
fices of kindness ; but he only pointed to the place of the
city, like one out of his senses; and then running up into
the woods, was never heard of after. »5uch was the fate of
the city of Eupha:mia. As we continued our melancholy
• ourse along the shore, the whole coast, for the space of two
iiuiidred miles, presented nothing hut the remains of cities,
»nd men scattered without a habitation over the fields.
I'foceeding thus along, we at length ended our distressful
voyage by arriving at Naples, after having escaped a thou-
sand dangers both at sea and land." Goldsmith.
186
THE ENGLISH RBADEH.
m
m
m
Sect. HI. — Letter from Pliny to Marcellintut, on the Death
of an amiable Young Woman.
I wniTK this under the utmost oppression of sorrow: the
youngest daughter of my friend Fundanus is dead ! Never
surely was there a more agreeable, and more amiable
youiig per&on ; or one who better deserved to have enjoyed
a long, I had almost said, an immortal life ! She had all
the wisdom of age, and discretion of a matron, joined with
youthful sweetness and virgin modesty. With what an
engaging fondness did she behave to her father ! How
kindly and respectfully receive his friends ! How affec-
tionately treat all those who, in their respective offices, had
the care and education of her ! She employed much of
her time in reading, in which she di^icovered great strength
of judgment: she indulged herself in few diversions, and
those with much caution. With what forbearance, with
what patience, with whp* courage, did she endure her last
illness ! She complied with all the directions of her phy-
sician: she encouraged her sister and her father; and,
when all her strength of body was exhausted, supported
herself by the single vigour of her mind. That, indeed,
continued, even till her last moments, unbroken by the
pain of a long illness, or the terrors of approaching death;
and it is a reflection which makes the loss of her so much
the more to be lamented. A loss infinitely sever ! and
more severe by the particular conjuncture in which it hap-
pened ! She was contracted to a most worthy youth; the
wedding day was fixed, and we were all invited.
How sad a change, from the highest joy to the deepest
sorrow ! How shall I express the wound that pierced my
heart, when I heard Fundanus himself (as grief is ever
finding out circumstances to aggravate its infliction) or-
dering the money he had designed to lay out upon clothes
and jewels for her marriage, to be employed in myrrh and
spices for her funeral 1 He is a man of great learnini?
and good sense, who has applied himself, from his earliest
youth, to the noblest and most elevated studies : but ail
the maxims of fortitude which he has received from books,
or advanced himself, he now absolutely rejects; and every
other virtue of his heart gives place to all a parent's ten-
derness. We shall excuse, we shall even approve his sor-
row, when wo consider what he tios lost. Ho has lost t
Craf. IX.
PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
187
daughter who resembled him in his manners, as well as in
his person ; and exactly copied out all her father. If his
friend Marcel linus shall think proper to write to him, upon
the subject of so reasonable a grief, let me remind him not
to use the rougher arguments of consolation, and such as
fiecm to carry a sort of reproof with them ; but those of
kind and sympathizing humanity. Time will render him
more open to the dictates of reason : for, as a fresh wound
shrinks back from the hand of the surgeon, but by degrees
submits to, and even requires, the means of its cure ; so a
mind, under the first ii^iprcssions of a misfortune, shuns
and rejects all arguments of consolation ; bul at length,
if applied with tenderness, calmly and willingly acquiesces
in them. Farewell. Mblmoth's Fiikt.
Skct. IV. — On the Government of our Thoughts.
A MTJLTiTunE of cascs occur, in which we are no lest
accountable for what we thinU, tb«»n for what we do.
As, first, when the introduction of any train of thought
depends upon ourselves, and is our voluntary act, by turn-
ing our attention towards such objects, awakening such
passions, or engaging in such employments, as we know
must givd a peculiar determination to our thoughts. Next,
when thoughts, by whatever accident they may have been
originally suggested, are indulged v%rith deliberation and
complacency, l^hough the mind has been passive in their
reception, and, therefore, free from blame ; yet, if it be
artive in their continuance, the guilt becomes its own.
They may have intruded at first, like unbidden guests;
but if, when entered, thry are made welcome, and kindly
entertained, the rase is the same as if they had been in-
vited from the beginning. If we are thus accountable to
God for thoughts either voluntarily introduced, or delib^
erately indulged ; we are no less so, in the last place, for
those which find avlmittance into our hearts from supine
negligence, from total relaxation of attention, from allow-
ing our imagination to rove with entire license, " like the
eyes of the fool, towards the ends of the earth." Out
minds are, in this case, thrown open to folly and vanity.
They are prostitutec', to every evil thing which pleases to
take possession. The consequences must all be charged
to our account ; and in vain we plead excuse from humao
%
Ft .
188
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt I.
1
infirmity. Hence it appears, that the great object at which
we are to aim in governing our thoughts, is, to take the
most effectual measures for preventing the introduction of
such as are sinful ; and for hastening their expulsion, if
they shall have introduced themselves without consent of
the will.
But when we descend into our breast, and examine how
far we have studied to keep this object in view, who can
toll, "how oft he hath offended 1" In no article of religion
or morals are men more culpably remiss, than in the un-
restrained indulgence they give to fancy ; and that, too,
for the most part, without remorse, yince the time that
reason began to exert her powers, thought, during her
waking hours, has been active in every breast, without a
moment's suspension or pause. The current of ideas has
been always flowing. The wheels of the spiritual enj^ir.c
have circulated with perpetual motion. Let me ar-k, wliat
has been the fruit of this incessant activity, with the
greater part of mankind 1 Of the innumerable hours that
have been employed in thought, how few are marked with
any permanent or useful effect 1 How many have cither
passed away in idle dreams ; or have been abandoned to
anxious discontented musings, to unsocial and malicfnant
passions, or to irregular and criminal desires? Had I
power to lay open that storehouse of iniquity Which the
hearts of too many conceal ; could I draw out and read
to them a list of all the imaginations they have devised,
find all the passions they have indulged in secret; what a
picture of men should J present to themselves ! What
crimes would they appear to have perpetrated in secrecy,
which to their most intimate companions they durst not
reveal !
Even when men imagine their thoughts to be innocently
employed, they too commonly sufE.'r them to run out into
extravagant imaginations, and chimerical plans of what
ihey would wish to obtain, or choose to be, if they could
frame the course of things according to their desire.
Though such employments of fancy come not under the
same description with tiiose which are plainly criminal, yet
wholly unblameable they seldom are. Besides the waste
of time which they occasion, and the misapplic?Jion which
thoy indicate, oi vhose intellectual powers, that were given
to UB for much nobler purposes, such romantic specula*
tions lead us always into the neighbourhood of forbidden
COAP* IX.
PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
189
regions. They place us on dant^erous ground. They arc,
for the most part, connected with some one bad passion ;
and they always nourish a giddy and frivoioui turn of
thought. They unfit the rnind for applying with vigour
to rational pursuits, or for acquiescing in sober plans of
conduct. From that ideal world in which it allows itself
to dwell, it returns to the coyimerce of men, unbent and
relaxed, sickly and tainted, averse to discharging the duties,
and sometimes' disqualified even for relishing the pleasures
of ordinary life, Blaik.
S«CT. V. — liefiecticns occxi,^cned hy a Review of the Bids'
tngs prfniounccd by Christ on his Disciples, in his Sermon
on the Mount.
What abundant reason have we to thank God, that this
larffc and instructive discourse of our blessed Redeemer
is «o particularly recorded by the sacred historian ! Let
everyone that " hath ears to hear," attend to it; for surely
no man ever spoke as our Lord did on this occasion. Let
us fix our minds in a posture of humble attention, that wo
may " receive the law from his mouth."
He opened it with blessings, repeated and 'nost impor-
tant blessings. But on whom are they prone aced 1 and
whom are we taught to think the happiest oi ikind 1
The meek and the humble; the penitent and t erciful ;
the peaceful and the pure ; those that hunger a. . thirst
ifter righteousness ; tho:-<e that labour, but faint not, under
persecution. TiOrd ! how different are thy maxims from
those of the children of thi3 world ! They call the proud
happy ; and admire the gay, the rich, the powerful, and the
victorious. But let a vain world take its gaudy trifles, and
dress up the foolish creatures that pursue them. May our
Muls share in that happiness which the Son of God came
to recommend and to procure ! May we obtain mercy of
the Lord : may we be owned as his children, enjoy hLi
presence, and inherit his kingdom! With these enjoy-
ments, and these hopes, we will cheerfully welcome the
lowest, or the most painful circumstances.
Let us be animated to cultivate those amiable virtuet
which are here recommended to us: this humility and
flwekness; this penitent sense of sin; this ardent desire
tfter righteousness; this compaasion and puritj; this
190
THE ENGLISH READER.
Put I.
It »;
"ft.
peacefulness and fortitude of soul; and, in a word, thii
universal goodness which becomes us, as we sustain the
character of *< the salt of the earth,'' and '■'■ the light of the
world."
Is there not reason to lament, that we answer the char-
acter no better? Is there not reason to exclaim, with a
good man in former times, <J Blessed Lord! either these
are not thy words, or we are not Christians!" Oh, season
our hearts more effectually with thy grace ! Pour fortii
that divine oil on our lamps ! I'hen shall the flame bright-
en; then shall the ancient honours of thy religion be re-
vived ; and multitudes be awakened and animated by the
lustre of it, " to glorify our Father in heaven."
DOODRIUOS.
Sect. VI. — Schemes of L/fe often Illusory.
Omar, the son of Hassan, had passed seventy^ve years
in honour and prosperity. The favour of three successive
califs had filled his house with gold and silver ; and wher>
ever he appeared, the benedictions of the pa^le proclaimed
his passage.
Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. The
brightness of the liame is wasting its fuel : the fn^rant
flower is passing away in its own odours. The vigour of
Omar began to fail ; the curls of beauty fell from his he«|l;
strength departed from his hands, and agility from hip
feet. He gave back to the calif the keys of trust and th^
seals rf secrecy; and sought no other pleasure for tho
remainder of life, than the converse of the wise, and the
gratitude of the good.
The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. His
chamber was filled by visitants, eager to catch the dictates
of experience, and officious to pay the tribute of admii«*
tion. Caled, the son of the viceroy of Egypt, entered
every day early, and retired late. He was beautiful and
eloquent : Omar admired his wit, and loved his dociUty.
*« Tell me," said Caled, <* thou to whose voice nations have
listened, and whose wisdom is known to the extremities of
Asia, tell me how I may resemble Omar the prudent. The
arts by which thou hast gained power and preserved it, are
to thee no longer necessary or ^'^eful : impart to me the
secret of thy conduct, and teach me the plan upon which
thy wisdom haa built thy fortune." >
UiAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
191
ODURIUOS.
•< Young man," said Omar, " it is of little ubo to form
plans of life. When I took my first survey of the world,
in my twentieth year, having considered the various con>
ditions of Mankind, in the hour of solitude I said thus to
myself, leaning against a cedar, which spread its branches
over my head : * Seventy years are allowed to man : I have
yet fifty remaining. Ten years I will allot to the attain-
ment of knowledge, and ten I will pass in foreign countries;
I shall be learned, and therefore shall be honoured ; every
city will shout at my arrival, and every student will solicit
my friendship. Twenty years thus passed will store my
mind with images, which I shall be busy, through the rest
of ray life, in combining and comparing. I shall revel in
inexhaustible accumulations of intellectual riches; I shall
find nev; pleasures for every moment ; and shall never more
be weary of myself. I will not, however, deviate too fnr
frdm the beaten track of life ; but will try what can be
found in female delicacy. I will marry a wife beautiful
as the Houries, and wise as Zobcide : with her I will live
twenty years within the suburbs of Bagdat, in every plea-
euro that wealth can purchase, and fancy can invent. I
will then retire to a rural dwrelling; pass my days in ob-
scurity and contv mplation ; and lie silently down on the
bed df ^^cath. Through my life it shall be my settled reso-
bitioii;' that I will never depend upon the smile of princes;
th^ will never stand exposed to the artifices of courts:
I jfill never pant for public honours, nor disturb my quiet
fith the aifairs of state,' Such was my scheme of life,
which I impressed indelibly upon my memory.
'* The first part of my ensuing time was to be spent in
•etrch of knowledge ; but I know not how I was diverted
from my design. I had no visible impediments without,
nor any ungovernable passions within. I regarded know-
ledge a^ the highest honour, and the most engaging plea-
itire: jletday stole upon day, and month glided after
month, till I found that seven years of the first ten had
vanished, and left nothing behind them. I now postponed
my purpose of travelling ; for why should I go abroad,
while so much remained to be learned at home 1 I im-
mured myself for four years, and studied the laws of the
empire. The fame of my skill reached the judges ; I wac
found able to speak upon doubtful questions; and was
commanded to stand at the footstool of the calif. I wa«
heard wim attention — I was consulted with confidence^-
w'aMf
192
THE ENGLISH READER.
PahtI. I CiAP.lX.
W
lhI-'
and the love of praise fastened on my heart. I still wished
to see distant countries ; listened with rapture to the rela-
tions of travellers ; and resolved some time to ask my dis.
mission, that I might feast my soul with novelty ; but my
presence was always necessary, and the stream of businens
hurried me along. Sometimes I was afraid lest I should
be charged with ingratitude ; but I still proposed to travel,
and therefore would not confine myself by marriage.
"In my fiftieth year, ^ hegan to suspect that the time of
travelling was pasf ; ana thought it best to lay hold on the
felicity yet in my power, and indulge myself in domestic
pleasurec. But at fifty, no man easily finds a woman
beautiful as the Hourics, and wise as Zobeide. I inquired
and rejected, consulted and deliberated, till the sixty-sec-
ond year made me ashamed of wishing to marry. I had
now nothing left but retirement ; and[for retirement! never
found a time, till disease forced me from public emploj-
ment.
** Such was my scheme, and such has been its conse-
quences. With an insatialde thirst for knowledge, I trifled
away the years of improvement; with a restless desire of
seeing dififerent countries, I have always resided in the
same city ; with the highest expectation of connubial feli-
city, I have lived unmarried ; and with unalterable reso-
lutions of contemplative retirement, I am going to die
within the walls of Bagdat." Jo»nso5.
Sbct. Yll.-—7?te lujlucnce of Dewtion on the Happbusi
of Life,
Wbatkver promotes and strengthens virtue, whateTer
calms and regulatct; the temper, is a source of happiness.
Devotion prodiices these efl'ects in a remarkable degree.
It inspires composure of spirit, mildness, and benignity;
weakens the painful, and cherishes the pleasing emotione;
and, by these means, carries on the life of a pious man in
a smooth and placid tenor.
Besides exerting this habitual influence on the mind,
devotion opens a field of enjoyments, to which the viciouv
are entire strangers ;—-enjoy men ts the more valuable, m
they peculiarly belong to retirement, when the world leaves
v« ; and to adversity, when it becomes our foe. Th«se are
the two seasons, for which every wise man would most wiib
to provide some hidden store of comfort For, let bim be
M ■
Pait I. I CiAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES;
193
still wished
to the reia-
ask my dis-
Ity; but mt
of business
lest I should
ed to travel,
mage.
; the time of
hold on the
in domestic
Is a woman
. I inquired
he sixty-sec-
arry. I had
iraent I never
blic employ-
en itB conw-
edgc, I trifled
CSS desire of
>sided in the
onnubial fcli-
Itcrable reso-
going to die
JOHNSOS.
he Happ'msi
uo, whatever
of happiness,
table degree,
id benignity:
ing emotions;
pious man in
on the mind,
ch the viciouti
valuable, »»
le world leaves
.c. Thtse we
[juldmostwiib
or, lef kirn be
jJaced in the most fiiTourable situation which the human
!(tate admits, the world can neither always amuse him, nor
tlways shield him firom distress. There will be many hours
of vacuity, and many of dejection, in his life. If he ^ a
singer to God, and to devotion, how dreary will the
•jloom of solitude often prove! W'*h what oppre»sive
weight will sickness, disappointment jr old age, fall upon
his spirits ! But for those pensive periods, the pious man
has a relief prejpared. From the tiresome repetition of the
common vanities of life, or from the painful corrosion of
its cares and sorrows, devotion transports him into a new
region ; and surrounds him there with such objects, as are
the most fitted to cheer the dejection, to calm the tumults,
and to heal the wounds of his heart. If the world haa
been empty and delusive, it gladdens him with the prospect
of a higher and better order of things about to arise. If
men have been ungrateful and base, it displays before him
the faithfulness of that Supreme Being, who, though every
other friend fail, will never forsake him. Let us consult
our experience, and we shall find, that the two greatest
sources of inward joy, are, the exercises of love directed
towards a deserving object, and the exercise of hope ter-
minating on some high and assured happiness. Both
these are supplied by devotion; and, therefore, wo have
no reason to be surprised, if, on some occasions, it fills
the hearts of good men with a satisfaction not to be exp
pressed.
The refined pleasures of a pious mmd are, in many re-
spects, superior to the coarse gratifications of sense. They
•re pleasures which belong to the highest powers, and best
auctions of the soul ; whereas, the gratifications ol sense
reside in the lowest region of our nature. To the latter,
the ioul stoops below its native digriity : the former raise
it above itself. The latter leave always a comfortless,
often a mortifying remembrance behind them: the for-
mer are reviewed with applause and delight The plea-
sures of sense rebemble a foaming torrent, which, afler a
Uisorderly course, speedily runs out, and leaves an empty
and i^ensive channel ; but the pleasures of devotion re-
semble the equable current of a pure river^ which enlivens
Hhe fields through which it passes, and diffuses verdure
Uai fertility along its banks. To thee, O Devotion ! we
|*wt tkc highest tmpMvement of our nature, and much ef
vU enjoyment of <mr life. Thoo art the tapfart of cwr
I
194
THE ENGLISH READER.
Put I.
virtue, and the rest of our souls in this turbulent world.
Thou composest the thoughts; thou calmest the passions;
thou exaitest the heart. Thy communications, and thine
only, are imparted to the low, no less than to the high ; to
the poor, as well as to the rich. In thy presence, worldiy
distinctions cease; and, under thy influence, worldly sor.
rows are forgotten. Thou art the balm of the wounded
mind. Thy sanctuary is ever open to the miserable ; in-
accessible only to the unrighteous and impure. 1'hou be-
ginnest on earth the temper of heaven. In thee, the hosts
of angels and blessed spirits eternally rejoice. Blah.
F!;!8ri;,
Sect. VIII. — Virtue^ when deeply rooted, is not subject to
the Injluence of Fortune.
Thb city of Sidon having surrendered to Alexander, he
ordered Hephajstion to bestow the crown on him whom the
8idonians should think most worthy of that honour. He^
pha^stion, being at that time resident with two young men
of distinction, oflcred them the kingdom ; but they refused I
it, telling him that it was contrary to the laws of their
country to admit any one to that honour who was not of I
the royal family. He then, having expressed his adinira»j
tion of their disinterested spirit, debired them to name one
of the royal race, who might remember that he had received
-the crown through their hands. Overlooking many, who
would have been ambitious of this high honour, they made
choice of Abdolonymus, whose singular merit had rendered
him conspicuous, even in the vale of obscurity. Though
remotely related to the royal family, a series of misfortuneij
had reduced him to the necessity of cultivating a gardeD.[
for a small stipend, in the suburbs of the city.
While Abdolonymus was busily employed in weedinH
his garden, the two friends of HcphsBstion, bearing in theirj
hands the enwign of royalty, approached him, and saluted!
him V'mtr. They informed him, that Alexander had ap-j
pointed him to that oince ; and required him immcdiateljl
to exchange \\i» rustic garb and utensils of husbandry, ftfl
the regal robe and sceptre. At the same time, they ad-l
monished him, when he should ho seated on the thronej
and have a nation in his poi^'er, not to forget the huiohii|
oonditivii from which he had been raised.
Put 1. 1 CiAF. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
195
mlent world,
the passions;
ns, and thine
the high ; to
ence, worldly
. worldly sor-
the wounded
niscrable ; in-
e. Thou be-
hec, the hosts
BLilB.
not nubjeet to
Alexander, he
him whom the
honour. He-
wo young men
lit they refused
laws^ of their
yho was not of|
5ed his admira'
m to name one
[10 had received
ng many, whol
our, they made I
it had rendered
Lirity. Though
8 of misfortune*
ating a garden. |
ed m weeding
bearing in their
in, and saluted
xander had ap-
im immediately
f husbandry, m
time, they «*
on the throne,
•get the huinbH
AH this, at first, appeared to Abdolonymus as an illu*
Mon of the fancy, or an insult offered to his poverty. He
requested them not to trouble him farther with their im-
pertinent jests ; and to find some other way of amusing
themselves, which might leave him in the peaceable enjoy-
ment of his obscure habitation. At length, however, they
convinced him, that they were serious in their proposal ;
and prevailed upon h:ni to accept the regal office, and
accompany them to the palace.
No sooner was he in possession of the government, than
pride and envy created him enemies, who whispered their
murmurs in every place, till at last they reached the ear
of Alexander. He commanded the new-elected prince to
be sent for, and inquired of him with what temper of mind
he had borne his poverty. " Would to Heaven," replied
Abdolonymus, " that I may be able to bear my crown
with equal moderation ! for, when I possesned little, I
wanted nothing : these hands supplied me with whatever
1 desired." From this answer, Alexander formed so high
an idea of his wisdom, that he confirmed the choice which
had been made, and annexed a neighbouring province to
the government of Sidon. Quintus Curtius.
'1f^->
Sect. IX. — What are the Real and Solid Enjoyments of
Huntan Life.
It must be admitted, that unmixed and complete happi-
ness is unknown on earth. No regulation of conduct can
altogether prevent passions from disturbing our peace, and
misfortunes from wounding our heart. But after this con-
cession is made, will it follow that there is no object on
earth which deserves our pursuit, or that all enjoyment
becomes contemptible which is not perfect? Let us survey
our state with an impartial eye, and be just to the various
gifts of Heaven. How vain soever this life, considered in
itself, may be, the comforts and hopes of religion are sufli-
ficnt to give solidity to the enjoyments of the righteous.
In the exercise of good offoctiont*, and the testimony of ati
approving conscience; in the sense of peace and reconci-
liation with God, through the great Redeemer of mankind;
[m the firm confidence of being conducted through all the
|trialt of life, by infinite Wisdom and Goodness; and in tht
ffal prospect of arriving, in the end, at immortal felicity ;
196
THE ENGLISH READER.
Paet I.
they possess a happiness which, descending^ from a purer
and more perfect region than this world, partakes not of iu
vanity.
Betides the enjoyments peculiar to religion, there aro
other pleasures of our present state, which, though of an
inferior order, must not be overlooked in the estimate of
human life. It is necessary to call attention to these, in
order to check that repining and unthankful spirit to
which man is always too prono. Some degree of impor*
tancc must be allowed to the comforts of health, to the
innocent gratifications of sense, and to the entertainment
aiforded us by all the beautiful scenes of nature; some to
the pursuits and harmless amusements of social life; and
more to the internal enjoyments of thought and reflection,
and to the pleasure* of aftectionatc intercourse with those
whom we love. These comforts are often hold in too low
estimation, merely because Ihcy are ordinary and common;
although that is *hc circumstance which ought in reason
to enhance their value. They lie open, in some degree,
to all; extend through every rank of life; and fill up^
agreeably many of thosti spaces in our present existences
which are not occupied with higher objects, or with serioui
cares.
From this representation it appears, thtft, notwithstand-
ing the vanity of the world, a considerable degree of
comfort is attainable in the present state. Let the recol-
lection of this serve to reconcile us to our condition, and
Uy repress the arrogance of complaints and murmurs—
What art thou, O son of man ! who, having sprung but
yesterday out of the dust, darest to lift up thy voice
against thy Maker, and to arraign his providence, becauie
ail things are not ordered according to thy wish 1 What
title hast thou to find fault with the order of the univene,
whose lot is so much boyond what thy virtue or merit
gave thee ground to claim? Is it nothing to thee to have
been introduced into this magnificent world ; to have bees
admitted as a spectator of the Divine wisdom andworki;
and to have had access to all the comforts which naturCi:
with a bountiful hand, has poured forth around thee 1 An
iklk Uio hours forgotten which thou hast passed in ca8e,ii
complacency, or joy? Is it a small favour in thy tjt%\
that the hand of Divine Mercy has been stretched forth to
tid thee; and, if thou reject not its proffered assistancii
k ready to conduct thee to a happier etate of eiisteM^'
^^" '• I Celt. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
from a purer
kos not of iu
)n, there are
thoui^h of an
le estimate of
to these, m
ful spirit to
ree of impor*
lealth, to the
entertainment
ture ; some to
>cial life; and
and reflection,
rse with those
old in too low
and common;
ght in reason
some degree,
and fill up I
sent existence^
or with serioM
, notwithstand-
ible degree of
Let the recoi-
condition, and
id murmurs^
m^ sprung but
up thy voice
idencc, became
wish 1 What
>f the univene,
virtue or ment
to thee to haw
1 ; to have becB
orn andworki;
u which naturt.
undthce? Aw|
ssed in ease, ui
ur in thy eje*
tretched forth tj
fered assiataiNit
\» of exUt^MM
rom
197
When thou CmnpaTest thy condition with thy desert, blush,
and be ashamed of thy complaints. Be silent, be grateful,
and adore. Receive with thankfulness the blessings which
are allowed thee. Revere that government which m pre-
sent refuses thee more. Rest in this conclusion, that,
though there are evils in the world, its Creator is wise and
good, and has been bountiful to thee. Blaih.
Skct. X. — The Speech of Fabrictus, a Rwnan Ambassa-
dor, to King Pyrrhus, who attempted to brU)e him to hi*
Interests y by the Offer of a great Su?n of Money.
With regard to my poverty, the king has, indeed, been
justly informed. My whole estate consists in a house of but
mean appearance, and a little spot of ground ; from which,
by my own labour, I draw my support. But if, by any
means, thou hast been persuaded to think that this poverty
renders me of less consecjuence in my own country, or in
any degree unhappy, thou art jrrcatly deceived. I have
10 reason to complain of fortune: she supplies me with all
lat nature requires; and if I am without superfluities, I am
^80 free from the desire of them. With these, I confess,
I should be more able to succour the necessitous, the only
advantage for whicli the wealthy are to be envied : but small
as my possessions are, I can still contribute something to
the support of the state, and the assistance of my friends.
With respect to honours, my country places nic, poor us
I am, upon a level with the richest ; for Rome knows no
qualifications for great employmrn* >, but virtue and ability.
She appoints me to officiate in the most august ceremonies
of reUgion ; she entrusts me with tlie command of her
armies; she confides to my care the most important nego-
ciations. My poverty do«'s not lessen the weight and in-
fluence of my counsels in the senate. The Roman people
honour me for that very poverty, which King Pyrrhua
considers as a disgrace. They know the many opportu-
nities I have had to enrich mynolf, without censure ; they
are convinced of my diHinterested zeal for their prosperity ;
and if I have any thing to complain of, in the return they •
make me, it is only the excess of their applause. What
value, then, can I put upon thy gold and silver? What
king can add any thing to my fortune ? Alv/ays attentive
to discharge the duties incumbent upon me, I have a mind
free from solf-repro -•xh ; and I have an honest fame.
r i
&^:i
198
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pavt L I Chaf. IX.
l.\ r':
8k CT. XIo — The Pleasures resulting from a proper Use of
our Faculties,
HAPpk that man, who, unembarrasstd by vulgar carts,
mastc^of himself, his time, and fortune, spends nis timu
in making himself wiser, and his fortune in making others
(and therefore himself) happier; who, as the will and
understandinj? are the two ennobling faculties of the soul,
thinks himself not complete, till his understanding is beau-
tified with the valuable furniture of knowledge, as well as
his will enriched with every virtue ; who has furnish^'d
himself with all the advantages to relish solitude and en-
liven conversation ; who, when serious, is not sullen ; and,
when cheerful, not indiscreetly gay; whose ambition is,
not to be admired for a false glare of greatness, but to be
beloved for the gentle and sober lustre of his wisdom and
goodness. The greatest minister of state has not more
business to do, in a public capacity, than he, and indeed
every other man, may find in the retired and still scenes of
life. Even iu his private walks, every thing that is visihio
convinces him there is present a Being invisible. Aided
by natural philosophy, he reads ph in legible traces of the
Divinity in every thing he meets; he sees the Deity in
every tree, as well as Moses did in the burning bush, though
not in so glaring a manner ; and, when he sees him, he
adores him with the tribute of a grateful heart. Sued.
Sect. XII. — Character of James I. King of England.
No prince, so little enterprising and so inoffensive, was
ever so much opposed to the opposite extremes of calumny
and flattery, of satire and panegyric. And the factions
which began in his time, being still continued, have made
his character to be as much disputed to this day, as is
commonly that of princes who arc our contemporaries.
Many virtues, however, it must be owned, he was possess-
ed oi\ but not one of them pure, or free from the contagion
of the neighboi'ring vices. His generosity bordered on
profusion, his learning on pedantry, his pacific disposition
on pusillanimity, his wisdom on cunning, his friendship on
light fancy and boyish fondness. While ho imagined thai
he WAS only maintaining his own authority, he may per-
haps be suspected, in some of his actions, and still nu»n
CaiP.IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 199
of his pretenllonQ, to have encroached on the liberties of
his people. While he endeavoured, by an exact neutral-
ity, to acquire the good-will of all his neighbours, he was
able to preserve fully the ecteem and regard of noncjl His
capacity was considerable, but fitter to discourse omgen-'
crai maxims, than to conduct any intricate business.
His intentions were just, but more adapted to the con-
duct of private life, than to the government of kingdoms.
Awkward in his person, and ungainly in his manners, he
^iis ill qualified to command respect: partial and undiscern-
in^ in his affections, he was little fitted to acquire general
love. Of a feeble temper, more than of a frugal judgment;
exposed to our ridicule by his vanity, but exempt from our
hatred by his freedom from pride and arrogance. And,
upon the whole, it may be pronounced of his character,
that all his qualities were sullied with weakness, and em-
bellished by humanity. Political courage he was certainly
devoid of; and from thence chieHy is derived the strong
prejudice, which prevails against his personal bravery;—
an inference, however, which must be owned, from general
experience, to be extremely fallacious. Huakk,
SxcT. XIII. — Charles V. Emperor of Germany, resigns his
DominionSy and retires from the World.
Thus great emperor, in the plenitdoe of his power, and in
pcasession of all the honours which can flatter the heart
of man, took the extraordinary resolution to resign his
kingdoms ; and to withdraw entirely from any concern in
business, or the affairs of the world, in order that he might
^iid the remainder of his days in retirement and solitude.
Though it requires neither deep reflection, nor extraordi-
nary discernment, to discover that the state of royalty is
not exempt from cares and disappointments ; though most
ol those who are exalted to a throne, find solicitude, and
satiety, and disgust, to be their perpetual attendants, in
that envied pre-eminence; yet, to descend voluntv'filyfrom
the supreme to a subordinate station, and to relinquish the
possession of power, in order to attain the enjoyment ot
liappiness, seems to be an effort too great for the human
mind. Several instances, indeed, occur in history, of mon-
archs who have quitted a throne, and have ended their
tiays in retirement. But they were either weak princes,
200 THE ENGLISH READER. Paet I.
who took this resoluti<m rashly, and repentecnof it as soon
as it was taken ; or unfortunate princes, from whose hands
woiofi strong rival had wrested their sceptre, and compjUed
them^ descend with reluctance into a private station.
Diocllnan ia perhaps the only prince capable of holding;
the reins of government, who ever resigned them from de*
liberate choice; and who continued, during many ycarc,
to enjoy the tranquillity of retirement, without fetching one
penitent sigh, or casting back one look of de^re, towardi
the power and dignity which he had abandoned.
!No wonder, then, that Charles's resignation should jfiii
all Europe with astonishment ; and give rise, both among
his contemporaries, and among the historians of that \ie-
riod, to various conjectures concerning the motives whi-h
determined a prince, whose ruling passion had been uni
formiy the love of power, at the age of fifty-six, when ob-
jects of ambition operate with full force upon the mind, and
are pursued with the greatest ardour, to take a resolution
so singular and unexpected.
The emperor, in pursuance of his determination, havinf^
assembled the states of the Low Countries at Brussels,
seated himself, for the last time, in the chair of state; on
one side of which was placed his son, and on the other his
sister the queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands,
with a splendid retinue of the grandees of Spain and prin-
ces of the empire standuig behind him. The president of
the council of Flanders, by his command, explained, in a
few words, his intention in calling this extraordinary meet-
ing of the states. He then read the instrument of resigf*
nation, by which Charles surrendered to his son Philip ill ,
his territories, jurisdiction, and authority, in the Low
Countries ; absolving his subjects there from their oath tof
allegiance to him, which he required them to transfer tdt
Philip, his lawful heir ; and to serve him with the same
loyalty and zeal that they had manifested, during so long a
course of years, l^i support of his government.
Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on the
shoulder of the Prince of Orange, because he was unable
to stand without support, he addressed himself to the
audience; and, from a paper which he held in his hand.
in order to assist his memory, he recounted with dignity,
but without ostentation, all the gr^at things which he had
undertaken and performed, since the commencement o(
his administration. He observed, that from the seven-
CiAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
201
teentK year m his age, he had dedicated all his thoughU
and attention to public objects, reserving no portion of his
time for the indulgence of his ease, and very little for the
enjoyment of private pleasure ; that, either in a papfic or
hostile manner, he had visited Germany nine times, Spain
sii times, France four timetj, Italy seven times, the Low
Countries ten times, England twice, Africa as often, and
had made eleven voyages by sea ; that, while his health
permitted him to discharge his duty, and the vigour of
his constitution was equal, in any degree, to the arduous
office of governing dominions so extensive, he had never
shunned labour, nor repined under fatigue ; that now,
when his health was broken, }»*^d his vigour exhausted by
the rage of an incurable distemper, his growing infirmities
admonished him to retire ; nor was he so fond of reigning,
as to retain the sceptre in an impotent hand, which was no
longer able to protect his subjccJ;s, or to render them hap-
py; that, instead of a sovereign worn out with dise.asc,aiid
scarcely half alive, he gave them one in the prime of life,
accustomed already to goverii, and who added to the
vigour of youth, all the attention and sagacity of matnrer
years; that if, during tlic course of a long administra-
tion, he had committed any material error in government,
or if, under th a pressure of so many and great affairs, and
amidst the attention which he had been obliged to give to
Uitm, he had either neglected or injured any of his sub-
j^, he now implored their forgiveness; that, for his part,
iMKiillOuld ever retain a grateful sense of their fidelity and
jfllchnifent, and would carry the remembrance of it along
[intllhiin to the place of his retreat, as his sweetest conso-
l^pwi, aS' well as ^ the best reward for all his services; and
pB^last prayers to Almighty God, would pour ibrth his
|lpl|Mett wishes for their welfare.
Then, turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees,
and kissed his father's hand, '' If," says he," I had left you,
by my death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made
soch large additions, tome regard v^ould have been justly
I <lue to my memory on that accourvt ; but now, when I vol-
Wtarily resign to you what I might have still retained, I
any well expect the warmest expression of thanks on your
pwrt. V/ith these, however, I dispense ;' and shall consider
your concern for the welfare of your subjects, and your
I loie of them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of
I your gratitude to me. It is in your power, by a wise and
2i
t«t
mt t^OrtJmn ^tkt>M.
Wit I.
S3 '3.
if I
,':: ^t
Vi t tAi flW B k^hninistraUon, to justify the extratfrdina'ry proof
I6hu^ f "^ve thii^ day of my paternal afTection, and to de-
MAAirtrate that you are worthy of the confidence which I
te^Mveift you. Preserve an inviolable regard for religion;
tdfittnWn ^e Catholic faith in its purity ; let the laws of
ytfvir Country be sacred in /es ; encroach not on the
tiglhtft tod privileges of youk ^<$opIe ; and if the time shall
e^dr come, when you shall wish to enjoy the tranquillity
(ff ^iVate life, may you have a son endowed with sach
^^fellities, that ydu can i'esign your sceptre to him with as
tt^6h Satisfaction as I give up mine to you !"
As HMn as Charles had finished this long address to his
trUbj'ectft, fimd to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair,
^diausted and ready to faint with the fatigue of so ex-
tMtordinaiy an effort. During his discourse, the whole
Midi^hce tndtdd into tears; some from admiration of his
i)ikiig[nafiiihity ; others softened by the expressions of ten-
H^^neiis ^tWards his son, and of love to his people; and I
ttlft 'vf&rH affected with the deepest sorrow, at losing a sot-
(^igtl, Utrhb had distinguished the Netherlands, his native |
c^Vitii^, *mi\i particular marks of his regard and attach-
AeM. ROBERTSOX.I
• OKCT. XIV. — Feelings excited by a ting Voyage,
1*0 mA American visiting Europe, the long voyage he his
to make is afi excellent preparative. From the moment
^<m losie «ight "of the land you have left, all is vacancy,
tHVtil fotk step on the opposite shore, and are launched M
&hise inio the bustle and novelties of another world.
I'hai^e aaid that at sea all is vacancy. I should comdi
tKfe i^xfrreiision. To one given up to day-dreaming> uA
fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is fail
ftrtye^ta %t meditation ; but then they are the wonders
the^eep and of the air, and rather tend to abstract tiie
fttind &om worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the
^ailier-railing, or climb to the main-top on a calm day,
1^ it aae for hours together on the tranquil bosom of t
ItttnMibr tiea ; or to gaze upon the piles of golden clondi
jvwt peering above the horizon, fancy them some fairy
reliliM, ahd people them ^th a creation of my own-4*j
1««bteh the g^entle undulating billows rolling their sihffj
Voteinei, m if (o<die away on those happy shores.
Viiere mm a delidouai temfttioii of mingled leeurity
OiAt. m. PR0MISCV0U8t fV^OEB.
)»M
twe, with which I looked down from ipy g^ddy l^ieig^V oh
the monsters of the deep, at their uncouth gaml;»ol3. SllOflJii^
of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship; ih^ ffiWk'
pus slowly heaving his huge form above the surface ; pr
the ravenous shark, darting like a, spectre, through tjbie
blae waters. My imagination would conjure up all thfti I
had heard or read of the watery world beneath me ; of ^e
finny herds that roam its ifathomless valleys ; of shap^Iesfl
monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth;
and those wild phantasms that swell the tales of fi^henouen
and sailors.
Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the
ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How
interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the
great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument of
human invention, that has thus triumphed over wind and
wave ; has brought the ends of the earth into communion ;
hai established an intercourse of blessings, pouring into
the steril regions of the north, all the luxuries of the south ;
has diffused the light of knowledge, and the charities of
cultivated life; and has thus bound together those scat-
tered portions of the human race, between which nature
teemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier !
It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of
" land !" was given from the mast-head. I question whe-
ther Columbus, when he discovered the New World, felt a
more delicious throng of sensations than rush into an
American's bosom, when he first comes in sight of Europe.
Hiere is a volume of associations in the very name. It is
the land of promise, teeming with every thing of which his
diildhood has heard, or on which his studious years have
pondered.
From that time until the period of arrival, it was all
feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like
guardian giants round the coast ; the headlands of Ire-
land, stretching out into the channel ; the Welsh moun-
ains, towering into the clouds — all were objects of intense
interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the
Acres with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on
neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass-
l^ots. I saw the mouldering ruins of an abbey overrun
with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church rising
from the brow of a neighbouring hill — all were character-
"tic of England.
£04
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt I.
B:
^1
.f:
: 1
The tide and wind were so favourable, that the ship was
enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with
people ; some idle lookers-on, others eager expectants of
friends or relations. I could distinguish the merchant to
whom the vessel belonged. I knew him by his calculating
brow and restless air. His hands were thrust into his
pockets: he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to
and fro, a small space having #3en accorded to him by
the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. —
There were repeated cheerings and salutations inter-
changed between the shore and the ship, as friends hap-
pened to recoirnise e^ch other. But I particularly noticed
one young woman, of humble dress, but interesting de-
meanour. 8he was leaning forward from among the
crowd ; hej eye hurried over the ship, as it neared the
shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. She seemed
disappointed and agitated, when I heard i faint voice
call her name. It was a poor sailor, who had been ill all
the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on
board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had
spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade ; but of
late, his illness had so increased, that he had taken to his
hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might see his
wife before he died. He had been helped on deck, as we
came up the river; and was now leaning against the
shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, and so
ghastly, that it is no wonder even the eye of affection did
not recognise him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye
darted on his features — it read at once a whole volume of
sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and
stood wringing them in silent agony.
All now was hurry and buatle. The meetings of ac-
quaintances — the greetings of friends — the consultations
of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had
no friend to meet — no cheering to receive. I stepped upon
the land of my forefathers ; but felt that I was a stranger
in the land. Washington Invito.
* Sect. XV. — Address to ike Sea,
Ha.il ! thou inexhaustible source of wonder and contem-
plation ! Hail ! thou multitudinous ocean ! whose wave»
chase one another down like the generations of men, and,
after a momentary space, are immerged for ever in oblivion!
CiAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
205
Thy fluctuating waters wash the varied shores of the
world; and while they diBJoin nations, whom a nearer
connexion would involve in eternal war, they circulate their
arts and their labours, and give health and plenty to man-
kind. How glorious, how awful, are the scenes thou dis-
piayest! — whether we view thee when every wind ia hunhed ;
when the morning sun silvers the level line of the horizon ;
or when its evening track is marked with flaming gold,
and thy unrippled bosom reflects the radiance of the over-
arching heavens! — or whether we behold thee in thy ter-
rors, when the black tempest sweeps thy swelling billows,
and the boiling surge mixes \^ith the clouds ; when death
rides the storm, and humanity drops a fruitless tear for the
toiling mariner, whose heart is sinking with dismay! — And
yet, mighty deep ! it is thy surHicc alone we view. Who
can penetrate the secrets of thy wide domain 1 What eye
can visit thy immense rocks and caverns, that teem with
life and vegetation 1 or search out the myriads of objects,
whose beauties lie scattered over thy dread abyss 1 — The
mind staggers with the immensity of her own conceptions;
and when she contemplates the flux and reflux of thy tides,
which from the beginning of the world were never known
to err, how does she shrink at the idea of that Divine
Power, which originally laid thy foundations so sure, and
whose omnipotent voice has fixed the limits where thy
proud waves shall be staved ! Keatk.
• Sect. XVI. — A Morning in the Highlands.
I 811 ALL never forget the delightful sensation with which
I exchanged the dark, smoky, smothering atmosphere of
the Highland hut, in which we had passed the night so
uncomfortably, for the refreshing fragrance of the morning
air, and the glorious beams of the rising sun, which, from
a tabernacle of purple and golden clouds, were darted full
on such a scene of natural romance and beauty, as had
never before greeted my eyes. To the left lay the valley,
down which the Forth wandered on its easterly course,
surrounding the beautiful detached hill, with all its gar-
lands of woods. On the right, amid a profusion of thick-
ets, knolls, and crags, lay the bed of a broad mountain
lake, lightly curled into tiny waves by the breath of the
ittorning breeze, each glittering in its course under the
906
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pa»t I.
ll
EJ*^ '\tl 1
t V
l-i.
la
I
u
influoncc of the «uiibram«. High UilU, rocki, and Uaiiku,
waving with itutum) fotcistM of birch iiikI oak, formed ihr
(K)rdor« of this enchanting; iihort of water; and, ait their
hibvoH riHil(H) ill tho wind and twinkled in tho Hun, gave
to tho dopth of soliindo ii Hort of life and viviurity. Man
alone si^otnod (o hi* plucod in a Mtute of inferiority, in a
lurono w!uvro all the ordinary featuroN of nature were ruinod
and oxalted.
It was htM-e, niidrr thobnrninH; indnence of revenge, timt
tlui wife of Ma<*;{r(*gor conuniuided that tho hoHtai^o ox>
changed for lier husband'H Hafety »ho»d<l be l>roinjflit into
her prcKoure. I believe hi'i HonM had kept tiiirt unftirlu-
iiate wretch out of her Hijj;l»t, for fear of tho conHecjuenccifi;
but, if it was mo, their humane precaution only poHtponud
hia fate. 'Phey dragucd forward, at her HunnnouH, a wretch
already half dead with terror; in whose agoni/tul fcaturci
\ recognised, to my horror and aHtonishinent, my old ac*
quaintance Morris.
He fell prostrate before tlie female chief, with un effort
to clasp her knees, from which she drew back, as if hia
touch had been pollution ; so that all hu could do, in to-
ken of tt\e extremity of bis humiliation, was to \C\m the
hcni of her plaitl. I never heard* entreaticH for life poured
forth with such agony of spirit. The ecstacy of fear was
such, that, instead o^ paraly/.ing his tongue, ad on ordi*
nary invasions, it even remlercd him eloquent ; and, with
cheeks as pule as ashes — bands eomprchHed in agony —
eyes that seemed to be taking their hint look of all mortal
objects, he protestetl, with the deepest oaths, bin total ig-
norance of any design on the life of Hob Roy, whom ho
•wore he loved and honoured as his own soul. In tho in-
consistency of his tt'rror, be said, be was but the agent of
others, and he uttereil the name of Kasbleigh. IL? prayed
but for life — for lite be would give all ho had in the world;
— it was but life he asked — life, if it were to be prolonged
under tortures and privations; — be asked only breath,
though it siiould be drawn in the damps of the lowest cav-
erns of their hills.
It is impossible to describe the scorn, the Irithing, and
contempt, with which the wife of Macgregor regarded thia
wretched petitioner for the poor boon of existence. "I
could have bid you live," she said, ♦' had life been to you
tlie same weary and wasting burthen that it is to me — that
il ifl to every noble and generous mind. But you, wretcU!
CuAf. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
20t
—you could crorp through tho world, unftflTcrtftd by itJi
variouM diAf^racon, it» inrnkbln miiiorin«i, itn rnriHttintly nC"
cumulating nitiHfnii of crinin and Horrotv ; you oould livo
ami onjoy yourHoIC, whilo th« nohli -miiHlrd »u*o hi'trny«d—
while nnmnloKN mid hirtlili'im villniuM troud on tlu) nrsck of
tho hravr and loiig-doHcrndrd ; yon coiiM rnjoy yourMlf,
lliin a butrhor'n dog in tho MhanildrM, bnttrMtingon garbage,
whilo ihn ftlanghtcr of the bruvn W(Mit on around you.
Thin cnjoymont you ahall not !ivo to partakn of: yon Mhall^
(lio, buHo dog ! ai.d that boforn yon cloud haa paKwrd over
i\\(i aun. HIcoTT.
• Skct. XVH.— /Wc//mi/7/ AJfedum.
WoMAN'a charma aro rcrtainly many and powerful. Th«
expanding ro)tr,juHt burating into hiuiuty, haa an irrnaiat*
ihle bowitcliingnena; — tho blooming bride, led triumph*
anlly to tho hymonual altar, nwakena admiration and
intereat, »,th\ tho hluah of her chock filla with dolight : but
tho charm of maternity ia more aubltnie than all thi'ae.
Heaven haa imprintod in tho mollu^r'a face aomelhing be-
yond thia world, something which claimH kindred with the
Hkiea: tho ungeiio amile, tho tender look, ihe waking wateh«
ful eye, which lioepa ita fond vigil over her Hlunibering babe.
Theac aro objr^cta which neither the pencil nor the chiael
can touch, which poetry faila to exalt, which tho moat elo-
quent tonguo in vain would euloiri/o, and on which all
Joacription bceomea ineflTective. In the heart of man lie*
thiif lovely picture ; it Uvea in hiH Hympathiea ; it reigna in
hid alfectionn ; liia eye iooka round in vain for auch another
object on earth.
Maternity ! oxtatic sound ! ho twined round our heart,
that it mu«t coaBo to throb ere we forget it ! 'Tia our firat
love; 'tin part of our religion. Nature haa act the mother
upon 8U(^h a pinnacle, that our infant ey(!a and arms are,
firnt, uplifltcd to it; wo cling to it in manhood; wo almoat
worshij) it in old ago. Ho who' can enter an apartment,
and behold the tender babe feeding on ita mother'a boauty
— nouriHhed by the tide of life which flowa through her
generous veina, without a panting bosom afid a grateful
eye, ia no man, but a monster. Ho who can approach the
cradle of sleeping innocenco, without thinking tb»t *^of
■Bch ia the kingdom of heaven I" or view ihe fond ptrant
208
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I.
hang over its beauties, and half retain her breath lest she
should break its slumbers* without a veneration, beyond
all common feeling, is to be avoided in every intercourse
of life, and is fit only for the shadow of darkness, and the
solitude of the desert. Anonymous.
••1
I T
* Sect. XVIII. — The Virtues of Irreligious Men an
\ Aggravation of their guilt.
If the virtues an J accomplishments of nature are at all to
be admitted into the controversy between God and man,
instead of Ibrminf? a)iy abatement upon the enormity of
our guilt, they stamp upon it the reproach of a still deeper
and more determined ingratitude. Let us conceive it pos-
sible, for a moment, that the beautiful personifications of
Scripture were all realized; that the trees of the forest
clapped their hands unto God, and that the isles were glad
at his presence ; that the little hills shouted on every side,
and the valleys covered over with corn sent forth their notes
of rejoicing; that the sun and moon praised him, and the
stars of light joined in the solemn adoration ; that the voice
of glory to God was heard from every mountain and from
every waterfall ; and that all nature, animated throughout
by the consciousness of a pervading and presiding Uoity,
burst into one loud and universal song of giutulation.
Would not a strain of greater loftiness be heard to ascend
from those regions where the all-working God had left the
traces of his own immensity, than from the tamer and the
humbler scenery of an ordinary landscape '? Would not
you look for a gladder acclaination from the fertile field
than from the arid waste, where no character of grandeur
made up for the barrenness that was around you? Would
not the goo'Uy tree, compassed about with the glories of
its summer foliage, lift up an anthem of louder gratitude,
than the lowly shrub that grew beneath it T Would not
the flower, from whose leaves every hue of loveliness was
reflected, send forth a svvceti'r rapture than the russet weed,
which never drew the eye of an admiring passenger] And,
in a word, wherever you saw the towering eminences of
nature, or the garniture of her more rich and beauteous
adornments, would it not be there that you looked for Iho
deepest tones of devotion, or there for the tenderest and
most exquisite of its melodioi ? Cualmxes.
Part I. ■ Ciap. IX.
PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
• Sect. XIX. — On Happiness.
209
Childhood is said to be the happiest period of life. If
this be true, I can account for it in no other way, than by
supposing, that children find an object of pursuit in every
thing which presents itself, and that they pursue every
thing with ardour. If men choose to take the same road,
they will continue the happiness of childhood to their
latest years, with the additional satisfaction which the
choice of reason and the approbation of conscience will
impart. But the minds of children are free and light as
air; and with them no care obtrudes itself on an anxious
heart. The pains of yesterday leave no impression, and
to-morrow is a hundred years hence. Did you ever hear
of a man engaged in a fox-chase, thinking of yesterday or
to-morrow 1 Let us, therefore, be engaged in the chase of
wisdom, and in the chase of virtue. Let our duties, our
actions, and our amusements, be a chase, and we will
never be unhappy.
There is a nice combination of activity and indifference,
which, when acquired by due attention, or mixed up in
the constitution, I consider as the highest pitch of human
felicity. It consists of activity in the pursuit, and indif-
ference to the object. It gives the good in hand, without
the danger of disappointment. It is eagerness and ardour,
without that hope, which is another word for anxiety. Nor
is it impossible to be happy on such terms ; for this seem-
ing contradiction is easy to him who suppresses vain hopes,
and who derives, from every duty and occupation of life,
what it can give. It is a mehuijihcly truth in our charac-^
ter, that tbe fancy and imagination, which painted the
delights of the future scene, imbitter the present moment.
If we had not overlaid the picture with too much colour-
ing, we would have enjoyed life as it is ; we would have
learned, in this varied and chequered scene, to extract
sweet from bitterness, instead of rejecting the cup, because
ilio ingredients are not mingled to our taste.
Energy in our pursuits, destroys the illusiona of imagi-
nation. The mind finds happiness in its own exertion ;
luid, if it be well regulated, disuppointment is a starting-
place to a new pursuit Gkxkii.
210
THE ENGLISH READER.
PlBT I.
w
m
* Sect. XX. — On Autumn.
AuTUMir is a season which tenJs to wean us from the
passions of the world. Every passion, however base and
unworthy, is yet eloquent. It speaks to us of present en-
joyment ; it tells us of what men have done, and what
men may do; and it supports us every-where by the ex-
^ ample of many around us. When we go out into the
fields in the evening of the year, a diiTjrent voice ap-
proaches us. We regard, even in spite of ourselves the
still, but steady advance of time. A few days ago, and
the summer of the year was grateful, and every element
was filled with life, and the sun of heaven seemed to glory
in his ascendant. He is now enfeebled in his power; th?
desert no more " blossoms like the rose ;" the song of joy
is no more heard among the branches ; and the earth is
strewed with that foliage which once bespoke the magni-
ficence of summer. Whatever may be the passion society
has awakened, we paus3 amid this appa'"ent desolation of
nature. We sit down in the lodge " of the wayfaring iian
in the wilderness," and we feel that all we witness is the
emblem of our own fate.
Such also in a few years will be our condition. Th«»
blossoms of our spring, the pride of our summer, will also
fade into decay ; and the pulse that now beats high with
vigorous or with vicious desire, will gradually sink, and
then must stop for ever. We rise from our meditation*
with hearts softened and subdued; and we return into lite
as into a shadowy scene, where we have "disquieted our-
selves in vain." Such is the first impression which the
present scene of nature is fitted to make upon us. It is
this first impression which intimidates the tlioughtlcss and
the gay; and indeed, if there were no other re^jctions
that followed. T know not that it would be the business o!
wisdom to recomuicnd such meditations. It is the consp-
quences, however, of such previous thoughts which arc
chiefiy valuable ; and, among those, there are two which
may well deserve our consideration.
It is the unvarying character of nature, amid all its
scenes, to load xn at last to its Author; and it is for this
final end, tliat all its varieties have such dominion over our
minds. We are led, by t!ie appearances of spring, to sop
hii bounty ; we are led, by the splendours of summer, to sec
Chap. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
211
his greatness. In the present hours, we are led to a higher
sentiment; and, what is most remarkable, the very circum-
stanccsyof melancholy are those which guide us most
securely to put our trust in him. We are witnessing tne
decay of the year : we go back in imagination, and find
that such in every generation has been the fate of man ;
we look forward, and we see that to such ends all must
come at last : we lift our desponding eyes in search of
comfort, and we see al)Ove us One who " is ever the same,
and to whose years there is no end." Amid the vicissi-
tudes of nature, we discover that central majesty " in
whom there is no variableness nor shadow of turning."
We feel that there is a God; and, from the tempestuous
sea of hfe, we hail that polar star of nature to which a
sacred instinct had directed our eyes, and which burns
with undecaying ray, to lighten us among all the darkness
of the deep.
Let the busy and active go out, and pause for a time
amid the scenes which surround them, and learn the high
lesson which nature teaches in the hours of its fall. They
are low ardent with all the desires of mortality; and fame,
and interest, and pleasure, are displaying to them their
siiadowy promises ; and, in the vulgar race of life, many
weak and many worthless passions are too naturally en-
gendered. Let them withdraw themselves for a time from
the agitations of the world ; let them mark the desolation
of summer, and listen to the winds of winter, which begin
to murmur above their heads. It is a scene which, with all
its power, has yet no reproach : it tells them, that such is
also the fate to which they must come ; that the pulse of
passion must one day beat low ; that the iTlusions of time
must pass; and "that the spirit nmst return to him who
gave It.
Alison.
iiih
*S!iCT. XXL — On the Beauty and Force of the Eng
Language.
Kr.oAiin not the English language, I l^eseech you, as the
mere medium of ordinary intercourse. It is a mine, whence
YOU may extract the means of enchanting, instructing, and
improving communities yet nameless, and generations yet
unborn. Our English language has never hod adequaltf
tribute paid to it.
*ya
212
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part I. I Cbaf. U
II
'ii
Among the languages of Modern Europe, specious, but
subordinate pretensions have been advanced to cadence,
terseness, or dexterous ambiguity of insinuation ; while the
sober majesty of the English tongue stood aloof, and dis-
dained a competition on the ground of such inferior par-
ticularities. I even think, that we have erred with regard
to Greek and Latin. Our sense of the inestimable benefit
we have reaped from the treasures of taste and science,
which they have handed down to us, has led us into an
extravagance of reverence for them. Thoy have high
intrinsic merit, without doubt ; but it is a bigoted grati-
tude, and an unweighed admiration, which induce ur to
prostrate the English tongue before their altar. Every
language can furnish to genius, casually, a forcible ex-
pression ; and a thousand turns of neatness and delicacy
may be found in most of them: but I will confidently
assert, that, in that which should be the first object in all
language, precision, the English tongue surpasses them
all; while in richness of colouring and extent of power, it
is exceeded by none, if equalled by any. What subject
is there within the boundless range of imagination, which
some British author has not clothed in British phrase,
with a nicety of definition, an accuracy of portraiture, a
brilliancy of tint, a delicacy of discrimination, and a force
of expression, which must be sterlinfj^, because every other
nation of Europe, as well as our own, admits their per-
fection with enthusiasm!
Are the fibres of the heart to be made to tremble with
anxiety, — to glow with animation, — to thrill with horror,
—to startle with amaze, — to shrink with awe, — to throb
with pity, — or 'to vibrate in sympathy with the tone of
pictured love ; know ye not the mighty magicians of our
country, whose potent spell has commanded, and continues
irresistibly to command, tliose varied impulses 1 M^ns it
a puny engine, a feelilo art, that achieved such wondrous
workings 1 What was the sorcery 1 Jiislly conccirwd ctii-
location of words, is the whole secret of this witchery;
a charm within the reach of any of you. Po sess your-
Helves of the necessary enfrgicfi, and be assured you will
find the language cxuhermit beyond the demand of your
intensest thought. How many positions are there wiiich
form the basis of every day's reflections, the matter for
the ordinary operation of our minds, which were toiled
after, perhaps for ages, before they were seized and rcn-
Part I. | Chap. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
213
specious, but
i to cadence,
on ; while the
iloof, and dis-
inferior par-
d with regard
mable bonofit
and science,
;d us into an
:^y have high
bigoted grati-
inducc lis to
altar. Every
a forcible ex-
and deUcacy
;ll confidently
t object in all
irpasses them
it tif power, it
What subject
nation, which
British phrase,
portraiture, a
[1, and a force
se every other
lits their per-
tremble with
1 with horror,
we, — to throb
1 the tone of
gicians of our
and continues
ses ] Was it
uch wondrous
/ concpwi'd ciii-
.his witchery;
Po SC83 your-
>iircd you will
niand of your
c there which
;hc matter for
h were toiled
izcd and ren-
dered comprehensible ! How many subjects are there
which we ourselves have grasped at, as if we saw them
floating in an atroouphcre just above us, and found the arm
of our intellect but just too short to reach them; and then
comes a happier genius, who, in a fortunate moment, and,
from some vantage-ground, arrests the meteor in its flight ;
and, grasping the floating phantom, drags it from the skies
to the earth ; condenses that which was but an impalpa-
ble coruscation of spirit; fetters that which was but the
lightning glance of thought; and, having so mastered it,
bestows it as a perpetual possession and heritage to man-
kind. / " MARauis OF Hastinob.
• Sect. XXII. — Arguments in favour of the Planets*
being inhabited.
U all the greater aiTangements of divine wisdom, we can
see, that God has done the same things for the accommo-
dation of the planets that he has done for the earth which
wc inhabit. And shall we say, that the resemblance stops
here, because we are not in a situation to observe it ? Shall
wc say, that this scene of magnificence has been called into
being merely for the amusement of a few astronomers 1
Shall we measure the councils of heaven, by the narrow
impotence of the human faculties 1 or conceive, that si-
lence and solitude reign throughout the mighty empire of
nature; that the greater part of creation is an empty
parade ; and that not a worshipper of the Divinity is to be
found through the wide extent of yon vast and immeaau-
rable regions 7 •
It lends a delightful confirmation to the argument,
when, from the growing perfection of our instruments, we
can discover a new point of resemblance between our
Earth, and the other bodies of the planetary system. It
ii now ascertained, not merely that all of them havo
their day and night, and that all of them have their vi-
cisuitudes of seasons, and that some have their moons to
nile their night, and alleviate the darkness of it. We can
we of one, that its surface rises into inequalities, that it
iwells into mountains, and stretches into valleys; of an-
other, that it is surrounded by an atmosphere which maj
lupport the respiration of animals ; of a third, that clouds
•le formed and suspended over it, which may minister to
•'I
art
814
THE ENGLISH READER.
it all the bloom and luxuriance of vegetation ; and of a
fourth, that a white colour spreads over its northern re-
gions, as its winter advances, and that on the approach of
summer this whiteness is dissipated — giving room to sup-
pose, that the element of water abounds in it, that it rises
by evaporation into its atmosphere, that it freezes upon
the application of cold, that it is precipitated in the form
of snow, that it covers the ground with a fleecy mantie,
which melts away from the heat of a more vertical sun;
and that other worlds bear a resemblance to our own,
in the same yearly round of beneficent and interesting
changes. \
Who shall assign a limit to the discoveries of future
ages] Who can prescribe to science her boundaries, or
restrain the active and insatiable curiosity of man within
the circle of his present acquirements? We m:iy guess
with plausibility what we cannot anticipate with confidence.
The day may yet be coming, when our instruments of ob-
servation shall be inconceivably more powerful. They
may ascertain still more decisive points of resemblance.
They may resolve the same question by the evidence of
sense, which is now so abundantly convincing by the evi-
dence of analogy. They may lay open to us the unques-
tionable vestiges of art, and industry, and intelligence.
We may see summer throwing its green mantle over these
mighty tracts, and we may see them left naked and col-
ourless after the flush of vegetation has disappeared. In
the progress of years or of centuries, we may trace the
hand of cultivation spreading a new aspect over some por-
tion of a planetary surface. Perhaps some large city, the
metropolis of a mighty empire, may expand into a visible
spot, by the power;? of some future telescope. Perhaps
the glass of some observer, in a distant age, may enable
him to construct the map of another world, and to lav
down the surface of it in all its minute and topical varie-
ties. But there is no end of conjecture; and to the men
of other times we leave the full assurance of what we can
assert with the highest probability, that yon planetary orbs
are so many worlds, that they teem with life, and iat the
mighty Being who presides in high authority over this
scene of grandeur and astonishment, has there planted the
worshippers of his glory. Cualmiri*
Cukr. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
• Sect. XXIIL— 5*/. Paul at Athens.
215
Theee are at this present moment more than six hundred
millions of ihe human race in the appalling: situation of
tlie men whom the apostle describes as " without Christ in
the world ;" and the question is, With what feelings and
what purposes a Christian would survey this vast and wretch-
ed portion of the family of man. Behold St. Paul at Athens.
Think of the matchless splendour which blazed upon his
view, as he rolled his eye round the enchanting panorama
that encircled the hill of Mars. On the one hand, as he
stood upon the summit of the rock, bmicatii the canopy
of Heaven, was spread a glorious pill^ct of mountains,
islands, seas, and skies ; on the other, quite within his view,
was the plain of Marathon, where the wrecks of former
generations, and the tombs of departed heroes, mingled
together in silent desolation. Behind him towered the
lofty Acropolis, crov/ned with the pride of Grecian archi-
tecture. There, in the zenith of their splendour, and the
perfection of their beauty, stood those peerless temples,
the very fragments of which are viewed by modern travellers
with an idolatry almost equal to that vvrhich reared them.
Stretched along the plain below him, and reclining hef
head on the slope of the neighbouring hills, was Athens,
mother of the arts and sciences, with her noble offspring
sporting by her side. The Porch, the Lyceum, and the
Grove, with the stations of departed sages, and the forms
of their living disciples, were all presented to the apostle'*
eye.
What mind, possessing the slightest pretensions to clas-
sic taste, can tiiink of his situation amid such sublime and
captivating scenery, without a momentary rapture ? Yet
there, even there, did this accomplished scholar stand as
insensible to all this grandeur, as if nothing was before him
but the treeless, turfless desert. Absorbed in the holy at-
tractions of his own mind, he saw no charms — felt no fas-
cinations, but, on the contrary, was pierced with th^ most
poignant distress ; and what was the cause 1 "He saw the
city wholly given to idolatry" To him it presented no-
thing but a magnificent mausoleum, decorated, it is true,
with the richost productions of the sculptor and the archi-
tect, but still where souls of men lay dead in trespasses
uid sins ; while the dim light of philosophy, that still glim-
216
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt I.
#1
I'
mercd in the schools, appeared but as the lamp of the
sepulchre, shedding its pale and sickly ray around these
gorgeous chambers of death.
What must have been his indignant grief at the dig-
honour done by idolatry to God ; what his amazement at
the weakness and folly of the human mind ; what his ab-
horrence of human impiety ; and what his compassion
for human wretchedness, when such stately monuments of
Pagan ptomp and superstition had not the smallest possi-
blc eifect in turning away his view from the guilt that
raised them, or the misery which succeeded them !
Ah! how many Christian' travellers and divines, whilst
occupying the sM^i^spots, though they saw not a thou-
sandth part of whf»i(rne apostle saw, have had their whole
minds so engrossed by scenes of earthly magnificence,
as not to feel one sentiment of pity for the Pagans who
formerly dwelt there, or the Mahometans who are the pre-
sent proprietors of those veneruble ruins !
, Jamki.
* Sect. XXIV.— TAc Folly of Ambition.
The poor man's son, whom Heaven in its ^ger has visited
with ambition, when he begins to look around him, ad-
mires die condition of the rich. He finds the cottage of
his father too small for his accommodation, and fancies
he should be lodged mor^ at his ease in a palace. He is
displeased with being obliged to walk a-foot, or to endure
the fatigue of ridinj; on horseback. He sees his superiors
carried about in machined, and imagines, that in one of
these he could travel with lc«is inconvenience. He feels
himself naturally indolent, and willing to serve himself
wlLii his own hands as little as possible; and judges, that a
numerous retinue of servants would save him from a great
deal of trouble. He thinks, if he had attained all these, ke
would sit still contentedly, and be quiet, enjoying himself
in the ^thought of the happiness and tranquillity of his sit*
nation. He is enchanted with the distant idea of this fell*
city. It appears in his fancy like the life of some srperior
rank of beings; and, in order to arrive at it, he devotes
himself for ever to the pursuit of wealth and greatneii.
To obtain the conveniences which these afford, he submits
in the first year, nay in the first month of his applicatioD'
Pabt I. y CiAF. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
217
lamp of the
around these
ef at the dit-
imazement at
what his ab-
3 compassion
nonuments of
mallest possi-
he guilt that
hem!
ivines, whilst
w not a thou-
id their whole
magnificence,
! Pagans who
o are the pre-
Jaxii.
ition,
;er has visited
•und him, ad*
;he cottage of
iy and fancies
»lace. He is
t, or to endure
\ his superiors
;hat in one of
ice. He fceli
serve himself
judges, that a
n from a great
id all these, lie
joying himself
llity ofhisait.
lea of this fell-
some srperior
it, he dcTotei
ind greatneit.
rd, be snbmiU
is applicatknr^
to more fatigue of body, and more uneasiness of mind, than
he, could have suffered through the whole of his life from
the want of them. He studies to distinguish himself in
some laborious profession. With the most unrelenting in-
dustry, he labours night and day to acquire talents superior
to all his competitors. He endeavours next to bring those
talents into public view, and, with equal assiduity, solicits
every opportunity of employment. For this purpose, he
makes his court to all mankind ; he serves those whom
he hates, and is obsequious to those whom he despises.
Through the whole of bis life, he pursues the idea of a
certain artificial and elegant repose, which he may never
arrive at, for which he sacrifices a real tranquillity that is
at all times in his power, and which, if in the extremity of
old age he should at last attain to it, he will find to be in
no respect preferable to that humble security and content-
ment which he had abandoned for it.
It is then, in the last dregs of life, his body wasted with
toil and diseases, his mind galled and rufilied by the mem-
ory of a thousand injuries and disappointments which he
imagines he has met with from the injustice of his enemies,
or from the perfidy and ingratitude of his friends, that he
begins at last to find that wealth and greatness are mere
trinkets of frivolous utility, no more adapted for procuring
ease of body, or tranquillity of mind, than the tweezer-
cases of the lover of toys ; and like them, too, more trou-
blesome to the person who carries them about with him,
than all the advantages they can afford him are commo-
dious. There is no other real difference between them,
erc«pt that the conveniencies of the one are somewhat
more observable than those of the other.
The palaces, the gardens, the equipage, the retinue of
the great, are objects of which the obvious convenience
strikes every body. They do not require, that their mas-
ters should point out to us wherein consists their utility.
Of our own accord we readily enter into it, and by sympa-
thy enjoy, and thereby applaud, the satisfaction which thej
vn €tted to afford him. But the curiosity of a toothpick,
of an earpick, of a machine for cutting the nails, or of any
«ther trinket of the same kind, is not so obvious. Their
<onveniency may perhaps be equally great, but it is not so
*triking ; and we do not so readily enter into the satisfac-
tion of the man who poasesses them. They are, therefore,
liM rtasonable subjects of Tanity, than the magnificence
1#'
218
THE ENGLISH READER. Pm I. I ^^^^ j^
4
•*■<>
of wealth and greatness; and in this consists the sole
advantage of the last.
They more effectually gratify that love of distinction eo
natural to man. To one who was to live alone in a deso-
late island, it might be a matter of doubt, perhaps, whe-
ther a palace, or a collection of such small conveniencei
as are commonly contained in a tweezer-case, would con-
tribute most to his happiness and enjoyment. If he is to
live in society, indeed, there can be no comparison ; be-
cause in this, as in all other cases, we constantly pay
more regard to the sentiments of the spectator, than to
those of the person principally concerned; and consider
rather how his situation will appear to other people, than
how it will appear to himself. If we examine, however,
why the spectator distinguishes with such admiration the
condition of the rich and the great, we shall find, that it
is not so much upon the account of the superior ease or
pleasure which they are supposed to enjoy, as of the num.
berless artificial and elegant contrivances for promoting
this ease or pleasure. He does not even imagine, that
they are really happier than other people ; but he ima-
gines, that they possess more means of happinest;. And
it is the ingenious and- artful adjustment of those means
to the end for which they were Intendedt^hat is the prin-
cipal source of his admiration. i^Ut in the languor of
disease, and the weariness of old age, the pleasures of the
vain and empty distinctions of greatness disappear. To
one in this situation, they are no longer capable of recom-
mending those toilsome pu ^^ Mts in which they had for-
merly engaged him. In bis heart he curses ambition,
and vainly regrets the ease and the indolence of youth;
pleasures which are fled for ever, and which he has fool-
ishly sacrificed for what — when he has got it— can afford
him no real satisfaction.
In this miserable aspect does greatness appear to every
man, when reduced, either by sp!een or disease, to observi
with attention his own situation, and to consider what itii
that is really wanting to his happiness. Power and riches
appear then to be what they are— enormous and operoei
machines, contrived to produce a few trifling conveniendes
to the body, consisting of springs the most nice and deli*
cate, which must be kept in order with the most aiixiooi
attention ; and which, in spite of all our care, are read^
•veiy moment to burst inta pieces^ and to crusfa in theii
CiAP.DC. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
219
nrins their unfortunate possessor. They arc immense fab-
rics, which it requires the labour of a life to raise, which
threaten every moment to overwhelm the person that
dwells in them, and which, while they stand, though they
may save him from some smaller inconveniences, can
protect him from none of the severer inclemencies of the
season. They keep off the summer shower, not the win-
ter storm ; but leave him always as much, and sometimes
more exposed than before, to anxiety, to fear, and to sor-
row; to diseases, to dangers, and to death.
•■viii .v:v ..> ",. --.K^^'-.r'.^-.,, ^ ^p^jj Smith.
• SxcT. XXV. — The Resurrection of Christ. -
Such were the respective situations of the rulers and the
disciples, and such the state of things in Jerusalem, while
the Captain of our salvation lay in the silence of the tomb.
In that season the Roman soldiers were not the only guards
of the sepulchre: the heavenly host were moved; the le-
gions of God were arrayed to protect the sacred deposit.
The preparations were now fully formed in both worlds,
and all things stood in readiness for the moment in which
the arm of the Lord should be revealed.
Twice had the sun gone down upon the earth, and all, as
yet, was quiet at the sepulchre : Death held his sceptre over
the Son of God ; still and silent the hours passed on ; the
pards stood by their post ; the rays of the midnight moon
gleamed on their helmets, and on their spears. The ene-
mies of Christ exulted in their success ; the hearts of his
Mends were sunk in despondency and in sorrow; the spirits
rf glory waited in anxious suspense to oehold the event,
and wondered at the depth of the ways of God. At length,
the morning star, arising in the east, announced the ap-
proach of light ; the third day began to dawn upon the
world, when, on a sudden, the earth trembled to its centre,
and the powers of heaven were shaken ; an angel of God
descended ; the guards shrunk back from the terror of his
presence, and fell prostrate on the ground : ** His coun-
tenance was like lightning," and his "raiment was white
M snow ;" he rolled away the stone from the door of the
sepulchre, and sat upon it. But who is this that cometh
forth from the tomb, with dyed garments from the bed of
death ? He that is glorious in his appearance, walking in
tlM greatneM of his strength 1 It is thy prince, O Zion !
Br^
220
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pait I. ■ OiiP. IX.
Christian, it is your Lord ! He hath trodden the wine-
press alone ; he hath stained his raiment with blood : but
now, as the first-born from the womb of nature, he meeti
the morning of his resurrection. He arises a conquerer
from the grave ; he returns with blessings from th world
of spirits ; he brings salvation to the sons of men. Never
did the returning sun issue in a day so glorious — it waa
the jubilee of the universe. The morning stars sang to-
gether, and all the sons of God shouted aloud for joy.
The Father of mercies looked down from his throne in the
heavens ; with complacency he beheld his world restored;
he saw his work that it was good. Then did the desert
rejoice; the face of nature was gladdened before him,
when the blessings of the Eternal descended, as the dew
of heaven, for the refreshing of the nations. Haeois.
* Sect. XXVI. — Omniprcjience of the Deity.
God never loses sight of any one thing he has created,
and no created thing can continue either to be, or to act in-
dependently of him ; and even upon the face of this world,
humble as it is on the great scale of astronomy, how widely
diversified, and how multiplied into many thousand distinct
exercises, is the attention of God ! His eye is upon every
hour of my existence. His Spirit is intimately present with
every thought of my heart. His inspiration gives birth to
every purpose within me. His hand impresses a direction
on every footstep of my goings. Every breath I inhale, if
drawn by an energy which God deals out to me. This body,
which, upon the slightest derangement, would become the
prey of death, or of woful suffering, is now at ease, because
he at this moment is warding off from me a thousand dan-
gers, and upholding the thousand movements of its com-
plex and delicate muchincry. His presiding influence keepi
by me through the whole current of my restless and ever-
ehanging history. When I walk by the way-side, he i«
along with me. When I enter into company, amid all my
forgetfulness of him, he never forgets me. In the silent
watches of the night, when my eyelids have closed, and my
spirit has sunk into unconsciousness, the observant eye of
Him who never slumbers, is upon roe. I cannot fly from
his presence. Go where I will, ho tends nie, and watchei
me, and cares for me ; and the same Being who is now tt ^
work in th« remotest domaing of Natuit and of Pron- ^^
Pait I. I oa^p. IX.
PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
221
dence, is also at my right hand, to eke out to me everj
moment of my being, and to uphold me in the exircises
of all my feelings, and of all my faculties.
Now, what God is doing with me, he is doing with every
distinct individual of this world's population. The inti-
macy of his presence, and attention, and care, reaches to
one and to all of them. With a mind unburdened by the
vastness of all its other concerns, he can prosecute, without
distraction, the government and guardianship of every one
son and daughter of the species. And is it for us, in the
face of all this experience, ungratefully to draw a limit
around the perfections of God — to aver, that the multitude
of other worlds has withdrawn any portion of his benevo-
lence from the one we occupy — or that he, whose eye is
upon every separate family of the earth, would not lavish
all the riches of his unscarchsible attributes on some high
plan of pardon and immortality, in behalf of its countless
generations 1
When I look abroad on the wondrous scene that is im-
mediately before me — and sec, that in every direction, it
is a scene of the most various and unwearied activity —
and expatiate on all the beauties of that garniture by
which it is adorned, and on all the prints of design and of
benevolence which abound in it — and think, that the same
(lod, who holds the universe, with its every system, in the
hollow of his hand, pencils every flower, and gives nourish-
ment to every blade of grass, and actuates the movements
of every living thing, and is not disabled, by the weight of
his other cares, from enriching the humble department of
nature I occupy, with charms and accommodations of the
most unbounded variety — then, surely, if a message, bear-
in:, every mark of authenticity, should profess to come to
me from God, and inform me of his mighty doings for the
happiness of our species, it is not for me, in the face of all
this evidence, to reject it as a tale of imposture, because
astronomers have told me that he has so many other
worlds and other orders of beings to attend to— and, when
I think that it were a deposition of him from his supremacy
over the creatures ho has formed, should a single sparrow
fall to the ground without his appointment, then let sci-
ence and sophistry try to cheat me of my comfort as they
may — I will not let go the anchor of my confidence in God
—I will not be afraid, for I am of more value than many
iparrows. Chalmkri.
f.
-.4?
i'j'>*.
222 THE ENGLISH READER.
♦ Sect. XXVII. — On Genius and Fame.
PahtI. I Cbap. IX
Genius is the heir of fame; but the hard condition on
which the bright reversion must be earned, is the loss of
life. Fame is the recompense, not of the living, but of
the dead. The temple of fame stands upon the grave :
the flame that burns upon its altar, is kindled from the
ashes of great men. Fame itself is immortal ; but it is not
begot till the breath of genius is extinguished. For fame
is not popularity, the shout of the multitude, the idle buzz
of fashion, the venal puff, the soothing flattery of favour or
of friendship ; but it is the spirit of a man surviving him-
self, in the minds and thoughts of other men, undying and
unperishable. It is the povv^er which the intellect exercises
over the intellect, and the lasting homage which is paid
to it, as such, independently of time and circumstances,
purified from partiality and evil-speaking. Fame is the
sound which the stream of high thoughts, carried down to
future ages, makes as it flows — deep, distant, murmuring
evermore, like the waters of the mighty ocean. He who
has ears truly touched to this music, is in a manner deaf
to the voice of popularity.
The love of fame differs from mere vanity in this, that
the one is immediate and personal, the other ideal and ab-
stracted. It is not the direct and gross homage paid to
himself, that the lover of true fame seeks, or is proud of;
but the indirect and pure homage paid to the eternal forms
of truth and beauty, os thtv are reflected in his mind, that
gives him confidence and hope. The love of nature is the
first thing in the mind of the true poet ; the admiration of
himself, the last. A man of genius cannot well be a cox-
comb; for his mind is too full of other things, to be much
occupied with his own person. He who is conscious of
great powers in himself, has also a high standard of ex-
cellence with which to compare his efforts : he appeals also
to a test and judge of merit, which is the highest; but
which is too remote, grave, and impartial, to flatter his
self-love extravagantly, or puff him up with intolerable
and vain conceit.
This, indeed, is one test of genius, and of real greatness
of mind — whether a man can wait patiently and calmly for
the award of posterity ; satisfied with the unwearied exer-
cise Qf bis faculties^ retired within the sanctuary of his own
Pi^HT I. I Chap. IX.
PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
223
thoughts; or whether he is eager to forestall his own im-
mortality, and mortgage it for a newspaper puff. He who
thinks much of himself, will be in danger of being forgot-
ten by the rest of the world : he who is always trying to
lay violent hands on reputation, will not secure the best
and most lasting. If the restless candidate for praise takes
no pleasure, no sincere and heartfelt delight in his works,
but as they are admired and applauded by others, what
should others see in them to admire or applaud ] They
cannot be expected to admire them, because they are his;
but for the truth and nature contained in them ; which
must first be inly felt and copied with severe delight, from
the love of truth and nature, before it can ever appear
there.
Was Raphael, think you, when he painted his pictures
of the Virgin and Child, in all their inconceivable truth
of beauty and expression, thinking most of his subject, or
of himself 1 Do you suppose that Titian, when he painted
a landscape, was pluming himself on being thought the
finest colourist in the world, or making himself so, by
looking at Nature ? Do you imagine that Shakespeare,
when he wrote Lear or Othello, was thinking of anything
but Lear or Othello 1 Or that Mr. Kean, when he plays
these characters, is thinking of the audience? — No: he
who would be great in the eyes of others, must first learn
to be nothing, in his own. The love of fame, as it enters
at times into his mind, is only another name for the love
of excellence ; or it is the ambition to attain the highest
excellence, sanctioned by the highest authority — that of
time. Hazlitt*
>.%' \ f
•Sect. XXVIII.— War.
Thb first conflict between man and man was the mere ex-
ertion of physical force, unaided by auxiUary weapons —
his arm was his buckler, his fist was his mace, and a bro-
ken head the catastrophe of his encounters. The battle of
unassisted strength was succeeded by the more rugged one
of stones and clubs, and war assumed a sanguinary aspect.
As man advanced in refinement, as his faculties expanded,
and his sensibilities became more exquisite, he grew ra-
pidly more ingenious and experienced in the art of mur-
dering Ilia fellow-beings. He invented a thousand devices
V <i
224
THE ENGLISH READER.
AHT 1.
Li " '
»
r t
m
to defend and to assault — the helmet, the cuirass, and the
huckler, the sword, the dart, and the javelin, prepared him
to elude the wound, as well as to launch the blow. Still
urging on, in the brilliant and philanthropic career of in*
vention, he enlarges and heightens his powers of defence
and injury. The aries, the scorpio, the balista, and the
catapulta, give a horror and sublimity to war ; and mag-
nify its glory, b}^ increasing its desolation. Still insatiable,
though armed with machinery that seemed to reach the
limits of destructive invention, and to yield a power of in-
jury, commensurate even with the desires of revenge — still
deeper researches must be made in the diabolical arcana.
With furious zeal, he dives into the bowels of the oarth ;
he toils amidst poisonous minerals and deadly salts — the
sublime discovery of gunpowder blazes upon the world —
and, finally, the dreadful art of fighting by proclamation
seems to endow the demon of war with ubiquity and om-
nipotence.
This, indeed, is grand ! — this, indeed, marks the powers
of mind, and bespeaks that divine endowment of reason,
which distinguishes us from the animals, our inferiors.
The unenlightened brutes content themselves with the na-
tive force which providence has assigned them. The angry
bull butts with his horns, as did his progenitors before him;
the lion, the leopard, and the tiger, seek only with their
talons and their fangs to giatify their sanguinary fiiry;
and even the subtile serpent darts the same venom, and
uses the same wiles, as did his sire before the flood. Man
alone, blessed with the inventive mind, goes on from dis-
covery to discovery ; enlarges and multiplies his powers of
destruction ; arrogates the tremendous weapons of Deity
itself, and tasks creation to assist him in murdering his
brother-worm ! . . .- ■ Wasiiisoton Iutiko.
U: '"f
• Sect. XXIX.—On //umi7%.
Thxrk is a limit, across which man cannot carry any one
o f his perceptions, and from the ulterior of which he can-
not gather a single observation to guide or to inform him.
While he keeps by the ol^jects which arc near, he can grt
the knowledgo of them conveyed to his mind through the
ministry of several of the senses. He can feel a substance
that is within reach of his hand. Ho can smell a flower
Cm, 9. IT,
PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
225
'UN luTIKO.
that is presented to him. He can taste the food that is
before him. He can hear a sound of certain pitch and
intensity ; and, so much docs this sense of hearing widen
his intercourse with external nattire, that, from the distance
of miles, it can bring him an occasional intimation.
But of all the tracts of conveyance which God has been
pleased to open up between the mind of man, and the
theatre by which he is surrounded, there is none by which
he so multiplies his acquaintance with the rich and the
varied creation on every side of him, as by the organ of
the eye. It is this which gives to man his loftiest com-
mand over the scenery of nature. It is this by which so
broad a range of observation is submitted to him. It is
this which enables him, by the act of a single moment, to
send an exploring look over the surface of an ample ter-
ritory, to crowd his mind with the whole assembly of its
objects, and to fill his vision with those countless hues
which diversify and adorn it. It is this which carries him
abroad over all that is sublime in the immensity of dis-
tance ; which sets him as it were on an elevated platform,
from whence he may cast a surveying glance over the
arena of innumerable worlds ; which spreads before him
bo mighty a province of contemplation, that the earth he
inhabits only appears to furnish him ivith the pedestal on
which he may stand, and from which he may dtjscry the
wonders of all that magnificence, which the Divinity has
poured so abundantly around him. It is by the narrow
outlet of the eye, that the mind of man takes its excursive
flight over those golden tracks, where, in all the exhaust-
lessness of creative wealth, lie scattered the suns and the
Bystcms of astronomy. But, oh ! how good a thing it is,
and how becoming well, for the philosopher to be humble
even amid the proudest march of human discovery, and
the sublimest triumphs of the human understanding, whejn
he thinks of that unsealed barrier, beyond which no pow«r
either of eye or of telescope shall ever carry him ; when
be thinks, that, on the other side of it, there is a heiglit,
and a depth, and a length, and a breadth, to which the
whole of this concave and visible firmament dwindles lAto
the insignificancy of an atom ! And, above all, how ready
should he be to cast his every lofty imagination away from
him, when he thinks of the God, who, on the simple foun-
dation of his word, has reared the whole of this statelj
architecture, and, by the force of his preserving hand, eon-
3k
#-
226
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pa»t I.
1^
tv
4?
tinues to uphold it ! — ay, and should the word again come
out from him, that this earth shall pass away, and a por-
tion of the heavens which are around it shall fall back
into the annihilation from which he at first summoned
them, what an impressive rebuke does it bring on the
dwelling vanity of science, to think that the whole field
of its most ambitious enterprises may be swept away
altogether, and there remain before the eye of Him who
sitteth on the throne, an untravelled immensity, which
be hath filled with innumerable splendours, and over the
whole face of which he hath inscribed the evidence of his
high attributes, in all their might, and in all their mani-
festation !
But man has a great deal more to keep him humble of
his understanding, than a mere sense of that boundary
which skirts and which terminates the material field of hi»
contemplations. He ought also to feel, how, within that
boundary, the vast majority of things is mysterious and
unknown to him; that, even in the inner chamber of his
own consciousness, • here so much lies hidden from the
observation of others, there is also to himself a little world
of incomprehensibles ; that if, stepping beyond the limits
of this familiar home, he look no farther than to the mem-
bers of his family, there is much in the cast and the col-
our of every mind that is above his powers of divination;
thbit, in proportion as he recedes from the centre of hi*
own personal experience, there is a cloud of ignorance
and secrecy which spreads, and thickens, and throws a
deep and impenetrable veil over the intricacies of every
ono department of human contemplation; that of all
around him, his knowledge is naked and superficial, and
confined to a few of those more conspicuous lineaments
which strike upon his senses ; that tha whole face, both of
nature and of society, presents him with questions which
he cannot unridille, and tells htm that, beneath the surface
of all that the eye can rest upon, there lies the profound-
ness of a most unsearchable latency. Ay, and should he,
in some lofty enterprise of thought, leave this world, and
shoot afar into those tracks of speculation which astron-
omy has opened — should he, baffled by the mysteries
which beset his every footstep upon earth, attempt an
ambitious flight towards the mysteries of heaven — let him
fo, but let the justness of a pious and philosophical mo*
esty go along with liim — let him forget not, tbat, from
Chap. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
227
the moment his mind has taken its ascending way for a
few little miles above the world he treads upon, his every
sense abandons him but one ; that number, and motion,
and magnitude, and figure, make up all the bareness of
its elementary informations; that these orbs have sent him
scarce another message, than told, by their feeble glim-
mering upon his eye, the simple fact of their existence;
that he sees not the landscape of other worlds ; that he
knows not the moral system of any one of them: nor,
athwart the long and trackless vacancy which lies be-
tween, docs there fall upon his listening ear, the hum of
their mighty populations. Chalmxks.
M
• Sect. XXX. — Remarks on Homer j ike Bible, Dantey and
Ossian.
h Homer, the principle of action, or life, is predominant;
in the Bible, the principle of faith, and the idea of provi-
dence ; Dante is a personification of blind will ; and in
Ossian we see the decay of life, and the lag-end of the
world. Homer's poetry is the heroic : it is full of life and
action ; it is bright as the day, strong as a river. In the
vigour of his intellect, he grapples with all the objects of
nature, and enters into all the relations of social life. He
saw many countries, and the manners of many men ; and
he has brought them altogether in his poem. He describes
his heroes going to battle with a prodigality of life, arising
from an exuberance of animal spirits: we see them before
us, their number, and their order of battle, poured out
upon the plain, << all plumed like ostriches, like eagles
newly bathed, wanton as goats, wild as young bulls,
youthful as May, and gorgeous as the sun at mid-sum-
mer," covered with glittering armour, with dust and blood ;
while the gods quaff their nectar in golden cups, or min-
gle in the fray ; and thb old men, assembled on the walls
of Troy, rise up with reverenccj as Helen passes by them.
The multitude of things in Homer is wonderful; their
fi{^endour, their truth, their force, and variety. His poe-
try is, like his religion, the poetry of numbor and form:
he describes the bodies, as well as the souls of men.
The poetry of the Bible is that of imngination and of
faith. It is abstract and disembodied. It is not the poetry
of form, but of power ; not of multitude, but of immensity.
228
THE ENGLISH READER.
PabtI. I Chap. IX,
It does not divide into many, but acfgrandizes into one.
Its ideas of nature are like it^ ideas of God. It is not the
poetry of social life, but of solitude : each man seems alone
in the world, with the original forms of nature, — the rocks,
the earth, and the sky. It is not the poetry of action or
heroic enterprise, but of faith in a supreme providence,
and resignation to the power that governs the universe.
As the idea of God was removed farther from humanity,
and a scattered polytheism, it became more profound and
intense, it became more universal, for the Injinite is pres-
ent to every thing ; " If we flee into the uttermost parts
of the earth, it is there also ; if we turn to thn east or the
west, we cannot escape from it." Man is thus aggran-
dized in the image of his Maker. The history of the
patriarchs is of this kind ; they are founders of a chosen
race of people, the inheritors of the earth ; they exist in
the generations that are to come after them. Their poe-
try, like their religious creed, is vast, unformed, obscured,
and infinite ; a vision is upon it — an invisible hand is sus-
pended over it. The spirit of the Christian religion con-
sists in the glory hereafter to be revealed; but in the
Hebrew dispensation, providence took an immediate share
in the affairs of this life . Jacob's dream arose out of this
intimate communion between heaven and earth : it was
this that let down, in the sight of the youthful patriarch,
a golden ladder from the sky to the earth, with angels
ascending and descending upon it, and shed a light upon
the lonely place, which can never pass away. The story
of Ruth, again, is as if all the depth of natural affection
in the human race were involved in her breast. There are
descriptions in the book of Job more prodigal of imagery,
more intense. in passion, than any thing in Homer; as that
of the state of his prosperity, and of the vision that came
upon him by night. The metaphors are more boldly
figurative. Things were collected more into masses, and
gave a grearer momentum to the imagination.
Dante was the father of modern poetry, and he may
therefore claim a place in this connection. His poem is
the first great step from Gothic darkness and barbarism;
and the struggle of thought in it to burst the thraldom in
which the human mind had been so long held, is felt in
every page. He stood bewildered, not appalled, on that
dark shore, which separates the ancient and the modem
world ; and saw the glories of antiquity dawning through
Part I. ■ Chip. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
229
568 into one.
It is not the
I seems alone
5, — the rocks,
of action or
! providence,
the universe,
ni humanity,
)rofound and
ifiite is pres*
termost parts
.n east or the
thus aggran-
istory of the
i of a chosen
they exist in
Their poe-
ed, obscured,
hand is sus-
religion con-
; but in the
lediate share
5e out of this
arth : it was
111 patriarch,
with angels
a light upon
The story
iral affection
There are
1 of imagery,
)raer; as that
Dn that came
more boldly
masses and
and he may
His poem is
1 barbarism;
thraldom in
!ld, is felt in
lied, on that
the modem
ling through
the abyss of time, while revelation opened its passage to
the other world. He was lost in wonder at what had been
done before him, and he dared to emulate it. Dante seems
to have been indebted to the Bible for the gloomy tone of
his mind, as well as for the prophetic fury which exalts
and kindles his poetry ; but he is utterly unlike Homer.
His genius is not a sparkling flame, but the sullen heat
of a furnace. He is power, passion, self-will, personified.
In all that relates to the descriptive or fanciful part of
poetry, he bears no comparison to many that had gone
before, or who have come after him : but there is a gloomy
abstraction in his conceptions, which lies like a dead
weight upon the mind ; a benumbing stupor, a breathless
awe, from the intensity of the impression ; a terrible ob-
scurity, like that vvhich oppresses us in dreams ; an iden-
tity of interest, which moulds every object to its own
purpose, and clothes all things with the passions and ima-
ginations of the human soul, — that make amends for all
other deficiencies. The immediate objects he presents to
the mind, are not much in themselves ; they want gran-
deur, beauty, and order : but they become every thing by
the force of the character he impresses upon them. His
mind lends its own power to the objects which it contem-
plates, instead of borrowing it from them. He takes ad-
vantage even of the nakedness and dreary vacuity of his
subject. His imagination peoples the shades of death,
and broods over the silent air. He is the severest of all
writers, the most hard and impenetrable, the most oppo-
site to the flowery and glittering ; who relies most on his
own power, and the sense of it in others ; and who leaves
most room to the imagination of his readers. Dante's
only object is to interest ; and he interests only by excit-
ing our sympathy, with the emotion by which he ip him-
self possessed. He does not place before uh the objects
by which that emotion has been excited ; but he siezes on
the attention, by showing us the effect they produce^ on
ins feelings: and his poetry, accordingly, gives the same
thrilling and overwhelming sensation, which is caught by
gazing on the face of a person who has seen some object
of horror. The improbability of the events, the abrupt-
ness and monotony of the Inferno, are excessive ; but the
interest never flags, from the intense earnestness of the
author's mind. Dante's great power is in combining in-
ternai feelings with external objects. Thus, the gate of
i I
iit:
<
iiijg
I'lW''
i
230
THE ENGLISH BEADFR.
Pl»T I.
I
'rf
Mi
lg> vs.'
hell, on which that withering inscription is written, seems
to he endowed with speech and consciousness, and to utter
its dread warning, not without a sense of mortal woes.
This author habitually unites the absolutely local and in-
dividual with the greatest wildness and mysticism. In the
midst of the nbscure and shadowy regions of the lower
world, a tomb suddenly rises up with this inscription,
" I am the tomb of Pope Anastasius the Sixth ;" and half
the personages whom he has crowded into the Inferno, are
his own acquaintance. AH this, perhaps, tends to heighten
the effect by the bold intermixture of realities, and the
appeal^ as it were, to the individual knowledge and expe-
rience of the reader. He affords few subjects for picture.
There is, indeed, one gigantic one, that of Count Ugolino,
of which Michael Angelo made a bas-relief, and which
Sir Joshua Reynolds ought not to have painted.
Another writer whom I shall mention last, and whom I
cannot persuade myself to think a mere modern in the
groundwork, is Ossian. He is a feeling and a name that
can never be destroyed in the minds of his readers. As
Homer is the first vigour and lustihood, Ossian is the de-
cay and old age of poetry. He lives only in the recollec-
tion and regret of the past. There is one feeling which
he gives us more entirely than all other poets, namely,
the sense of privation, the loss of all things, of friends, of
good name, of country- -he is even without God in the
world. He converses only with the spirits of the departed;
with the motionless and silent clouds. The cold moon-
light sheds its faint lustre on hfs head ; the fox peeps out
of the ruined tower; the thistle shakes its beard to the
passing gale; and the strings of his harp seem as the hand
of age, as the tale of other times, passes over them, to sigh
and ruf tic like the dry reeds in the winter's wind ! The
feeling of cheerless desolation, of the loss of the pith and
■ap of existence, of the annihilation of the substance, and
incorporating the shadow of all things as in a mock em-
brace, is here perfect. In this way, the lamentation of
Selma for the loss of Saigar, is the finest of all. If it
were indeed possible to show that this writer was nothing,
it would only be another instance of mutability, another
blank made, another void left in the heart, another con-
firmation of that feeling, which makes him so oflen chide
his lingering fate: "Roll on, ye dark-brown years; ye
bring no joy on your wing to Ossian !" Hazlitt.
Chap. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
• Sbct. XXXI.— 7^ Lcut Day,
831
To every thing beneath the sun there comes a last day ;
and, of all futurity, this is the only portion of time that
can in all cases be infallibly predicted. Let the sanguine,
then, take warning, and the disheartened take courage : for
to every joy and every sorrow, to every hope and every
fear, there will come a last day; and man ought so to
live by foresight, that, while he learns in every state to
be content, he shall in each be prepared for another,
whatever that other may be. When we set an acorn, we
expect that it will produce an oak ; when we plant a vine,
we calculate upon gathering grapes : but, when we lay a
plan for years to come, we may wish, and we can do no
more, except pray, that it may be accompHshed ; for we
know not what even the morrow may bring forth. All that
we dx) know beforehand of any thing is, — that to every
thing beneath the sun there comes a last day.
From Adam to Noah sixteen centuries elapsed, during
which, men multiplied on earth, and increased in wicked-
ness and in number, till to the forbearance of mercy
itself there car.e a last day, and wrath, in one flood of
destruction, swept away a whole world of transgressors.
The polh'tions of Sodom and Gomorrah long insulted the
Majesty of heaven; but a last day came, and the Lord
rained fire and brimstone, and an horrible tempest, that
overthrew them for ever, erasing the very ground on
which they stood, from the solid surface of the globe. The
children of Israel groaned for ages under the yoke of
the Egyptians : a last day came ; the bands of iron were
burst asunder ; and the Red Sea, the eastern wall of their
prison-house, opened its floodgates to let the redeemed
of the Lord pass through, but closed them in death on
their pursuers, like the temple of Dagon pulled down up-
on the heads of the Philistines. For almost two thousand
years, the law and the covenant o^ works, delivered from
Mount Sinai, were honoured and violated by the same
rebellious and stiiT-necked people, who deemed themselvee
the elect of God, to the exclusion, in perpetuity, of all
kindreds beside : but a last day came ; the sceptre de-
parted from Judah ; the holy city was made an abomina-
tion of desolations ; and the covenant of grace, universal
and everlasting, was proclaimed to all mankind.
i
232
THE ENGLISH READER.
PahtI. ■ciap.IX.
In profane history, we read similar lessons of muta-
bility — similar evidences of the uncertainty of every day,
except the last day. The walls of Babylon were built to
outstand the mountains, which they rivalled in grandeur
and solidity : a last day came, and Babylon is fallen. If
you ask, " Where is she 1" — " Where ivas she !" will be the
reply; for she has so fallen, that there remains of her
unexampled magnificence, rvo more vestige on the soil by
which she can be traced, than of a foundered ship on the
face of the ocean, when the storm is gone by, and the dol-
phins are bounding among the billows, and throwing out
their colours to the sun. — Greece, among the nations, like
the Pleiades among the stars, a small and beaulfful sister-
hood of states, flourishing in arts and arms without a
rival in her own age, and without a parallel in succeeding
times ; but her last day came, and Greece is gone to de
cay, unutterable decay: yet she lives in her ruins, amidst
the moral desolation of Turkey, and she lives in her glory
on the pages of her poets, historians, and orators ; yea, and
she shall live again in her sons, for the last day of their
enslavement is at hand. Rome was seven hundred and
fifty years growing from infancy to maturity ; she stood
through half that period more in splendid infamy ; her
last day came, and then she sunk under such a weight of
years and trophies, that her relics have buried in their
dust the seven hills on which, in her prosperity, she had
glorified herself and lived deliciously, saying in her heart,
" I sit a queen, and I am no widow, and shall see no sor-
row." Rome was mortal ; there can be no revival from
her degradation : the last of the Romans perished a thou-
sand years ago, among the millions of barbarians with
whom the Roman people were at length indistinguishably
and inseparably amalgamated. Rome and Babylon have
been equally identified in perdition as in name, by the
•* sure word of prophesy ;" and the metropolis of modern
Italy is no more the one, than Bagdad is the other : a dif-
ferent race possesses each, and their glory or shame in
ages to come can never again effect the character of the
generations gone by, whose last day stands irreversible in
the calendar of time. It is not so with Greece : h&r pos-
terity was never cut off. — Our own country has experienced
as many vicissitudes of government as have here been
recounted firom the annals of the world : to each of these
there cams a last day. Her own last day is not yet come,
PaktI. ■ciiP.IX.
PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
233
nor, while she continues pre*emincnt in virtue, intelligence,
and enterprise, need we fear its arrival.
Taking the middle age of life as the standard of the
present generation, those who are arrived at that period
have themselves been living witnesses of more new eras,
and last days, in which the destiny of nations was im-
plicated, unravelled, and rewoven, more strangely and
disastrously than were wont to occur in whole centuries of
ordinary time. The French revolution brought on the
last day of the antiquated despotism of the Bourbons.
Many last days cut off, as suddenly as by strokes of the
iruillotine, the ephemeral constitutions that followed, till
Bonaparte, like Milton's Death, bridging his way from
hell to earth, with his " mace petrific," struck and fixed
the jarring, jumbled elements of the political chaos, and
seemed for a while to .have established an immoveable
throne on the razed foundations of every other in Europe ;
but a last day to his empire came, and wafted him as pas-
sive as a cloud over the ocean to St. Helena. A last day
to his life came also, and he disappeared from the earth.
The universal war in Christendom, which raged from the
fall of the Bastile to the fall jf Napoleon, found its last
(lay on the plains of Waterloo. Peace followed ; but fof
years it has been like peace on the battle-field, when the
conflict is ended : the dead alone are at rest ; the living
are maimed, lacerated, writhing with agony. But let them
not faint : ihey shall yet arise ; they are rising ; and have
risen, since these speculations were first penned. A last
day to the present miseries of our country will come : the
wounds of war will soon be healed entirely.
In the life of every adult, there occur many last days.
Man is ushered into the world from a source so hidden,
that his very parents know him not till he appears, and he
j knows not himself even then. He passes rapidly through
I the stages of childhood, youth, maturity, old age ; and to
each of these there comes a last day. The transitions,
indeed, are so gradual as to be imperceptible ; no more to
!« remembered than the moment at which we fell asleep
last night, and as little dependent on our will as was the
act of awaking this morning. Yet so distinct are these
several states of progressive existence, that, though all
bound together by unbroken consciousness, the changes
are, in reality, as entire as the separate links of one chain.
In the issue comes a last day to the whole; and man is
^ I
234
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pait I
withdrawn into an abyss of eternity, as unsearchable by
finite thought as /that from which he emanated at first.
It has already been observed, that in the life of every
adult individual there are many last days. There is the
last day of the nursery, of the school, of juvenile obedience,
of paternal authority ; there is a last day at our first home,
and a last day at every other place that becomes our home
in the sequel ; there are last days of companionship and
of rivalry, of business and of vanity, of promise and ex-
ertion, of failure and success; last days of love and of|
friendship, enjoyment and endearment : every day, in its
turn, is the last to all that went before it. Every year has
its last day. Amidst the festivities of Christmas arrives
the close of the months, to remind us of the end of all
earthly fruition. The most reprobate of men desire to die
in pea*.;: : on the last night in December, therefore, we
should iie down with the same disposition as if we were
mal'ing our bed in the grave ; on the first morning of Jan-
uary, we should rise up with the same hopes as if the
trumpet had summoned us to the resurrection of the just;
t/utt moment should be to us as the end of time, and this
as the beginning of eternity.
I'o every thing beneath the sun there comes a last day.
FroLi tb'* point our meditations began, at this point they
must >'o u-iude ; leaving those who may have accompanied
the writer th js far, to pursue, at their leisure, the moral
inference- associated with the whole. The facts them- 1
solves — few, f*iraple, and commonplace as they are — cannot
have been made to pass, even in this imperfect exhibition,
through intelligent minds, without impressing upon them
feelings of awe, apprehension, and humility, prompting to
immediate and unsparing self-examination. From this,
there can be nothing to fear ; from the neglect of it, every |
thing : for, however alarming the discoveries of evil unsus-
pected, or peril unknown, may be, such discoveries had I
better be made now, while escape is before us, than in
that day when the secrets of all hearts shall be revealed,
and escape will bo impossible, — that day, which, of all |
others, is most emphatically called T/ie Last Day.
t. ' , :"
PART II.
PIECES IN POETRY.
i(i; ,
CHAPTER I.
itif. ' . i J
'<V
SHORT AND EASY PIECES.
'/•:1^
• Skct. I.—To Me Butterfly,
CHILD' of the sunM pursue thy rapturous flight',
MingUn;? with her thou lovest' in fields of light^
And, where the flowers of paradise unfold',
Quaflf^ fragrant nectar' from their cups of gold\
There shall thy wings\ rich as an e 'ening-skyS
Expand^ and shut' with silent ecstasyM
—Yet wert thou once a worm\ — a thing' that crept
On the hare earth\ then wrought a tomb', and slepO.
And such' is man*; soon, from his cell of clay',
To burst^ a seraph', in the blaze' of dayM Roseri.
♦ Sect. II On ihe Sensitive Plant.
BcNEATii a touch as light as air.
This modest plant — this plant receding,
Conveys a moral to the fair
Well worth their careful hreding; .
For, oh ! what charm can equal thee,
Beloved of all, sweet Modesty ! , >'
■ ' ,,f
The rudest hand this plant will spare,
And deem it more deserving
Than all the gaudy flowers that flare,
And seem to court observing;
For, oh ! what charm can equal thee,
Beloved of all, sweet Modesty! Anont^nous,
mi '
!!';ii
fit ^'i
23H 1*H£ ENGLISH READER.
• Skct. III.— TAe Setting Sun,
TsiT setting sun — that setting sun !
What scenes, since first its race begun,
Of varied hue, its eye hath seen,
Which are as they had never been !
That setting sun ! — full many a gaze
Hath dwelt upon its fading rays,
With sweet, according thought sublime,
In every age, and every clime !
'Tis sweet to mark thee, sinking slow
The ocean's fabled caves below ;
And, when the obscuring night is done,
To see thee rise, sweet setting sun !
So when my pulses cease to play.
Serenely close my evening ray,
To rise again, death's slumber done,
Glonous like thee, sweet setting sun !
Put II.
jSwnymtui.
* Sect. IV. — Saturday Night.
Tm week is past! — Its latest ray
Is vanished with the closing day ;
And *tis as far beyond our grasp.
Its now-departed hours to clasp.
As to recall that moment bright,
When first creation sprang from light.
The week is past! — And has it brought
Some beams of sweet and soothing thought!
And has it left some memory dear
Of heavenly raptures taisted hcrel
It has not wing'd its flight in vain.
Although it ne'er return again.
And who would sigh for its return ? —
We arc but pilgrims, born to mourn ;
And moments, as they onward flow,
CAii short the thread of human wo;
And bring us nearer to the scenes
Wh«re sorrows end, and heaven begins.
By
An9n}im0*i
CiAF. I. SHORT AND EASY PIECES.
'h
•Sect. V. — Uie Day of Life,
The morning hours, of cheerful light»
Of all the day are best;
But, as they speed their hasty flighty
If erery hour is spent aright,
Wc sweetly sink to sleep at night.
And pleasant is our rest.
For life is like a summer's day,
It seems so quickly past :
Youth is the morning bright and gay ;
And, if 'tis spent in wisdom's way,
We meet old age without dismay,
And death is sweet at last.
Ancny"^*"!!*
•Sect. VI.— On Truth.
T»TTTH ! thine image ever flows,
Reflected frcm the spotless breast.
With form as pure as mountain-snows,
By human footsteps never press'd.
Mean is the man who frames a lie,
To circulate the mirthful tale ;
. - But black his soul, with envy's dye,
'^ Who would another's fame assail.
The starving wretch who steals our gold.
Is doom'd by human laws to death ;
While base assassins, uncontroll'd,
Blast richer treasures with a breath.
Come, white-robed Truth ! with meek-eyed Peaec,
Hover around our lovely Isle,
Bid envy and detraction cease, ^
And bless us with a seraph-smile. ^
.'-%
if k
Be thou the bulwark of our youth,
Our guide through life's bewilderM wtyi ;
Chtrm every heart to love thee, Truth,
And teach our babes to Uep thj pn4M«
Ait»njfm4^3.
238
THE SNGLISH READER.
Part II. I Chap. I.
if ■
"s%
7^ '
• Sect. VII. — A Receipt for Happiness,
Traterbe the world ; go, fly from pole to pole;
Go far as winds can blow, or waters roll ;
All, all is vanity, beneath the sun ;
To certain death through different paths we run.
See the pale miser poring o'er his gold ;
See there a galley-slave to misery sold !
Ambition's votaries groan beneath its weight,
^ The splendid victim of the toils of state. ^^
Lo ! in the mantling bowl sweet poisons flow
Love's softest pleasures terminate > wo ; .
Even learning ends her vast career in doubt,
And, puzzling on, makes nothing clearly out.
Where, then, is sovereign bliss 1 Where doth it growl
Know, mortal ! happiness ne'er dwelt below.
Look towards Heaven, be Heaven thy only carr ,
Spurn the vile earth — go, seek thy treasure there :
A virtuous course, and Heaven alone, you'll find.
Can fill A boundless and immortal mind.
Monthlji JUa^atint.
• Sect. Will.— The Daisy,
Not worlds on wowds in phalanx deep,
Need we to prove a God is here ;
T^e daisy, fresh from winter's sleep,
Tells of his hand in lines as clear.
For who but he who arch'd the skies,
And pours the day-spring's living flood,
Wondrous alike in all he tries,
. Could raise the daisy's purple bud 1 —
Mould its green cup, — its '•^try stem ;
Its fringed border nicely spin !
And cut 'he gold-embossed gem,
That, set in silver, gleams within?-^
And fling it, unrestrain'd and free,
O'er hill and dale, and desert sodi
That man, where'er he walks, may set
In eveij «tep the stamp of God.
w
Masom Good
Part 11. I Chap. I. SHORT AND EASY PIECES.
239
inesa.
pole;
NB run.
ght,
Sow
ibt,
)ut. .n
doth it growl
ly can ;
re there :
I'll find,
lonthly Mofamt.
ep,
flood.
»•
Maion Good
• SxcT. IX. — Morning Hymn for Children.
Alkishtt God by thy great power,
I hail again the morning hour :
How fair the green fields meet my eyes,
How sweet the birds sing in the skies !
How fresh appear the hills and trees,
And, oh ! how pure the morning breeze !
I bless thy love in all I see.
For were not these things made for me 1
And was it not to meet my sight
Was hung aloft yon orb of light 1 '"'
Nor mine alone — for thou hast given
Thy good to all bene«th thp h*»aven ;
And I rejoice that others share
The gift, the blessing, and the prayer.
Then, though a little child I be.
Yet may I bend myself to thee.
And join my infant voice to raise
A simple hymn of grateful praise.
•f:
Anonymyui <
•Sect. X. — Evening Hymn for Children.
Now condescend. Almighty King,
To bless this little throng ;
And kindly listen, whiie wo sing ,
Our grateful evening song. ' ,,
Before thy sacred footstool, see.
We bend in humble prayer, — - : , , ,. j^
A happy little family.
To ask thy tender care. > '
May we in safety sleep to-night.
From every danger free; '
Because the darkness and the light ^
Are both alike to thee.
And when the rising sun displayi "" '
His cheering beams abroad, •,
Then shall our morning hymn of prais* ;
Declare thy goodness, Lord!
Brothel's and sisters, hand in hand,
Our lips together move :
Then smile upon this lowly band,
And join our hearti in love. Anonynwu;
Af
:!tWli li
\\m %
I
240
THE ENGLISH READER. Part II.
• Sect. XI. — The Condescension of God,
Goo ! what a great and awful word !
Oh ! who can speak thy worth 7
By gaints in heaven thou art adored,
And fear'd by meh on earth :
And yet a little child may bend
And say, My Father and my Friend !
The glorious sun, that blazes high.
The moon, more pale and dim.
And all the stars that gem the sky,
Are made and ruled by him:
Yet still a child may beg his care.
And call upon his name in prayer.
Ten thousand angels sing his praise
On high, to harps of gold ;
But holy angels dare not gaze
His brightness to behold :
Yet a poor lowly infant may
Lift up its voice to God, and pray.
The saints in heaven before him fall.
And round his throne appear;
Adam, and Abraham, and all
Who loved and served him here :
Yet I — a child on earth — may raise
My feeble voice in grateful praise.
4-i
#
And all his faithful servants now
— The wise, the good, the just-
Before his sacred footstool bow, , u .'i
And own they are but dust: ;
But what can I presume to say ?
Will he still hearken when I pray ?
Oh ! yes : — when little children cry,
He loves their simple prayer ;
His throne of grace is always nigh,
And I will venture there :
V\\ go, depending on his word.
And seek his grace, through Christ th« Lord.
IS ■i'*
241
■'?■
&■ 1
CHAPTER II.
NARRATIVE PIECES.
Sect. I. — TTie Bears and the Bees,
AS two young Bears', in wanton mood\
Forth issuing' from a neighbouring wood ,
Came' where the industrious Bees had stored^
In artful cells^ their luscious hoard';
O'erjoy'd' they seized\ with eager haste'.
Luxurious' on the rich repasts , v-
Alarm'd at this^ the little crew'
About their ears' vindictive flew^.
The beasts\ unable to sustain
The uneqi'al combat', quit the plain^;
Half-blind' with rage\ and mad^ with paiu',
iFheir native shelter' they regain^;
"There' sit\ and now', discreeter^ grown,
W late their rashness they bemoan';
And this^ by dear experience^ gain',
That ple::sure's ever bought with pain^.
60^ whea the gilded baits of vice
Are placed before our longing eyes'.
With greedy haste' we snatch our filP,
And Bwallow down the latent ill':
But when experience^ opes our eyes',
Away' the fancied pleasure flies\
It flies', but oh^ ! too late we find',
It leaves a real sting behind\
v-y
I' i .
rT
Meb&ick.
Sect. IT. — The Nightingale and the Glow-Worm.
A Nightingale, that all day long ^ ,
Had cheer'd tbe village with his song.
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
'/he keen demands of appetite ;
When, looking eagerly around.
He spied far otf, upon the ground^
l'> \
lit
1
'S '
24? THE ENGLISH READER.
A Homething shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark*
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
Ho thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent:
"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
" As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song :
For 'twas the self-same Power divine,
Taught you to sing, and me to shine ;
That you with music, I with light.
Might beautify and cheer the night."
The songster heard this short oration ;
And, warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
Hence, jarring sectaries may learn
Their real interests to discern :
That brother should not war with brother^
And worry and devour each other;
But sing and shine by sweet consent.
Till life's poor transient night is spent;
Respecting in each other's case,
The gifts of nature and of grace.
Those Christians best deserve the name^
t Who studiously make peace their aim ;
Peace, both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps, and him that flies.
Part 11. I fjg^,. n.
'.'i.\
V
,*^\
F?4^'Amaa
*^
Cowrii-
Skct. in. — The Youth and the Philosopher.
A Grkctaw youth, of talents rare,.
Whom Plato's philosophic care
Had form'd for virtue's nobler view,
By precept aiid example too.
Would often boast his matchless skill.
To curb the steed, and guide the wheel ;
And as he pass'd the gazing throng,
With graceful ease, and smack'd the thong.
•*Wi
Such
The
On VI
If we
Had
And
Tog(
Part II. ■ ^Mit. 11.
NARRATIVE PIBCES.
245
\^
.-(':#,
w
iii^lt'
The idiot-wonder they expr«8s'd,
Was praise and transport to his breast.
At length, quite vain, he needs would show
His master what his art could do ;
And bade his slaves the chariot !ead
To Academus* sacred shade.
The trembling grove confess'd its fright ;
The wood-nymphs started at the sight ;
The muses dropp'd the learned lyre,
And to their inmost shades retire.
Howe'er, the youth, with forward air,
Bows to the sage, and mounts the car.
The lash resounds, the coursers spring,
The chariot marks the rolling ring;
And gathering crowds with eager eyes,
And shouts, pursue him as he flies.
Triumphant to the goal returned,
With nobler thirst his bosom burn'd ;
ppV And now along the indented plain
"^Th« gelf-same track he marks again, .. :
FttTBues with care the nice desigpi,
'Nor ever deviates from the line.
|/ Amazement seized the circling crowd ; *
|Tho youths with emulation glow'd ;
Even bearded sages hail'd the boy ; ^, -
And all but Plato gazod with joy.
For he, deep-judging sage, beheld
With pain the triumphs of the field;
And when the charioteer drew nigh,
And, flush'd with hope, had caught his eye,
•* Alas ! unhappy youth," he cried,
•* Expect no praise from me," and sighed ;
♦* With indignation I survey
Such skill and judgment thrown away :
The time profusely squandered there,
On vulgar arts beneath thy care.
If well employ'd, at leas expense,
Had taught thue honour, virtue, sense i
And raised thee from a coachman's fate,
To govern men, and guide the state.*'
WniTBJIlU^
244
THE ENGLISH READER. PirtH.
I» ^-■HrK'l!
81 ./
SicT. lV.—T7ie Bee, the Lily of the Valley y and the Tulip]
Thu soft-eyed Eve, serene and fair,
Was rising from her noon-tide bowers ;
Her breath perfumed the ambient air.
Her tints abash'd the closing flowers.
Sol's latest gleam had tinged the rocks ;
Sweet Philomel her plaint renews ;
While Venus, from her radiant locks,
Shed, softly shed, the silent dews.
An infant Bee, who, at the mom,
First left a tender parent's wing,
Afar his giddy flight had borne.
And thoughtless sipp'd the sweets of spring.
Far from its busy guardian's call,
Now had the little vagrant strayed;
And, when the dews began to fall,
He rested in a distant glade.
And there, as pensive and forlorn.
The hipless rover sat and sighed,
Panting for her he left at mom,
A Lily of the Vale he spied.
With trembling voice, and suppliant eye,
He begs beneath its leaves to rest;
The tender floret heard his cry.
And thus the wanderer she address'd :
" Welcome beneath my humble shed.
There sleep secure till dawning day ;
And, when night's sable shades are fled,
Safe to the hive pursue your way."
With grateful heart the insect bends,
And thanks the hospitable flower.
Whose ample leaf his frame defends.
And shelters from the dewy shower.
But, ah ! not long this sweet repose
Had he beneath the shade enjoy'd;
For near the spot a Tulip rose.
Whose envious glance the charm destroy'd.
Shud(
Tod
The
An(
ClAP. II.
NARRATIVE PIECES.
245
"And why," she cried, " poor simple Bee,
Dost thou contented there remain 1
Why slight the tints that glow in me,
For those the meanest on the plain 1 —
« Unmindful that on her you trust
The passing traveller may tread,
Lay all her blossoms in the dust,
And crush you in the fatal bed.
♦< Ah ! waste no more, no more repose
Those downy limbs in vulgar arms ;
But, ere the night my petals close,
In me enjoy superior charms."
Deluded by its gaudy hue.
With glee the fond believing thing,
To taste the boasted blessings, flew.
And left the fairest child of spring.
Now, sweets luxurious charm his taste ;
When from the east began to blow
A ruder gale, whose boisterous haste
Soon laid the exulting beauty low.
'Twas on the rivulet's verdant side.
Queen of the banks, the Tulip stood ;
The stream receives its fallen pride.
While the poor in&?ct stems the flood.
At once, of all his hopes bereft,
The mossy bank he strives to gain;
Mourns that the humble flower he left,
And beats his silken wings in vain.
Shuddering, he sees approaching death ;
Too late his unavailing sighs ;
The waters stop his vital breath; ''-'
And, lo ! the helpless victim dies !
Ye gentle youths, who read this tale,
Mark well the moral it imparts : —
" Forsake nc»t Virtue's peaceful vale,
For Beauty's vain insidious arts."
»l
I . il
Jlnonymous-
246
THE ENGLISH READER. Pait R.
V]
i-.
;1
It's
u
' \ '%\
M
Si
iifMf
'li
f
m
• Sect. V. — The Stranger and hU Friend.
A POOR wayfaring Man of grief
Hath often crossed me on my way,
Who sued so humbly for relief,
That I could never answer, " Nay."
I had not power to ask his name.
Whither he went, or whence he came;
Yet there was something in his eye,
That won my love, I know not why.
Once, when my scanty meal was spread,
He entcr'd, — not a word he spake, —
Just perishing for want of bread ;
I gave him all; ho bless'd it, brake,
And ate, — but gave me part again :
Mine was an angel's portion then;
For, while I fed with eager haste,
That crust was manna to my taste.
I spied him, where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock ; his strength was gone ;
Tlie heedless water mock'd his thirst,
He heard it, saw it hurrying on.
I ran to raise the sufferer up ;
Thrice from the stream he drainM my cup,
Dipp'd and return'd it running o'er;
I drank and never thirsted more.
'Twas night ; the floods were out ; it blew
A winter hurricane aloof;
I heard his voice abroad, and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof;
I warm'd, I clothed, I cheer'd my guest,
Laid him on my own couch to rest;
Then made the hearth my bed, and seem'd
In Eden's garden while I dream'd.
Stripp'd, wounded, beaten, nigh to death,
I saw him by the highway-side ;
I roused his pulse, brought back his breath.
Revived his spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment ; he was heal'd ;
I had myself a wound conceal'd ;
But from that hour forgot the smart.
And Peace bound up my broken heart *
CiiP. IL
NARRATIVE PIECES.
247
In prison I saw him next, condemned
To meet a traitor's doom at morn ;
The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd,
And honour'd him 'midst shame and scorn.
My friendship's utmost zeal to try,
He ask'd, if I for him wouhl die ;
The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill,
But the free spirit cried, " I will."
Then in a moment, to my view, : ,
The Stranger darted from disguise:
The tokens in liis hand I knew,
My Saviour stood before mine eyes.
He spake ; and my poor name He named ;
" Of me thou hast not been ashamed ;
These deeds shall thy memorial be ;
Fear not, thou didst them unto Me."
James Mowtcomvrt.
>
ivas gone ;
Sect. VI. — Discourse between Adam atid Eve^
retiring to rest*
Now came still evening on, and twilight gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad.
Silence accompanied ; for beasts and birds.
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests
Were slunk : all but the wakeful nightingale ;
She all night long her amorous descant sung.
Silence was pleased. Now glow'd the firmament
With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led
The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon.
Rising in clouded majesty, at length.
Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light.
And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.
When Adam thus to Eve : '* Fair consort, the hour
Of night, and all things now retired to rest.
Mind us of like repose; since God hath set •
Labour and rest, as day and night, to men
Successive ; and the timely dew of sleep.
Now falling with soft slumberous weight, inclinec
Our eyelids. Other creatures all day long
RoTe idle unemploy'd, and less need rest;
'
) t
248
THE ENGLISH READEK. Put H.
> ■
Man hath his daily work of body or mind
Appointed, which declares his dignity,
And the regard of Heiivcn on all his ways ;
While other animals inactive range.
And of their doings God takes no account.
To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east
With first approach of light, we must be risen,
And at our present labour ; to reform
Yon flowery arbours, yon alUys green.
Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown.
That mock our scant manuring, and require ' .
More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth :
Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums,
That lie bestrown, unsightly and unsmooth,
Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease.
Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest."
To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adom'd :
"My author and di.«poser, wliat thou bidd'st,
Unargued I obey ; so God ordains.
With thee conversing, I forget all time ;
All seasons, and their change — all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun.
When first on this delightful land he spreads
His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower.
Glistering with dew; fragrant the fertile earth
After soft showers ; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night,
With this her solenni bird, and this fair moon,
And these the gems of heaven, her starry train :
But neither breath of morn, when she ascends
With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun '
On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flower,
GUstering with dew ; nor fragrance after showers ;
Nor grateful evening mild ; nor silent ni^ht.
With this her solemn bird ; nor walk by moon,
Or glittering star-light, — without thee is sweet.
But wherefore all night long shine these 1 for whom
This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eycsV
To whom our general ancester replied:
" Daughter of God and man, accomplish'd Eve,
These have their course to finish round the earthy
By morrow evening ; and from land to land,
In order, though to nations yet unborn^
PaktH. I Chaf. n.
NARRATIVE PIECES.
249
Ministering light prepared, they set and rise;
Lest total darkness should by night regain
Her old possession, and extinguish life
In nature and all things: which these soil fires
Not only enlighten, but, with kindly heat
Of various influence, foment and warm,
Temper or nourish ; or in part shed down
Their stellar virtue on all kinds that grow
On earth, made hereby apterHo receive /
Perfection from the sun's more potent ray.
These then, though unbeheld in deep of night, '
Shine not in vain ; nor think, though men were none,
That heaven would want spectators, God want praise :
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth
Unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep.
All these with ceaseless praise his works behold,
Both day and night. How often, from the steep
Of echoing hill or thicket, have we heard
Celestial voices to the midnight air.
Sole, or responsive each to other's note.
Singing their great Creator! Oft in bands.
While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk
With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds,
In full harmonic number join'd, their songs
Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heaven."
Thus talking, hand in hand, alone they pass'd
On to their blissful bower.
-There arrived, both stood,
Both turn'd; and under open sky adored
The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heaven
Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe,
And starry pole. " Thou also madcst the night,
Maker Omnipotent, and thou the day, »
Which we, in our appointed work cmploy'd,
Have finish'd, happy in our mutual help.
And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss ,
Ordain'd by thee ; and this delicious place
For us too large, where thy abundance wantf
Partakers, and uncropp'd falls to the ground.
But thou hast promised from us two a race,
To fill the earth, who shall with us extol ■'
Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake,
And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sle«p."
MllTOH.
250
' "t.i
CHAPTER III.
SACRED PIECES.
• Sect. I. — 7%c Glories of Creation.
ARISE', ariseM it is not meet
To crouch for riches to the ground*:
A glorious world^ is at our feet';
Ten thousand' hang aroundM
Look up'! a vault' of vivid blueM
A moving orb' of living fireM
Mountains^ of clouds' careering through',
In gorgeous attireM
Look downM resplendent is the sight'
Of flood^ and mountain' — sea' and Iand\'
An ocean\ lashing in its might'I
An earth', in beauty blund^!
Valleys of green', and hills of snow\
Meiidows' and fore8ts\ flowers^ and treea'j
And rivers', murmuring^ as they fl»V,
To the wild warbling breezed
Beauties^ on beauties', in a ring
Of ever-varying richness', throng^
While summer' — autumn^ — winter^ — spring' —
Go^ hand in hand' along'!
Look up\ look up' — once' and againM
The moon is coming from the deep'!
And stars on 8tars\ to grace her train',
Are starting from their slccp\
Glory' on glory! the great sky
Trembles with splendour'! and a flow
Of hallow'd radiancc\ from on high',
Encircles all bclowM
O God! God! the sin forgive
Of being callous to the blisM\
Of feeling that we breathe and livt^
In such a world' as thisM
Ammt/fnc^
«IAP. III.
SACRED PIECES.
251
-X^
.*i\
V i
8«CT. II. — The Creation required to praise its Autfior.
BsGiir, my soul, the exalted lay !
Let each enraptured thought obey,
And praise the Almighty's name :
Lo! heaven and earth, and seas and skios,
In one melodious concert rise,
To swell the inspiring therae.
Ye fields of light, celestial plains.
Where gay transporting beauty reigns,
Ye scenes divinely fair !
Your Maker's wondrous power proclaim.
Tell how he forra'd your shining frame,
And breathed the fluid air.
Ye angels, catch the thrilling sound !
While all the adoring thrones around
His boundless mercy sing:
Let every listening saint above
Wake all the tuneful soul of love.
And touch the sweetest string.
Join, ye loud spheres, the vocal choir ;
Thou dazzUng orb of liquid fire.
The mighty chorus aid;
Soon as gray evening gilds the plain.
Thou, moon, protract the melting strain,
And praise him in the shade.
Thou heaven of heavens, his vast abode;
Ye clouds, proclaim your forming God,
Who call'd yon worlds from night :
"Ye shades, dispel!" — the Eternal said;
At once the involving darkness fled.
And nature sprung to light.
Whatc'er a blooming world contaiiis.
That wings the air, that skims the plains,
United praise bestow:
Ye dragons, sound his awful name , .. •
To heaven aloud; and roar acclaim, ♦
Ye swelling deeps below. 7
Let every element rejoice:
Ye thunders, burst with awful voice
To am who bids you roll;
f
l±l
259 THE ENGLISH READER. Pa&t Q. | Cbav. HI
His praise in softer notes declare,
Each whispering breeze of yielding air,
And breathe it to the soul.
To him, ye graceful cedars, bow ;
Ye towering mountains, bending low.
Your great Creator own ;
Tell, when affrighted nature shook,
How Sinai kindled at his look, 'f-- '^
And trembled at his frown.
l.ir
' t
«",• }.
Ye flocks that haunt the humble vale.
Ye insects fluttering on the gale,
In mutual concourse rise; '
Crop the gay rose's vermeil bloom.
And waft its spoils, a sweet perfume.
In incense to the skies.
Wake, all ye mounting tribes, and sing; .
Ye plumy warblers of the spring.
Harmonious anthems raise
To HIM who shaped your finer mould,
Who tippM your glittering wings with gold,
And tuned your voice to praise.
Let man, by nobler passions swayed, ,
The feeling heart, the judging head,
In heavenly praise employ; ' ■■
Spread the Creator's name around.
Till heaven's broad arch rings back the sound,
The general burst of joy.
He whom the charms of grandeur please,
Nursed on the downy lap of ease, 1/
Fall prostrate at his throne: , ,. . ,
Ye princes, rulers, all adore :
Praise him, ye kings, who makes your power
An image of his own.
Ye fair, by nature formed to move, *■
Oh! praise the eternal souncE of love,
With youth's enlivening fire : -
Let age take up the tuneful lay.
Sigh his bless'd name — then soar away.
And ask an angel's lyre. Ooiivii*
Pi&tU. I Cbav. m.
SACRED PIECES.
255
*SiCT. III. — Hymn,
All Nature, hear the sacred song !
Attend, O earth, the solemn strain f
Ye whirlwinds wild, that sweep along ;
Ye darkening storms of beating rain ;
Umbrageous glooms, and forests drear,
And solitary deserts, hear !
Be still, ye winds, whilst to the Maker's praise
The creature of his power aspires his voice to raise.
Oh may the solemn-breathing sound .,
Like incense rise before the throne,
Where He, whose glory knows no bound,
Great Cause of all things, dwell alone.
'Tis He I sing, whose powerful hand
Balanced the skies, outspread the land ;
Who spoke — from ocean's stores sweet waters came^
And burst resplendent forth the heaven-aspiring flame.
One general song of praise arise
To Him whose goodness ceaseless flows.
Who dwells enthroned beyond the skies,
And life and breath on all bestows.
Gri "^t Source of intellect, his ear
Benign receives our vows sincere : '
Rise then, my active powers, your task fulfil,
And give to him your praise, responsive to my will.
Partaker of that living stream
Of light, ths^t pours an endless blaze,
Oh! let thy strong reflected beam, ,
My understanding, speak his praise : ^
My soul, in steadi'ast love secure.
Praise Him, whose word is ever sure :
To him, sole just, my sense of right incline,
Join every prostrate limb, my ardent spirit join.
Let all of good this bosom fires, - \v
To him, sole good, give praises due:
Let all the truth himself inspires,
Unite to sing him only true ;
To him my every thought ascend, JJ
To him my hopes, my wishes bend :
From earth's v*ide bounds let louder hymns arise.
And his own word convey the pious sacrifice.
254
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pa*t n.
¥1J ■>
Eternal Spirit ! whose command
Light, life, and being, gave to all ;
Oh ! hear the creature of thy hand,
Man, constant on thy goodness call :
By fire, by water, air, and earth.
That soul to thee that owes its birth,
By these he supplicates thy bless'd repose ;
Absent from thee, no rest his wandering spirit knows.
Roijcoi.
■:w *■
*t«f* I')
*Sect. IV — God visible in his Works^
Above — below — where'er t gaze,
Thy guiding finger, Lord ! I view,
Traced in the midnight planets' blaze,
Or glistening in the morning dew :
Whate'er is beautiful or fair, ,
Is but thine own reflection there. , u;
I hear thee in the stormy wind,
That turns the ocean-wave to foam ;
Nor less thy wondrous power I find, *i,
When summer airs around me roam ;
The tempest and the calm declare
Thyself, — for thou art every where.
I find thee in the noon of night, > .m
And read thy name in every star
That drinks its splendour from the light
That flows from mercy's beaming car :
Thy footstool, Lord ! each starry gem
Composes — not thy diadem.
And when the radiant orb of light
Hath tipp'd the mountain-tops with gold,
Smote with the blaze, my weary sight
Shrinks from the wonders I behold :
That ray of glory, bright and fair.
Is but thy living shadow there. -^ '' •'♦ '
'J'hinc is the silent noon of night,
The twilight, eve — the dewy morn;
Whate'er is beautiful and bright,
Thine hands have fashion'd to adorn:
Thy glory walks in every sphere,
And all things whisper, "God is here !"
\
>(f«,ii
JttonyvievJ
CaiF. III.
SACRED PIECES.
255
• Sect. "V. '^Sunday Morning,
nl
God of the morning ! thou, the Sabbath's God ?
Round whose bright footsteps thousand planets plaj ;
A million beings, at thy mighty nod,
Are born; thy frown turns millions more to clay:
How great thou art ! an unimagined deep
Of wisdom and of power ; — thy laws how sure !
Thy way how full of mystery ! Thou dost keep
Thy court among the heavens, sublime and pure
And inapproachable ; the tired eye breaks
Ere it can reach thee : who can fathom thee ?
Who read thy counsels 1 Thought exhausted seeks
The path in vein ; 'tis o'er the mighty sea,
On the tall mountains, in the rushing wind
Or the mad tempest. In a cloudy car,
Wrapt in thick darkness, rides the Eternal Mind
O'er land and ocean, and from star to star.
Hast thou not seen him in his proud career,
Nor heard his awful voice ] Oh ! look around.
For he is always visible, always nea^- !
Listen to his eloquent words in evt.^ sound
Of zephyr, waterfall, or birds, or bees,
A thousand songs, these sweet and these sublime,
All nature's intellectual harmonics.
And the soft music of the stream of time.
See him in the vernal beauty of the flower,
In the ripe glory of the autumnal glow, /
In summer's rich and radiant festal hour, .. -. i^W
In winter's fairest purest robes of snow.
There art thou : not in temples built by the hand
Of vanity ; by the unproductive toil
Of the hot brow; or by the fierce command
Of tyrants, or with shame-collected spoil.
Thy temple is the universe ; thy throne ** 'f-\
Raised on the stars ; thy light is every where,
And every vyhere songs to the Eternal One •
Are ofler'd up ; nor can the listening ear
Mistake that homage which all time, all space
Pours forth to thee : — what sense so dark and dull
That srcs not thy bright smile on nature's face 1
Who thy high spirit, pure and beautiful,
ty i
lis
256
THE ENGLISH READER.
Put n.
Chip. II
1 -:
I »»
Tracks not throughout existence 1 All we hare
And all we hope for, w thy gift ; and man
Without thee is a feeble, fetter'd slave,
Driven by the winds of passion, without plan
Or purpose, or pursuit becoming. Thou ,
Art great, and great are all thy works, and great
Shall be thy praise : before thy throne we bow ;
To thee our prayers, our vows we consecrate.
O thou Eternal Being ! clad in light,
I, in the dust, before thy presence fall,
And ask for wisdom in thy hallow'd sight .-
To lead ny steps to thee. How calmly all
Sle» ..li- lie stillness of the Sabbath-morn,
A.-i if tr ^\ncti!(y the sacred day !
The t ■ kI ,/ peace, by the mild zephyrs borne.
Glides gen .1^ on the tranquil morning*8 ray ;
And in a solemn pause all nature seems
To feel the present Deity. He speaks ^
In the twilight melodies — smiles in the fair beams ;
Which from his locks the star of morning sUakes ;
Heaven is his canopy — his footstool, earth —
A thousand worlds, his throne. O Lord ! to thee,
Noblest and mightiest — Source of light, of worth,
Be praise and glory through eternity !
BOWRIMO.
• vy
ifK
* Sect. VI. — Sunday Evening,
Wblcomb the hour of sweet repose,
The evening of the Sabbath-day !
In peace my wearied eyes shall close,
When I have tuned my vesper lay
In humble gratitude to Him
Who waked the morning's earliest beam. "'
In such an hour as this, how sweet.
In the calm solitude of even,
To hold with heaven commun?on meet,
Meet for a spirit bound to heaven; u
And, in this wilderness beneath.
Pare zephyrs from abovo to breathe !
It may be that the Eternal Mind
Bends sometimes from hit throne of blitf :
\ .*■■
i, %
PaitII. I Chip. III.
SACRED PIECES.
257
Where should wc, then, his presence find,
But in an hour so bless'd as this—
An hour of calm tranquillity,
Silent, as if to welcome thee 1
Yes ! if the Great Invisible,
Descending from his seat divine.
May deign upon this earth to dwell —
Where shall he find a welcome shrine,
But in the breast of men, who bears
His image, and his spirit shares]
Now let the solemn .bought pervade
My soul, and let my heart prepare
A throne: — Come, veil'd in awful shade.
Spirit of God ! that I may dare
Hail thee ! — nor, like thy prophet, be
Blinded by thy bright majesty.
Then turn my wandering thoughts within.
To hold communion, Lord! with thee;
And, purified from taint of sin
And earth's pollutions, let me see
Thine image : for a moment prove,
If not thy majesty, thy love —
That love which over all is shed —
Shed on the worthless as the just ;
Lightning the stars above our head,
And waking beauty out of dust;
And rolling in its glorious way * ♦> ',,
Beyond the farthest comet's ray. ^^^ s f f^
To Him alike the living stream.
And the dull regions of the grave ;
All watch'd, ;)rotectcd all, by Him
Whose eye can see, whose arm can save.
In the cold midnight's dangerous gloom,
Or the dark prison of the tomb.
Thither we hasten — as the sand
Drops in the hour-glass, never still;
So, gather'd in by Death's rude hand.
The storehouse of the grave we fill ;
And sleep in peace, as safely kept
As when on earth we smiled or wept.
258
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt II.
'%
;-ii^^
What is our duty here 1 — To tend
From good to better — thence to Lest :
Grateful to drink life's cup, — then bend
Unmurmuring to our bed of rest ;
To pluck the flowers that round us blow,
Scattering their fragrance as wc go:
And so to live, that when the sun
Of our existence sinks in night,
Memorials sweet of mercies done
May 'shrine our names in Memory's light;
And the bless'd seeds we scatter'd, bloom
A hundred fold beyond the tomb.
:•■■■■' -v B0WMI]f«.
* Sect. \ll.— The Power of God.
Tbou art, O God ! the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see ; ]
Its glow by day, its smile by night.
Are but reflections caught from thee :
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine.
And all things fair and bright are thine.
When day with farewell beam delays,
Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heaven;
Those hueSv that mark the sun's decline,
So soft, so radiant, Lord! are thine.
When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'crshadows all the earth and skies.
Like some dark beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumber'd dyes ;
That sacred gloom, those fires divine.
So grand, so countless. Lord ! are thine.
When youthful spring around us breathes, '
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh,
And every flower the summer wreathes,
Is born beneath that kindling eye: >
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine.
And all things fair and bright are thine.
Moon.
ciAv. m.
SACRED PIECES.
259
Sect. VIII. — An Address to the Deity,
THOU ? whose balance does the mountains weigh ;
Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey ;
Whose breath can turn those watery worlds to flam«i
Tliat flame to tempest, and that tempest tame ;
Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls,
And on thy never-ceasing goodness calls.
Oh ! give the winds all past offence to sweep,
To scatter wide, or bury in the deep.
Thy power, my weakness, may I ever see,
And wholly dedicate my soul to thee.
Reign o*er my will ; my passions ebb and flow
At thy command, nor human motive know !
If anger boil, let anger be my praise, ,\/ , ,
And sin the graceful indignation raise.
My love be warm to succour the distress'd
And lift the burden from the soul oppress' d. , ^ ~
Oh may my understanding ever read
This glorious volume which thy wisdom made !
May sea and land, and earth and heaven be joined,
To bring the eternal Author to my mind !
When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll,
May thoughts of thy dread vengeance shake my soul !
When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine.
Adore, my heart, the majesty divine.
Grant I may ever, at the morning ray.
Open with prayer the consecrated day ;
Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise.
And with the mounting sun ascend the skies : ' '
As that advances, let my zeal improve,
And glow with ardour of consummate love ;
Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun
My endless worship shall be still begun.
And, oh ! permit the gloom of solemn nigHl,
To sacred thought may forcibly invite.
When this world's shut, and awful planets rise.
Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies;
Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight.
And show all nature in a milder light: "' »
How every boisterous thought in calm subsides I
How the smoothed spirit into goodness glides !
Oh how divine ! to tread the milky way
To the bright palace of the Lord of day ;
260
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part II.
It '
I
I'
1
His court admire, or for his favour sue,
Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew :
Pleased to look down, and see the world asleep ;
While I long vigils to its Founder keep !
Canst thou not shake the centre 1 Oh ! control,
Subdue by force, the rebel in my soul.
Thou, who canst still the raging of the flood,
Restrain the various tumults of my blood ;
Teach me, with equal firmness, to sustain
Alluring pleasure and assaulting pain.
Oh may I pant for thee in each desire !
And with strong faith foment the holy fire !
Stretch out my soul in hope, and grasp the prize,
Which in eternity's deep bosom lies !
At the great day of recompense behold, '
Devoid of fear, the fatal book unfold !
Then wafted upward to the blissful seat.
From age to age my grateful song repeat; ' '
My Light, my Life, my God, my Saviour see,
And rival angels in the praise of thee !
-i
Youifo.
*Sect. IX — The Dwelling-place of God.
Thkre is a world we have not seen,
That time shall never dare destroy,
Where mortal footstep hath not been, \
Nor ear hath caught its sounds of joy.
There is a region, lovelier far
Than sages tell, or poets sing ;
Brighter than snmmer beauties are,
And softer than the tints of spring.
It is all holy and serene, ■.., )f,
The land of glory and repose ;
And there, to dim the radiant scene, ■ :,, ;
The tear of Sorrow never flows. j. ••
It is not fann'd by summer gale ;
'Tis not refresh'd by vernal showers ;
It never needs the moonbeam pale.
For there are known no evening hours.
In vain the philosophic eye
May seek to view the fair abode.
Or find it in the curtain'd sky:—
It is the DWELLING-PLACE OF GoD. Anonymous.
Clip. m.
SACRED PIECES.
261
• • Sect. X.— Devotion,
The world is sleeping at my feet;
The hum of life has died away ;
The stars — night's silent guardians — meet
In beautiful array.
"While, thorned upon the hills sublime,
That rise into the vaulted sky,
My thoughts ascend from earth and time,
, And soar like them on high.
My temple's dome, yon arch sublime
With all its glowing lights, shall be ;
The mountain-top, my lofty shrine ;
My organ, the lone sea.
For, the revealings these impart,
Uncircumscribed by place or time,
Descend like balm upon the heart,
Where sounds no chant or chime.
In thunder utter'd from the cloud.
Or smiling in the beauteous beam,
Low whisper'd in the sMemn wood, >
Or murmur in the stream.
They're felt as well 'neath desert skies.
Or where the boundless forest blooms.
As where the choral anthem dies.
"1
Above a thousand tombs.
AnonyniMUi,
Sect. XI. — A Morning Hymn,
Tbkse are thy glorious works, Parent of good !
Almighty ! thine this universal frame.
Thus wondrous fair ; thyself how wondrous then ;
Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens
To us invi ible, or dimly seen
In these th^ lowest works ; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine,
Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs
And choral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing ; ye, in heaven,
On earth, join all ye creatures to extol
■' , '
\^.
362
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pait II.
■^1
Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling mom
With thy briglit circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul.
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st.
Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now flieat
With the fixed stars, fixed in that orb that flies :
And ye five other wandering fires, that move
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness called up light,
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, ^hat in quarternion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists and exaltations, that now rise
From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author rise !
Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers ;
Rising or falling, still advance his praise.
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines.
With every plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow
Melodioui) murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices, all ye living souls ; ye birds,
That singing up to heaven's gate ascend.
Bear on your wings and in your notes his praiao.
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep ;
Witness if I be silent, morn or even,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praia«.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good ; and if the night
Have gathered aught of evil, or conceai'd,
Duepcrse it, as now light dispels tho dark. Miltoh-
PaITII. I ClAF. III.
SACRED PIECES.
263
•Sect. XII. — An Evening Service* '
Thb cold wind strips the yellow leaf,
The stars are twinkling faintly o'er us ;
All nature wears her garb of grief,
While day's fair book is closed before os.
The songs have ceased, — and busy men
Are to their beds of silence creeping;
The pale, cold moon looks out again
On the tired world so softly sleeping.
Oh ! in an hour so still as this,
From care, and toil, and tumult stealings
I'll consecrate an hour to bliss —
To meek devotion's holy feeling :
And rise to Thee — to Thee, whose hand
Unroll'd the golden lamp of heaven ;
Mantled with beauty all the land ;
Gave light to morn, and shade to oven.
Being, whose all-pervading might
The laws of countless worlds disposes;
Yet gives the sparkling dews their light —
Their beauty to the blushing roses :
Thou, Ruler of our destiny !
With million gifts hast thou supplied us ;
Hidden from our view futurity.
Unveiling all the past to guide us.
Though dark may be earth's vale, and damp,
A thousand stars shine sweetly o'er us,
And immortality's pure lamp
Gladdens and gilds our path before us.
And in the silence of the scene,
Sweet tones from heaven are softly speaking ,
Celestial music breathes between.
The slumbering soul of bliss awaking.
Short is the darkest night, whose shade
Wraps nature's breast in clouds of sadneae;
And joy's sweet flowers, that seem to fado,
Shall bloom anew in kindling gladnoM.
r '
l\
M
I'-./' r
ri
U
•864 THE ENGLISH READER. Part tt | Chap. Ill
Death's darkness is more bright to him
Who looks beyond in visions holy,
Than passion's fires, or splendour's dream,
Or ail the glare of sin and folly. >'*'
The silent tear, the deep-fetch'd sigh, ,,
Which virtue heaves in hours of quiet.
Are dearer than pomp's revelry,
Or the mad laugh of frenzied riot ;
Smiles from a conscience purified,
Far lovlier than the fleeting glory
Conferr'd in all a monarch's pride,
Embalm'd in all the light of story.
This joy be ours, our weeks shall roll —
And let them roll — our bark is driven
Safe to its harbour, and our soul
Awaking shall awake in heaven. Bowbinc.
* Sect. Xlll.— The Nativity,
When Jordan hush'd his waters still,
And silence slept on Zion hill;
When Bethlehem's shc[)hcrds through the night
Wiitch'd o'er their flocks by starry light ;
Hark ! from the midnight hills around, ,
A voice of^.iore than mortal sound,
In distant hallelujahs stole.
Wild ?«\urmuring o'er the raptured soul.
»•
Then swift to every startled eye,
New streams of glory light the sky;
Heaven bursts her azure gates, to pour
Her spirits to the midnight hour.
On wheels of light, on wings of flame.
The glorious hosts of Zion came;
High heaven with songs of triumph rung,
While thus they struck their harps anu sung :
O Zion ! lift thy raptured eye,
The long-expected hour is nigh ;
The joys of nature rise again,
The JPriaco of Saluin comes to reign.
K
to. -'.I
Cbaf. III.
SACRED PIECES.
265
See, Mercy from her golden urn
Pours a rich stream to them that mourn;
Behold, she binds, with tender care,
The bleeding bosom of despair.
He comes, to cheer the trembling heart,
Bids Satan and his host depart ;
Again the Day-star gilds the gloom,
Again the bowers of Eden bloom !
Zion ! lift thy raptured eye.
The long-expected hour is nigh ;
The joys of nature rise again,
The Prince of Salem comes to reign.
CAXPBSLt.
• Sect. XIV. — On Prayer,
It is a lovely sight, when youth bow down
With soft bright eyes subdued in silent prayer;
When cheeks that never wore the hue of care,
And brows encircled with the radiant crown
Of sunny hair, and gentle folded hands.
And lips that breathe of happiness, are shrined
In the communion of their own pure mind
With the eternal purity ; when joy
Brings its young, unstainM offering, and each thought
Ir of affection's holiest influence wrought;
And sorrow hath not enter'd to destroy
The bright, unbroken trust ; when not a tear
Hath trembled o'er the hope of coining years,
And every lovely dream that linirors there,
l« all unknown to life's maturcr fears;
When piety sheds flowers on inno'>!enco.
And sweetens early days. Is there a sight
More beautiful than this? or \% there incense
More grateful unto heaven, than hearts thus light
Of sin or sorrow's weight? — Ah! yes: there is
A dearer, nobler offering — 'tis the prayer
Breathed from the lips long paUul by time and care,
And all estranged from hope of worldly bliss —
Tu resignation's offering, when the heart
Hath wept departed loved ones, yet bath turn'd
With stronger faith above, and inly burn'd
With holier trust; when it hath seen depart
'Hie wreck of its false fortunes, yet can raise
To heaven a hymn of gratitude and praise. Annnymtrnt.
I !
i ,
266
THE ENGLISH READER.
Past I».
4 f
•Sect. XV. — Grave of a C\>Utin*(
I'kbre is a spot — a lovely spot,
Embosom'd in a valley's dell ;
The eye of splendour marks it not,
Nor travellers of its beauties tell.
The hazel forms a green bower there ;
Beneath, the grassy covering lies ;
And forest flowers, surpassing fair.
Mingle their soft and lovely dies.
Morn decks the spot with many a gem.
And the first break of eastern ray
Lights up a spark in each of them
That seems to hail the openin^^ day.
When first that beam of morning breaks,
The fancy here a smile may see,
Like that when first the saint awakes
At dawn of immortality.
The free birds love to seek the shade, » ,
And here they sing their sweetest lays;
Meet requiem! — He who there is laid ^
Breathed his last dying voice in praise. ■
And here the villager will stray,
What time his daily work is done,
When evening shed^^ the western ray
Of svvtet depart ;..,', ummer sun.
. » I.J
( "*j
■.« -1
On lovely lips his name is found,
And simple hearts yet hold him dear;
The Patriarch of the village round, —
The Pastor of the chapel near.
The holy cautions that he gave.
The prayers he breathed, the tears he wept,
Yot linger here, though in his grave
'I'hrougli many a year the saint ha« slept.
And ofl the villager has said:
'*0h! 1 remember, when a child, , '.
He phoed his hand upon my head,
And blcBs'd me then, and sweetly nmiled.
PabtTI. I Ca*!'. ilh
SACRED PIECES.
267
' 'Twas he that led jnc '.■:> Tuy God,
Arixi taught me to obey his will ;
i he holy path which he has trod,
Oh be it mine to follcv. still!"
Grave of tfie Righteous ! surely there
The sweetest bloom of beauty i:
Oh may I sleep in couch as fair,
And with a hope as bright as his!
Edwkhtojt.
* Sect. XVI. — Lines written on the first page of a Bible
presented by a Mother to her iSon.
Remrmbeu, lore! v.-ho gave thee this,
Wheii other days shall come,
When she who had thy earliest kiss, '
Sleeps in her narrow home ;
Remember, 'twas a mother gave
The gift to one she died to save.
That mother sought a pledge of love,
7'he holiest for her son;
And, from the gifts of God above,
She chose a goodly one ; —
She chose for hor beloved boy •♦
The source of life, and light, and joy !—
And bade him keep the gift, that when
The parting hour would come,
They might have hope to meet again
In an eternal home :
She said, his faith in it would be
Sweet incense to her memory.
And should the scoHer, in his pride,
Laagh that fond gift to scorn,
And bid him cast the pledge aside,
Which he from youth had borne,
She bids him pause, and ask his breaat,
If he or she had loved him best.
A parent's blessing on her son
Goes with this ho'y thing:
1'he love that would retain the one,
Must to tbo other cling.
Remember, 'tis no idle toy—
A mother's gift— remember, boy! K/
PfHEDf .
366
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pait n.
u
• Sbct. XVII.— 7%« Goodness of God,
Thk stars have sunk in yon concave blue,
And the sun is peeping through the dew ;
Thy spirit, Lord ! doth nature fill ;
Before thee, angels' tongues are still;
And seraphs hush their golden strings,
In thy presence, King of kings !
How then shall I, a clod of clay,
Or lift my voice, or tune my lay 1
Thou, who the realms of space and time
Dost people with thy might sublime ;
Whose power is felt below, above,
Felt in thy wisdom, in thy love ;
Whose awful voice is heard around.
Heard in its silence as its sound ; '
Whose lovely spirit does pervade
Alike the sunshine and the shade.
And shines and smiles in sorrow's night
As clearly as in pleasure's light.
Lord! thou hast thunders, but they sleep;
Storms, but they now their prisons keep :
Nothing is breathing below, above,
But the spirit o harmony, joy, and Ioto ;
Nothing is seen or heard around.
But beauty's smiles, and music's sound:
Music re-echoed in earth and air,
Beauly that's visible every^ where.
Join the concert — share the joy ;
Why should the cares of earth alloy
Pleasures which Heaven itself has given, —
Heavenly pleasures which lead to heaven 1
.\
•Sect. XYUL-^Upon Life,
Lord ! what is life ? — 'Tia like a flower.
That blossoms, and is gone:
We see it flourish for an hour,
With all its beauty on;
But Death corner like a wintry daj.
And cuts the pretty ilowcr away.
L Paet n. I ctAr, in.
SACRED PIECES.
269
Lord ! what is life ? — 'Tis like the bow
That glistens in the sky ; > *
We love to see its colours glow,
But while we look, they die. r
Life fails as soon: to-day, 'tis here;
To-night, perhaps, 'twill disappear.
Six thousand years have pass'd away,
Since life began .it first;
And millions, once alive and gay,
Are dead, and in the dust:
For life, in all its health and pride,
Has death still waiting at its side.
And yet this short, uncertain space
So foolishly we prize.
That heaven — that lasting dwelling-place-
Seems nothing in our eyes !
The worlds of sorrow and of bliss
We disregard, compared with this.
Lord ! what is life ? — If spent with thee
In duty, praise, and prayer.
However short or long it be,
We need but little care;
Because eternity v/ill last,
When life and death themselves are past.
Anonyrm/wi,
^1
• Sect. XIX. — The Injiuence of Hope at the Close of
Life.
Unfading Hope! when Hfe's last embers bum,
When soul to soul, and dust to dust return,
Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour !
Oh ! then, thy kingdom comes, inmiortal Power ! x^
What, though each spark of earth-born rapture fly
The quivering lip, pale check, and closing eye !
Bright to the soul thy sorupb-hiinds convey
The morning dream of life's eternal day! —
Then, then, the triuraph and the trance begin !
And all the phoenix spirit burns within !
Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose,
The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woci !
2 70
THE ENGLISH READER. Part II.
r
■■ftf^
Yet half I hear the paptine^ spirit sigh,
It is a dread and awful tiling to die !
Mysterious worlds ! untravell'd by the sun, *"'
Where Time's far wandering tide has never run.
From your unfdtliom'd shades, and viev/less spheres,
A warning comes, unheard by other ears.
'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and loud,
Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud !
Wiiile nature hears, with tcrror-minglcd trust,
The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust;
And — like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod
Thi^ roaring waves, and call'd upon his God —
With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss.
And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss !
iJaughter of Faith, awake ! arise ! illume
The dread unknown, the cliaos of the tomb !
Melt and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll
(Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul! ;
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay, '
(Phased on his night-steed by the star of day !
The strife is o'er, the pangs of nature close,
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes!
Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze.
The noon of heavon undazzled by tbe blaze,
(hi heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody ;
Wild as the hallow'd anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem^s shepherds in the lone'y vale,
When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight still
Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill.
:*,■
I;
■.'^a
■v.,'>
jMj
ft ..
:y»iA/
271
r woes :
- '!
CH AFTER IV.
//
DIDACTIC PIECES.
Sbct. I. — Indignant Sentiments on National Prejudiui
and Hatred; and on Slavery.
•iS
■t t
:l
OH for a lodge' in some vast wil(lcrness\
Some boundless continuity of shade',
Where rumour of oppression' and deceit*.
Of unsuccessfuP or successful' war,
Might never' reach me more^! ^ My ear' is pain'd^;
My soul^ is sick' with every day's report
Of wrong^ and outrage' with which earth is fiird\
There is no flesh^ in man's obdurate heart';
It does not feel' for man\ The natural bond
Of brotherhood'^ is sever cV, as the flax
That falls asunder' at the touch of fire\ . -
He finds his fellow^ guilty of a skin^ ■ , \
Not colour'd like his own'; and having power^ , ,
To enforce the wrong*', for such a worthy cause' - .^
Dooms^ and devotes^ him as his lawful' prey\
Lands^ intersected by a narrow frith'
Abhor each other\ Mountains interposed', * ^'^'^ "
Make enemies of nations\ who had else\ * ? ;/i'
Like kindred drops', br^en mingled into one\ * '«^ ^'l
Thus man devotes his brother'^, and destroys';
And worse than all\ and most to be deplored',
As human nature's broade8t\ foulest' blot,
<'hains^ him, and tasks^ him, and exacts his sweat
With stripes', that Mercy\ with a bleeding heart\
Weeps' when she sees inflicted on a beast\ >
'J'hen what is man\' And what man\ seeing this\
And having human feelings', does not blush^
And hang his head', to think himself a man^? ;/
J would not have a slave to till my ground\ ; <
To carry^ me, to fan me' while I sleep\ , ''
And tremble^ when I wake', for all the wealth' .1
That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd^ f^
No\* dear as freedom is\ and in my heart'g
Just estimation prized above all' price ; . ^ ,.
I feiad nmch rather be myself the slave\
272
THE ENGLISH READER. Pait II.
m
\M
And wear the bonds', than fasten them on him\
We have no slaves at home' — then why abroad^]
And they themselves^ once ferried o'er the wave
That parts' us, are emancipate' and loosed.
Slaves' cannot breathe in England^: if their lungs
Receive our air', that moment they are free^;
They touch our country', and their shackles fair.
That's noble', and bespeaks a nation proud^
And jealous' of tlie blessing\ Spread^ it then,
And let it circulate tli rough every vein
Of all your empire'; tliat where Britain's power'
Is felt, mankind may feci her mercy^ too. Cowpiu.
* *Sect. II — On True Dignity,
" Hail, awful scenes, t'lat calm the troubled breast,
And woo the weary to profound repose !
Can Passion's wildest uproar lay to rest,
And whisper comfort to the man of woes ?
Here Innocence may wander, safe from foes,
And Contemplation soar on seraph-wings.
Solitude ! the man who thee foregoes, *
When lucre lures him, or ambition stings,
Shall never know the source whence real grandeur springs.
" Vain man ! is grandeur given to gay attire 1
Then let the butterfly thy pride upbraid ; —
To friends, attendants, armies, bought with hire T
It is thy weakness that requires their aid : —
To palaces, with (;old and gems inlay'd 1
They fear the thief, and tremble in the storm:—
To hosts, through carnage who to conquest wade 1
Behold the victor vanquish'd by the worm!
Behold what deeds of wo the locust can perform %
"Tree dignity is his, whose tranquil mind
Virtue has raised above the things below ;
Who, every hope and fear to Heaven resign'd,
Shrinks not, though Fortune aim her deadliest blow?"—
This strain, from 'midst the rocks, was heard to flow
In solemn sounds. Now beam'd the evening star ;
And from embattled clouds, emerging slow,
Cynthia came riding on her silver car ;
And hoary mountain-clifis shone faintly from afar.
Bkattii*
^1
Chap. l\
I WOULD
(Though
Yet wan
Who nee
An inad>
That era
But he t
Will tret
The crec
And chai
A visiter
Sacred t(
The chai
A necess
Not so, V
And guil
Or take 1
There th
Or harmi
Disturbs
Who, wl
The sum
Or safet}
Are para
Else the;
As free t
As God '
Who, in
Ye, ther*
To love i
Is soon d
By budd
To chect
If unrest
Than en
Mercy to
And righ
By whicl
And he l
And com
ii5hall sec
2
Pa»t II. I Chap. IV.
DIDACTIC PIECES. T
273
*i.i
.'J'|!?V-'
I
• i^
, i >"
*■»•
, , Sect. III. — Cruelty to Brutes censured, ff >^sJ^
I WOULD not enter on my list of friends
(Though graced with polish'd manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility), the man
Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm.
An inadvertent step may crush the snail,
That crawls at evening in the public path;
But he that has humanity, forewarn'd,
Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.
The creeping veri.iin, loathsome to the sight,
And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes
A visiter unwelcome into scenes
Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, '
The chamber, or refectory, may die.
A necessary act incurs no blame.
Not so, when held within their proper bounds,
And guiltless of offence, they range the air,
Or take their pastime in the spacious field:
There they are privileged. And he that hunts
Or harms them there, is guilty of a wrong;
Disturbs the economy of nature's realm.
Who, when she form'd, design'd them an abode
The sum is this; If man's convenience, health,
Or safety, interfere, his rights and claims
Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs.
Else they are all — the meanest things- that are—
As free to live, and to enjoy that life,
As God was free to form them at the first.
Who, in his sovereign wisdom, made them all.
Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons
To love it too. The spring-time of our years ,. •-
Is soon dishonour'd and defiled, in most,
By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand
To check them. But, alas ! none sooner shoots,
If unrestrain'd, into luxuriant growth.
Than cruelty, most devilish of them all.
Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule
And righteous limitation of its act,
By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man :
And he that shows none, being ripe in years,
And conscious of the outrage he commits,
Shall seek it, and not fmd it in his turn. di^^^-r
2m
. -4
<"j>
i'i t
» » -
JV'
;s'
1'
IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)
^
4^>
••^v^.^^
1.0
I.I
us
lU 1^
■ 2.2
;^ 1^ 12.0
u
mil
^
1.25 1.4 1.6
<
6"
►
A
^1^'
w
/y^
'/
Hiotographic
Sciences
Corporation
33 WIST MAIN STRUT
WnSTIR.N.Y. 14SI0
(7!«) ■73-4303
o
,s
k
»74
THB ENGLISH READER.
PabvIL I Cmr. r
8bct. IV* — A ParaphroK on the latter Part of the Sixtk
Chapter of St. Matthew.
Waiir n^ breast labotirs with oppressiTe caro,
And o*er my cheek descends the falhng tear ;
While all my warring passions are at strife.
Oh! let me listen to the Word of Life!
Raptures deep-felt his doctrine did impart,
And thus he raised from earth the drooping heart:
"Think not, when all your scanty stores afford.
Is spread at once upon the sparing board;
Think not, when worn the homely robe appears,
While on the roof the howling tempest beara;
What farther shall this feeUe life sustain.
And what shall clothe these i>^ivering limbs again.
Say, does not Ufe its nourishment exceed?
And the fair body its investing weed 1
Behold ! and look away your low despair—
See the light tenants of the barren air ;
To them, nor stores nor granaries belong; •
Nought, but the woodland, and the pleasing song:
Yet, your kind heavenly Father bends his eye
On the least wing that flits along the sky.
To him they sing, when Spring renews the plain ;
To him they ciy, in Winter^s pinching reign ;
Nor is their music, nor their plaint in vain:
He hears the gay and the distressful call.
And with unsparing bounty fills them alk
" Observe the rising lily's snowy grace ;
Observe the various vegetable race :
They neither toil nor spin, but careless grow ;
Yet see how warm they blush ! how bright they glow?
What regal vestments can with them compare !
What king so shining! or what queen so fair!
<*If, ceaseless, thus the fowls of heaven he feeds;
If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads;.
Will he not care f(>r you, ye fiiithless, sayl
Is he unwise! or, are you less than theyl"
TaoMsov.
PabvIL I CmkW.Vf.
DiDAtrnc PiECEa
S75
Sect. V. — Refleetiont on a Future SiaUi from a Rimew
iff Winter.
Tis done !— dread Winter spreads his latest gloonuy
And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year.
Mow dead the vegetable kingdom lies !
How dumb the tuneful ! Horror wide extends
His desolate domain. Behold, fond man !
See here thy pictured life ; pass some few years.
Thy flowering spring, thy summer's ardent^trength,
Thy sober autumn fading into age,
And pale concluding winter comes at last,
And shuts the scene. Ah ! whither now are fled
Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes
Of happiness 1 those longings after fame?
Those restleis cares? those busy bustling days ?
Those gay-spent, festive nights ? those veering thougkli,
Lost between good and ill, that shared thy Ufa 1
All now are vanished ! Virtue sole survives^
Immortal, never-failing friend of man.
His guide to happiness on higb.. And see
Tis come, the glorious mom ! the second birth
Of heaven and earth ! awakening Nature hears
The new-creating word ; and starts to life.
In every heighten M form, from pain and death
For ever free. The great eternal scheme,
Involving all, and in a perfect whole
Uniting as the prospect wider spreads,
To Reason's eye refined, clears up apace.
Ye vainly wise ! ye blind presumptuous ! now,
Confounded in the dust, adore that Power
And Wisdom oil arraign'd : see now the cause
Why unassuming Worth in secret lived.
And died neglected : why the good man's share
In life was gall and bitterness of soul :
Why the lone widow and her orphans pined
In starving solitude ; while Luxury,
In palaces, lay straining her low thought,
To form unreal wants: why heaven-born Truth,
And Moderation fair, wore the rod marks
Of Superstition's scourge: why licensed Pain,
That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe,
Imbitter'd all our bliss. Ye good distress'd 1
.i.-,V
■4M
276
THE ENGLISH READER. Past n. I Ciav.
Yc noble few ! who here unbending stand
Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile,
And what your bounded view, which only saw
A little part, deemM evil, is no more :
The storms of wintry time will quickly pafw,
And one unbounded spring encircle all.
Thomsov.
Sect. VI.— On Pride,
Op all the causes, which conspire to blind
Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind.
What the weak head with strongest bias rules.
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
Whatever nature has in worth denied,
She gives in large recruits of needful pride ! ^
For, as in bodies, thus in souls, we find
What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind.
Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence,
And fills up all the mighty void of sense.
If once right reason drives that cloud away,
Truth breaks upon us with resistless day.
Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,
Make use of every friend, and every foe.
A little learning is a dangerous thing ;
Brink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring:
There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.
Fired at first sight with what the Muse imparts.
In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts,
While, from the bounded level of our mind,
Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind ;
But, more advanced, behold, with strange surprise,
New distant scenes of endless science rise !
So, pleased at first, the towering Alps we try,
Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky;
The eternal snows appear already past,
And the first clonus and mountains seem the last :
But, those attained, we tremble to survey
The growing labours of the lengthen'd way ;
The increasing prospect tires our wandering eyei;
Hiiis peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise.
Pom
61 wis<
Next dj
Thus 01
Procxas
Year af
And, to
The vat
Of mi
The pal
For eve
All pay
They,o
On this
At least
How ex
Time, 1(
That lo(
The thi
'Tis not
And sea
All pror
And tha
In full c
Unanxi(
As dutc
At thirt;
Knows i
At fiay.
Pushes
In all til
Resolvei
And '
All mer
Thems€
Strikes
But the
Soon cl(
As fron
The pa
So dies
Even V,
O'er th<
CvA». IV. DIDACTIC r "ECES.
Sect. VII. — On Procrastination,
277
Bi wise to-day ; 'tis madness to defer :
Next day the fatal precedent will plead ;
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time.
Year after year it steals, till all are fled ;
And, to the mercies of a moment, leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, " That all men are about to live ;"
For ever on the brink of being born.
All pay themselves the compliment to think,
They, one day, shall not drivel; and their pride,
On this reversion, takes up ready praise ;
At least, their own ; their future selves applauds:
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !
Time, lodged in their own hands, is folly's vail ;
That lodged in fate's, to wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone.
'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool ;
And scarce in human wisdom to do more.
All promise is poor dilatory man ;
And that through every stage. When young, indeed^
In full content, we sometimes nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish,
As duteous som, our fathers w.ere more wise.
At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ;
At filly, chides his infamous delay ;
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ;
In all the magnanimity of thought.
Resolves and re-resolves, then dies the same.
And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. >
All men think all men mortal, but themselves ;
Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate
Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dretd :
But thoir hearts wounded, like the wounded air,
Soon close ; where, pass'd the shaft, no trace is found.
As from the wing no scar the sky retains;
The parted wave no furrow from the keel;
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Even with the tender tear which nature sheds
O'er those we love, we drop il in their grave. Yovn«.
t
278
THE ENGLISH RBAIMBR.
Fan II.
• SicT. Vra.— On Tade.
Sat, what is Taste, but the internal powen,
Active and strong, and feelingly alive
To each fine impulse ? a discerning sense
Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust
From things deform'd, or disarranged, or grom
In species ? This, nor gems, nor stores of gold.
Nor purple state, nor culture, can bestow;
But God alone, when first his active hand
Imprints the sacred bias of the soul.
He, mighty Parent ! wise and just in all.
Free as the vital breeze, or light of heaven.
Reveals the charms of Nature. Ask the swain»
Who journeys homeward from a summer day's
Long labour, why, forgetful of his toils
And due repose, he loiters to behold
The sunshine gleaming, as through amber cIoudf»
O'er all the western sky. Full soon, I ween,
His rude expression and untutor'd airs.
Beyond the power of language, will unfold
The form of beauty smiling at his heart.
How lovely ! how commanding ! but though Heaven
In every breast hath sown these early seeds
Of love end admiration, yet in vain.
Without fair Culture's kind, parental aid.
Without enlivening suns and genial showers,
And shelter from the blast, in vain we hope
The tender plant should rear its blooming head.
Or yield the harvest promised in its spring.
Nor yet will every soil with equal stores
Repay the tiller's labour, or attend
His will obsequious, whether to produce
The olive or the laurel. Different minds
Incline to different objects : one pursues
The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild ;
Another sighs for harmony and grace.
And gentlest beauty. Hence, when lightning fires
The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the gpround;
When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air ;
And Ocean groaning from the lowest bed,
Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky ;
Amid the mighty uproar, while below
The nations tremble. Shakspeare looks abroad
CbafIV.
DIDACTIC PIEC28.
279
From some high chS, superior, mnd enjoys
The elemental wmr. But Waller longs,
All on the margin of some flowery stream.
To spread his careless limbs, amid the cool
Of plantain shades, and tu the listening deer
The tale of slighted vows and love's diisdain
Resounds, soft warbling, all the livelong day ;
Consenting Zephyr sighs ; the weejHng rill
Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the groves;
And hill and dale, with all their echoes mourn.
Such and so various are the tastes of men.
AKBMSISa.
* SxcT. IX. — Whaitoever ye would thai Men should do to
yauj do ye even ao to them,
Pbkcspt divine ! to earth in mercy given ;
sacred rule of action, worthy Heaven !
Whose pitying love ordain'd the bless'd command.
To bind cur nature in a firmer band ;
Enforce each human sufferer's strong appeal*
And teach the selfish breast what others feel ;
Wert thou the guide of life mankind might know
A soft exemption from the worst of wo.
No more the powerful would the weak oppress.
But tyranto learn the luxury to bless.
No more would Slavery bind a hopeless train.
Of human victims in her galling chain.
Mercy the hard, the cruel heart would move
To soften misery by the deedn of love ;
And Avarice from his hoarded treasures give,
Unask'd, the liberal boon, that Want might live.
The impious tongue of Falsehood then would ceaa»
To blast, with dark suggestions. Virtue's peace.
No more would Spleen or Psssion banish rest.
And plant a pang in fond Affection's breast ;
By one harsh word, one alter'd look, destroy
Her peace, and wither every opening joy :
Scarce can her tongue the captious wrong ex|rfain^«—
The slight ofifence whidh gives so deep a pain ;
The afibcted ease that slighta her starting tear;
The words whose coldness kills from lips so dour ^— >
The hand she loves, alone can point a dart»
Whon hidden sting could wound no other heart >—
A
280
THE ENGLISH READER. Pam H.
These, of all pains the sharpest W3 endure,
The breast which now inflicts, would spring to cure.
No m<>re deported Genius then would fly
To breathe in solitude his hopeless sigh ;
No more would Fortune's partial smile debase
The spirit, rich in intellectual grace;
Who views unmoved, from scenes where pleasures bloom,
The flame of genius sunk in misery's gloom;
The soul Heaven form'd to soar, by want depress'^,
Nor heeds the wrongs that pierce a kindred breast
Thou, righteous law, whose clear and useful light
Sheds on the mind a ray divinely bright ;
Condensing in one rule whate'er the sage
Has proudly taught, in many a labour'd page ;
Bid every heart thy hallow'd voice revere,
To justice sacred, and to nature dear. Williams.
Sect. X. — Nothing formed in Vain,
Lbt no presuming impious railcr tax
Creative wisdom ; as if aught was form'd
In vain, or not for admirable ends.
Shall little haughty ignorance pronounce
His works unwise, of which the smallest part
Exceeds the narrow visions oi her mind ?
As if, upon a full proportion'd flome.
On swelling columns heaved, the pride of art!
A critic-fly whose feeble rays scarce spreads
An inch around, with blind presumption bold,
Should dare to tax the structure of the whole.
And lives the man, whose universal eye
Has swept at once the unbounded scheme of things ;
Mark'd the dependence so, and firm accord,
As with unflattering accent to conclude.
That this availeth nought 1 Has any seen
The mighty chain of beings, lessening down
From infinite perfection to the brink
Of dreary nothing, desolate abyss !
From which astonish'd thought, redbiling, tumt 1
Till then alone, let zealous praise ascend.
And hymns of holy wonder, to that Power,
Whose wisdom shines as lovely in our mindsi
As on our smiling eyes his servant-iun. Tbokiok.
281
CHAPTER V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES
8kct. h — 7%€ Morning in Summer,
THE mcek-e jed Mom' appears, mother^ of dewi'.
At first faint gleaming^ in the dappled east^;
Till far o'er ether^ spreads the widening glow';
And from before the lustre of her face'
White breaks the clouds away\ With quicken'd step
Brown Night retires^: young Day^ pours in apace',
And opens all the lawny prospect wide\
The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top',
Swell on the sight^, and brighten' with the dawn\
Blue\ through the dusk', the smoking current shines;
And from the bladed field' the fearful hare
Limps, awkward'; while^ along the forest glade^
The wild deer trip', and, often turning', gaze
At early pas8enger\ Music' awakes
The native voice^ of undissembled joy';
And thick around' the woodland hymns arise^.
Roused by the cock', the soon-clad shepherd^ leaves
His mossy cottage', where with peace he dwells';
And from the crowded fold', in order, drives
His flock' to taste the verdure of the morn\
Falsely luxuriouB\ will not man awake';
And\ springing from the bed of 8loth\ enjoy
The cool', the fragrant', and the silent^ hour,
To meditation' due and sacred song'l
For is there aught in sleep can charm the wise'1
To lie in deau oblivion', losing half
The fleeting moments of too short a life';
Total extinction of the enlightened soulM
Or else, to feverish vanity alive\
Wilder'd and tossing through distempered dreams'?
Who would', in such^ a gloomy st- te\ remain
Longer than nature craves'; when every musc^
And every blooming pleasure' waits without',
To bless the wildljndevious morning walkM
Tronsom.
282
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part II
m
Sect. II. — Rural Sounds j as well aa Rural Sighti
delightful.
Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds
Exhilarate the spirit, and restore
The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds,
That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood
Of ancient growth, make music, not unlike
The dash of Ocean on his winding shore.
And lull the spirit while they fill the mind ;
Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast,
And all their leaves fast fluttering all at once.
Nor less composure waits upon the roar
Of distant floods ; or on the softer voice
Of neighbouring fountain ; or of rills that slip '
Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall
Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length
In matted grass, that, with a livelier green,
Betrays the secret of their silent course. ■ -^
Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds ;
But animated nature sweeter still,
To soothe and satisfy the human ear.
Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one
The live-long night. Nor these alone, whose notes
Nice-finger'd art must emulate in vain ;
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime,
In still-repeated circles, screaming loud,
The jay, the pie, and even the boding owl
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.
Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and harsh.
Yet he ard in scenes where peace for ever reigns,
And only there, please highly for their sake.
COWFKI.
Sect. III.'— Ltficr/y and Slavery Cuntrasted*
Part of a Letter written from Ital)'.
How has kind Heaven adorn'd the happy land,
And scattered blessings with a liberal hand !
But what avail her unexhausted stores,
Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores,
With all the gifts that heaven and earth impart,
The 1011168 of Nature, and the charms of Art,
Cha*. V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
283
While proud Oppression in her valley reigns,
And Tyranny usurps her happy plains?
The poor inhabitant beholds in vain
The reddening orange, and the swelling grain;
Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines.
And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines.
O Liberty ! thou power supremely bright,
Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight!
Perpetual Pleasures in thy presence reign.
And smiling Plenty leads thy wanton train.
Eased of a load, Subjection grows more light;
And Poverty looks cheerful in thy sight.
Thou makest the gloomy face of Nature gay ;
Givest beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day.
On foreign mountains, may the sun refine
The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine ;
With citron groves adorn a distant soil,
And the fat olive swell with floods of oil :
We envy not the warmer clime, that lies
In ten de recs of more indulgent skies;
Nor at the coarseness of our heaven repine,
Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine :
'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle,
^And makes her barren rocks, and her bleak mountain!
, smile. Aooifoir.
* Sect. ^ True Happiness,
T.1UE Happiness hau n ocalities.
No tones provincial, no peculiar garb.
Where Duty went, she went; with Justice went; '
And went with Meekness, Charity, and Love.
Where'er a tear was dried ; a wounded heart
Bound up ; a bruised spirit with the dew
Of sympathy anointed; or a pang
Of honest suffering soothed ; or injury,
Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven ;
Where'er an evil passion was subdued.
Or virtue's feeble embers fann'd ; where'er
A sin was heartily abjured and left ;
Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed
A pious prayer, or wish'd a pious wish, —
There was a high and holy place, a spot
Of sacred light, a most religious fane,
Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled* P0&1.OK.
I t
C»4
THE ENGLISH READER. Pabt R
SiCT. V. — Picture of a Good Man,
80MK angel guide mj pencil, while I draw,
What nothing else than angel can exceed,
A man on earth devoted to the skies;
Like ships at sea, while in, above the world.
With aspect mild, and elevated eye,
Behold him seated on a mount serene,
Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm :
All the black cares and tumults of this life,
Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet.
Excite his pity, not impair his peace.
Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred and the slave,
A mingled mob! a wandering herd! he sees,
Bewilder'd in the vale ; in all unlike !
His full reverse in all ! What higher praise?
What stronger demonstration of the right?
The present all their care ; th^ future, his.
When public welfare calls, or private want,
They give to fame : his bqunty he conceals.
Their virtues varnish nature ; his, exalt.
Mankind's esteem they court ; and he, his own.
Theirs, the wild chase of false felicities;
His, the composed possession of the true.
Alike throughout is his consistent piece.
All of one colour, and an even thread ;
While party-colour'd shreds of happiness,
With hideous gaps between, patch up for them
A madman's robe ; each puff of fortune blows
The tatters by, and shows their nakedness.
He sees with other eyes than theirs : where tbej
Behold a sun, he spies a Deity.
What makes them only smile, makes him adore.
Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees;
An empire in his balance, weighs a grain.
They things terrestrial worship, as divine :
His hopes immortal blow them by, as dust.
That dims his sight, and shortens his survey.
Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound.
Titles and honours — if they prove his fate-
He lays aside, to find his dignity :
No dignity they find in aught besides.
They triumph in externals, — which conceal
C«AP, V.
DESCRIPnYE PIECES.
M5
Man's real glory, — proud of an eclipse :
Himself too mnch he prizes, to be proud ;
And nothing thinks so great in man, as man.
Too dear he holds his interest, to neglect
Another's welfare, or his right invade :
Their interest, like a lion, lives on prey;
They kindle at the shadow of a wrong:
Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heaven.
Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe;
Nought, but what wounds his virtue, wounds his peaae.
A covered heart their character defends :
A cover'd heart denies him half his praise.
With nakedness his innocence agrees !
While their broad foliage testifies their fall !
Their no joys end, where his full feast begins.
His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss.
To triumph in e^tistence, his alone;
And his alone triumphantly to think
His true existence is not yet begun.
His glorious cause was, yesterday, complete :
Death, then, was welcome ; yet life still is sweet
YOVK*.
• Sect. VI.— -T^c Sabbath Morning.
How still the morning of the hallow'd day !
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloom'd waving in the breeze :
Sounds the most faint attract the ear, — the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew.
The distant bleating, midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon un moving cloud.
To him who wanders o'er the upland leas.
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dal«;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen ;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
OVrmounts the mist, is heard, at intervals.
The voiee <]i psalms, the simple song of pisise.
11
i I
£ \
I-
286
THE ENGLISH READER.
TawU. I Cha». 1
8«CT. VII. — T7ie rieamre and Benefit of an improved and
well-directed Imagination.
Oh ! bless'd of Heaven, whom not the languid songs
Of Luxury, the siren ! not the bribes
Of sordid Wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave
Those ever-blooming sweets, which, from the store
Of Nature, fair Imagination culls,
'. :, charm the enliven'd soul ! What though not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the height
Of envied life ; though only few possess
Patrician treasures, or imperial state ;
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures, and an ampler state,
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,
The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column, and the arch,
The breathing marble, and the sculptured gold,
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim.
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the Spring
Distills her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds : for him, the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold, and blushes like the mom.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings:
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfclt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow ; not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence ; not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends ; but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure, unrcproved. Nor thence partakei
Fresh pleasure only ; for the attentive Mind,
By this liarmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft
In outward tilings to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home,
To find a kindred order ; to exert
Within herself this elcg&nce of love,
This fair-inspired delight : her tempered powerc
R«fiii9 at length, and every passion wears
Chaf. V^
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
287
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.
But if to ampler probpects — if, to gaze
On Nature's form, where, negligent of all
These lesser graces, she assumes the port
Of that eternal Majesty thb.t weigh'd
The world's foundations — if to these the Mind
Exalts hr larin^ eye; then mightier far
Will be lae change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of servile custom cramp her generous powersi
Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth
Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear ]
Lo! she appeals to Nature, to the winds
And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course.
The elements and seasons : all declare
For what the eternal Maker has ordainM
The powers of man : we feel within ourselves
His energy divine : he tells the heart,
He meant, he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orb
Of life and being ; to be great like him.
Beneficent and active. Thus the men
Whom" Nature's works instruct, with God himself
Holds converse ; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions ; act upon his plan ;
And form to his, the relish of their souls.
AKBNSrDK.
Hi
•Sect. YllL— The Rainbow,
Thi evening was glorious, and light through the trees
Play'dthe sunshine and rain-drops, the birds and thebrecM
The landscape, outstretching in loveliness, lay
On the lap of the year, in the beauty of May :
For the Queen of the Spring, as she pass'd down the vale,
Left her robe on the trees, and her breath on the gale ;
And the smib of her promise gave joy to the hours.
And flush in her footsteps sprang herbage and flowers.
•
The skies, like a banner in sunset unroll'd,
O'er the west threw their splendour of azure and gold ;
But one cloud at a distance grew dense, and increased,
Till i\M margin of black touch'd the zenith and eatt
288
THE ENGLISH READER.
PabtIL
We gazed on the scenef, while around as they glow'd,
When a vision of beauty appeared on the cIoad~-
*Twas not like the Sun, as at mid-day we view ;
Nor the Moon, that rolls nightly through star-light tad
blue.
Like a Spirit, it came in the van of the storm ;
And the eye and the heart hail'd its beautiful form;
For it look'd not sevefe, like an angel of wrath,
But its garment of brightness illumed its dark path.
In the hues of its grandeur sublimely it stood,
O'er the river, the village, the fi'^lds, and the wood;
And river, field, village, and woodlands, grew bright.
As conscious they gave, and afforded delight
'Twas the Bow of Omnipotence, bent in His hand,
Whose grasp at creation the universe spannM ;
*Twas the presence of God, in a symlxrf sublime,
His vow from the flood to the exit of time !
Not dreadful, — as when in the whirlwind he pleads.
When storms are his chariot, and lightning his steeds ;
The black clouds his banner of vengeance unfurl'd,
And thunder his voice to a guilt^stricken world ;
In the breath of his presence when thousands expire,
And seas boil with fury, and rocks burn with fire ;
And the sword and the plague-spot with death strew the
plain,
And vultures and wolves dye the graves of the slain.
Not such was that Rainbow, that beautiful one,
Whose arch was refraction, its key-stone the Sun ;
A pavillion it secm'd which the Deity graced,
And Justice and Mercy met there, and embraced.
Awhile, and it sweetly bent over the gloom.
Like Love o'er a death-couch, or Hope o'sr the tomb ;
Then lefl the dark scene, when it slowly retired,
As Love had just vanished or Hope had expired.
I gtxed not alone on that source of my song :— >
To all that beheld it these verses belong ;
Its presence to all was the path of the Lord I
Eacb fuU heart expanded—grew wani»-*HUid tdortd !
Chaf. V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
i8$
Like a visit— the converse of friends — or a day,
That bow from my sight pass'd for ever away ;
Like that visit, that converse, that day — to my heart,
That Bow from remembrance can never depart.
'Tis a picture in memory distinctly defined.
With the strong and imperishing colours of mind ;
A part of my being beyond my control.
Beheld on that cloud, and transcribed on my soul.
London Magazine,.
•Sect. IX.— TAc Field of Waterloo,
There was a sound of revelry by night.
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry; and bright
The lamps, shone o'er fair women and brave men ;
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; —
But, hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising ka§l^
Did ye not hear it] — No: 'twas but the wind, t-^^
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; ,*'*'
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined !
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. —
But, hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before !
Arm! arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening roar!
Within a window'd niche of that high hall,
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear :
And when they smiled because he dcem'd it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell :
He rush'd into the field, and foremost fighting, fell!
Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,
Bluth'd at the praise of their own loveliness;
N
,. (
290
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pa»t H.
I
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated : who could guess
If over more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could riso !
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed.
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ;
And tho deep thunder, peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb.
Or whispering with white lips — "The foe! they come, they
come
I"
-" rose !
And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering'
The war-note of LochicI, which Albyn's hills
Have heard — and heard too have her Saxon foes : —
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills.
Savage and shrill! But with the breath that fills
Leir mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
*With their fierce native daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years;
Asd Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's eart!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as tht\v pass.
Grieving — if aught inanimate e'er grieves —
Over tho unreturning brave — alas !
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure ; when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe,
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low
Jjttst noon beheld them full of lusty life.
Lost eve, in Beauty's circle proudly gay:
Tfio midnight brought the signal-sound of strife ;
The morn, the marshalling in arms ; the day,
Battle's magnificently-stern array !
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover — heap'd and pent,
HiJivr and horse, — friend, foe,^n one red burial blent.
Utioi
Pa»t H, I CiAf . V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIEC1».
291
Br cold and low
•Sect. X. — Night.
NieRT is the time for rest:
How sweet, when labours close,
To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose.
Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head
Upon our own delightful bed I
Night is the time for dreams ;
The gay romance of life,
When truth that is, and truth that seems,
Blend in fantastic strife :
Ah ! visions less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are *
Night is the time for toil ;
Td plough the classic field.
Intent to find the buried spoil a v
Its wealthy furrows yield ;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, or heroes wrought
Night is the time to weep ;
To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory, where sleep
The joys of other years;
Hopes, that were angols at their birth,
But perished young, like things of earth.
Night is the time to watch ;
O' ocean^s dark expanse,
To nail the Pleiades, or catch
Tiic full moon's earliest glance,
That brings unto the home-fick mind
All we have loved and Icll behind.
Night is the time for care ;
Brooding on hours mispcnt,
To see the spectre of Despair
Come to our lonely tent;
Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host^
Summon'd to die by Cosar'a ghost.
Night is the time to muse ;
Then, from the eye, the soul
Takes ftight, and with expanding view*
Beyond the starry pole,
292
THE ENGLKH READER. Part II. | Chap. V
Descries, athwart the kbyss of night,
The dawn of uncreated I'ght.
Night if the time to pray ;
Our S>aviour oft withdiew
To desert mountains far away ;
So will his followers do,
8tcal from the throng to haunts untrod, .
And hold communion there with God.
Night is the time for death ;
When all around is peace,
Calmly to yield the wear/ breath,
From sin and suffering cease,
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign
To parting friends : — such death be mine.
MoNTQOMsnr.
*Sect. XI, — On Rome,
O RoMK ! my country ! city of the soul !
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee.
Lone mother of dead empires! and control
In their sl'ut breasts their petty misery.
What are our woes and sufferance 1 Come, and see
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples ! ye
Whose agonies are evils of a day —
A world is at our feet as fragile as our ciay.
The Niobe of nations ! there she stands,
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless wo;
An empty urn within her wither'd hands.
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago :
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ;
The veiy sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers :* dost thou flow,
Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness 1
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress!
The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire,
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride;
She saw her glories star by star expire.
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,
Where the car climb'd the capitol : far and wide,
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site: —
I Part II. I Chap. V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
293
Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void,
O'er the dira fragments cast a lunar light,
And say, " here was, or is," where all is doubly night 1
1 he double night of ages, and of her.
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrapt
All round us ; we but feel our way to err ;
The ocean hath his chart, the stars their map.
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap;
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer
Stumbling o'er recollections; now we clap
Our hands, and cry, "Eureka !" it is clear —
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near.
Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas !
The trebly.-hundred triumphs ! and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away !
Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay.
And Livy's pictured page! — but these shall be
Her resurrection ; all beside — decay.
Alas for Earth ! for never shall we see
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free.
thou, whose chariot roU'd on Fortune's wheel.
Triumphant Sylla ! Thou, who didst subdue
Thy country's foes, ere thou wouldst pause to feel
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew
O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy frown
Annihilated senates — Roman, too,
With all thy vices; for thou didst lay down.
With an atoning smile, a more than earthly crown—
The dictatorial wreath — couldst thou divine
To what would one day dwindle that which made
Thee more than mortal? and that so supine
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laidt
She who was named Eternal, and array'd
Her warriors but to conquer — She who veil'd
Earth with her haughty shadow, and display'd,
Until the o'er-canopicd horizon fail'd.
Her rushing wings — Oh ! she who was Almighty hail'd !
Brftoir.
", )
294
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pait 11
• Sect. XII. — On the Plain of Marathon*
Web»i;*ek wo tread,, 'tis haunted, holy ground !
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould !
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around,
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told,
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon :
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold,
Defies the power which crush'd thy ♦emples gone ;
Age shakes Athena'« tower, but spares grey Marathon.
The sun — the soil — but not the slave the same —
Unchanged in all, except its foreign lord,
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame : >
The battle-field — where Persia's victim-horde
First bow'd beneath the brunt of ilellas' sword,
As on tlie morn to distant Glory dear.
When Marathon became a magic word —
Which utter'd— to the hearer's eye appear
The camp — the host — the fight — the conqueror's career!
The flying Mede — his shaftless, broken bow !
The fiery Greek — his red pursuing spear !
Mountains above — Earth's — Ocean's plain below !
Death in the front — Destruction in the rear.'
Such was the scene: what now remaineth here?
What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground,
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear ]
The rifled urn — the violated mound —
I'he dust — thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! spurns around!
Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past.
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied,, throng;
Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian blast.
Hail the bright clime of battle and of song;
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore ;
Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young !
Which sages venerate, and bards adore.
As Pallas and the muse unveil their awful lore.
The parted bosom clings to wonted home,
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth :
He that is lonely, hither let him roam.
And gaze complacent on congenial earth.
Chaf. V.
DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
S95
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth ;
But he whom sedness sootheth may abide, '
And scarce ; egret the region of his birth,
When wandering slow by Dclphi*s sacred side.
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian aWd.
B-iaoN.
•Sect. XIIL — The Covenanters^ Sabbath.
'TwAS Sabbath morn, — a lovelier ne'er arose,
And Nature seem'd in holy calm repose ;
No cloud was seen along the azure sky,
And tL«3 pure streamlet glided softly by; *
From tree to tree the warbling minstrels sung.
And hoaven's bright arch with Nature's praises ning.
Though all was still, yet Persecution's rage,
With awful fury, scourged a bleeding age :
Then Scotland groan'd beneath a tyrant's yoke,
Till her proud spirit seem'd for ever broke;
Her sons were hunted from the abodes of men.
To savage wilds, or some sequester'd glen :
Justice stood mute, for demons gave the law,
And many a bloody scene her mountains saw.
What though this moniing rose so calmly bright.
The eye which saw it, trcni])lcd at its light.
On Loudon's braes the bird might find a nest ;
On Pentland's hills the wounded deer might rest :
But Terror there her gloomy watch did keep,
Like the death-storm which overhangs the deep ;
And homeless man from place to place was driven.
Bereft of hope, and every stay but heaven.
No gladsome bell announced the Sabbath-day ;
The solemn temples moulder'd with decay. ^
God's people met, amidst the lonely wild.
Like wretched outcasts, from a world exiled.
In a lone cave, the eagle's drear abode,
'i'hcy meC to worship, and to praise their God ;
The fretted rocks around their temple hung.
And echoed back the praises as they sung;
Though half suppress'd, the thrilling accents rise
To God who h^ars, and answers in the skies.
The preacher rose, and every voice grew still,
J^ftve echoing breezes round the lonely hill ;
I ' !
>
296
THE ENGLISH READER. Pibt E
I
With solemn awe, he opes the blessed book,—
Earnest in voice, and heavenly in his look ;
While from his lips the soothing accents flow,
To cheer his flock, and mitigate their wo ;
For who could tell how soon the sentinel's breath
Might give the signal of approaching death 1
Fo ~ - moment seem'd to them the last;
An- .ys to come, more gloomy than the past.
Within that place, the sacramental board
Was spread in memory of their risen Lord ;
While the deep thunder rent the thickening cloud,
And lightning flash'd along the mournful crowd.
And when with lowly hands the bread was broke.
The sheeted flame fell on the living rock ;
Illumed the table with its symbols spread,
As if heaven's brightness rested on their head.
With placid looks they saw the darkening cloud.
Which hid Jehovah in his awful shroud:
And when the voice fell deafening on the ear,
No murmuring word proclaim'd them men of fear;
But calm and sweet the heaven-tuned Martyrs rose.
Like zephyrs sighing at the tempest's close.
Near to this place where mountain-torrents flow
Through broken rocks, to calmer scenes below,
How oft was heard the tender infant's sigh.
Its name pronounced 'midst breezes passing by;
While, all unconscious of the holy rite,
It smiled amidst the dangers of the night !
In caves and glens their Sabbath-hours were spent.
Till the pale moon illumed the firmament ;
And there they wander'd at the dead of night,
When the dim stars withheld their glimmering light ;
And oh ! how oft their wild retreat's been found
By those who sought them like the blood-train'd hound,
And made that place, their oft-frequented cave.
The holy martyr's solitary grave !
Where nought but winds their dreary dcath-knell rung,
And the scared bird their mournful requiem sung.
Yet heaven wept, and bade their spirits rise
On angel-wings, from sorrow to the skies ;
While all they suflered shall be ne'er forgot.
Their grave be hallow'd, and their dying spot ;
For they to Scotland gave her church, her laws.
And fell like patriots in their country's cause. Win*
297
CHAPTER VI.
PATHETIC PIECES.
Sbct. I. — Elegy to Pity.
HAIL', lovely Power! whose bosom heaves the 8igh\
When Fancy' paints the scene of deep distress';
Whose tears spontaneous crystallize the eye',
When rigid Fate' denies the power to bless\
Not all the sweets^ Arabia's gales convey^
From flowery meads^, can with that sigh compare';
Not dew-drops glittering in the morning ray^,
Seem near so beauteous' as that falling tcar\
Devoid of fear', the fawns around thee play^;
Emblem of peace', the dove before thee flics^;
No bloodHBtain'd traces mark thy blameless way';
Beneath thy feet' no hapless insect dies\
Come, lovely Nymph, and range the mead^ with me',
To spring the partridge' from the guileful foe^;
From secret snares the struggling bird to free';
And stop the hand upraised' to give the blow\
And when the air' with heat meridian glows\
And Nature droops beneath the conquering gleam';
Let us, slow wandering^ where the current flows',
Save sinking flies' that float along the stream\
Or turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care^:
To me' thy sympathetic gifts' imparf ;
Teach^ me in Friendship's griefs^ to bear a share',
And justly boast' the generous feeling heart\
Teach me to soothe' the helpless orphan's grieP;
With timely aid' the widow's woes assuage^;
To Misery's moving cries^ to yield relief;
And be the sure resource' of drooping age\
So when the genial spring of life' shall fade\
/ nd sinking Nature own the dread decay',
Some soul congenial then may lend its aid',
And gild tha close' of life's eventful day\
8v
Anonymous.
298
THE ENGU8H READER. Pa»t U. I Chaf.
*8ect. II. — Stanzas written at Midnight*
Tis night — and in darkness the visions of youth
Flit solemn and slow in the eye of the mind;
The hope they excited hath perish'd, and truth
Laments o'er the wrecks they are leaving behind.
'Tis midnight — and wide o*er the regions of riot
Are spread, deep in silence, the veings of repose ;
And man, soothed from revel, and luU'd into quiet.
Forgets in his slumbers the weight of his woes.
How gloomy and dim is the scowl of the heaven,
Whose azure the clouds with their darkness invest!
Not a star o'er the shadowy concave is given,
To omen a something like hope to the breast.
Hark! how the lone night-wind uptosses the forest!
A downcast regret through the mind slowly steals ;
But ah ! His the tempest of fortune, that sorest
The bosom of man in his soUtude feels.
Where — where are the spirits in whom was my trust,
Whose bosoms with mutual affection did bum 1
Alas ! they have gone to their homes in the dust.
The grass rustles drearily over their urn ;
While I, in a populous solitude, languish,
'Mid foes that beset me, and friends that are cold :
Ah ! the pilgrim of earth oft has felt, in his anguish,
That the heart may be widow'd before it is old !
Affection can soothe but its votaries an hour,
Doom'd soon in the flames that it raised to depart ;
And ah ! disappointment has poison and power
To ruffle and sour the most patient of heart.
Too oft, 'neath the barb-pointed arrows of malice,
Has Merij; been destined to bear and to bleed ;
And they who of pleasure have emptied the chalice.
Have found that the dregs were full bitter indeed.
Let the storms of adversity lower; 'tis in vain —
Though friends should forsake me, and foes should
combine —
Such may kindle the breasts of the weak to complain,
They only can teach resignation to mine :
For far
The
And bri
The I
Not a (
As hi
Not a S4
O'erl
We bur
Thes
By the f
And t
No useU
Nor ii
But be 1
With
Few and
And V
But we f
And V
We thoi
And SI
That the
And w
« Lightly
Ando'
But noth
In the
But half
When
And we
That t
Slowly ai
Prom
We carv«
But w«
Px»T n. I Chap. VI.
PATHETIC PIECES.
299
For far o*er the regions of doubt and of dreaming,
The spirit beholds a less perishing span ;
And bright through the tempest the rainbow is streaming
The sign of forgiveness from Heaven to man !
Jfnonymous.
•Sect. III. — TTie Burial of Sir John Moore,
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried ;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning ;
By the struggling moon-beams' misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast.
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ;
But be lay — like a warrior taking his rest —
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly Uiought of the morrow.
We thought — as we hoUow'd his narrow bed.
And smoothed down his lonely pillow —
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head.
And we far away on the billow.
" Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him."
But half of our heavy task was done, #
When the bell toll'd the hour for retiring ;
And we heard the distant and random gun,
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down.
From the field of his fame fresh and gory :
We carved not a line, we raised not a stoni* ;
But we left him — alone with his glory. Woim.
1
300
THE ENGLISH READER. Piet IL
I'
•Sbct. IV. — A Mother's Love.
A Mother's Lote, — ^how sweet the name !
What is a Mother's love 1
— A noble, pure, and tender flame,
Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould ;
The warmest love that can grow cold ;
This is a Mother's Love.
To bring a helpless babe to light ;
Tlicn, while it lies forlorn.
To gaze upon that dearest sight.
And feel herself new-born.
In its existence lose her own,
And live and breathe in it alone j
This is a Mother's Love.
Its iveakness in her arms to bear ;
To cherish on her breast.
Feed it from Love's own fountain there.
And lull it there to rest ;
Then, while it slumbers, watch its breath.
As if to guard from instant death ;
Thii is a Mother's Love.
To mark its growth from day to day.
Its opening charms admire.
Catch from its eye the earliest ray
Of intellectual fire ;
To smile and Hsten when it talks.
And lend a finger when it walka;
This is a Mother's Love.
And can a Mother's Love grow cold t
Can she forget her boy 1
His pleading innocence behold.
Nor weep for grief — for joy 1
A Mother may forget her child.
While wolves devour it on the wild ;
— Is ihi8 a Mother's Love 1
Ten thousand voices answer " No !"
Ye clasp your babes and kiss ;
Your bosoms yearn, your eyes o'erflow ;
Yet, ah ! remember this ; —
PlETiL I C«AF. VI.
-PATHETIC PIECES.
301
The infant, rear'd alone for earth,
May live, may die, — to curs, his birth ;
— is this a Mother's Love ?
Bless'd infant ! vtrhom his mother taught
Early to seek the Lord,
And pour*d upon his dawning thought
The day-spring of the word ;
This was her lesson to her son,-^
Time is eternity begun :
Behold that Mother's Love.
Bless'd Mother ! who, in wisdom's path,
By her own parent trod,
Thus taught her son to flee the wrath,
And know the fear of God :
Ah! youth, like him enjoy your prime,
Begin eternity in time,
Taught by that Mother's Love. Moktgomuiit*
•Sect> V. — On the Doumfall of Poland^
SACBEi) Truth! thy triumph ceased awhile.
And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
When leagued Oppression pour'd to Northern wars
Her whisker'd pandours and her fierce hussars.
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Peal'd her loud drum, and twang'd her trumpet-horn ;
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland — and to man !
W^arsaw's last champion, from her height survcy'd,
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid:
•' Heaven I" he cried, " my bleeding country save !-
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave 1
Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
Kise. fellow-men ! our country yet remains !
By that dread name we wave the sword on high I
And swear for her to live ! — with her to die!"
He said, and on the rampart-heights array 'd
His trusty warriors, few, but undismay'd;
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
8till as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm !
Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
KiYiKOE, OE D£ATB — thc watchword and reply ;
il I
' 1
I 1
302
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part II.
Then peal'd the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin toll'd their last alarm !
In vain — alas ! in vain, ye gallant few !
From rank to rank your volley 'd thunder flew : —
Oh ! bloodiest picture in the book of time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her wo !
Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curb'd her high career; —
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shriekM — as Kosciusko fell I
The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there ;
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air — '
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow.
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below.
The storm prevails — the rampart yields away —
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay !
Hark ! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall,
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call !
Earth shook ! — red meteors flashed along the sky !
And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry !
righteous Heaven ! ere Freedom found a grave,
Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save 1
Where was thine arm, Vengeance ! where thy rod,
That smote the foes of Zion and of God 1
That crush'd proud Ammon, when his iron car
Was yoked in wrath, and thunderM from afer ?
Where was the storm that slumber'd, till the host
Of blood-stain'd Pharaoh left their trembling coast ;
Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow.
And heaved an ocean on their march below 1
Departed spirits of the Mighty Dead! —
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled !
Friends of the world ! restore your swords to man ;
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van !
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own ;
Oh ! once again to Freedom's cause return
The patriot Till — the Bruce of Bonnockburn !
Campbell.
Chap. VI.
PATHETIC PIECES.
303
Campbell.
S«CT. VI.--7%« Hermit
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove ;
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove :
'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar,
While his heart rung symphonious, a hermit began ;
No more with himself or with nature at war.
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.
«• Ah ! why, all abandoned to darkness and wo—
Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall 1
For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, ' *
And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral.
But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn ;
Oh ! soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away :
Full quickly they pass — but they never return.
♦' Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky.
The moon half extinguish'd her crescent displays :
But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again :
But man's faded glory what change shall renew !
Ah fool ! to exult in a glory so vain !
*' 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more :
I mourn ; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore.
Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew.
Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ;
Kind nature the embryo blossom will save :
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn !
Oh ! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave !
" 'Twna thus by the glare of false science bctray'd.
That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind ;
My thoughts wont to roam from shade onwurd to shade.
Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.
^ pi^y> great Father of light ! then I cried,
Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee !
Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride ;
From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.
'1
304
THE ENGLISH REAIXER. Pait II.
** And darkness and doubt are now flying away ;
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn :
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray,
The bright and the balmy effulgence of mom.
See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom !
On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb."
Bkattii.
H
•SicT. VIL — Who is my Neighbour?
Tht neighbour? — It is he whom thou
Hast power to aid and bless,
Whose aching heart or burning brow
Thy soothing hand may press.
Thy neighbour 1 — 'Tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim ;
Whom hunger sends from door to door :
Go thou, and succour him.
Thy neighbour ! — *Ti3 that ^eary man,
Whose years are at their brim,
Bent low with sickness, cares and pain :
Go thou, and comfort him.
Thy neighbour 1 — *TiB the heart bereft
Of every earthly gem —
Widow and orphan, helpless left :
Go thou, and slielter them.
Thy neighbour 1 — Yonder toiling slave,
Fettor'd in thought and limb ;
Whose hopes arc aU beyond the grave:
Go thou, and rar 3om him.
Whenever thou meet'st a human form
Less favoured than thine own,
Remember 'tis tliy brotber-worm,
Thy brother or thy son.
Oh, pass not, pass not heedless by f —
Perhaps thou canst redeem
One breaking heart from misery :
Go, share thy lot with him.
Jim*riian T*/*'
PAmTlI. I Chaf. VI.
PATHETIC PIECES.
305
/on!"
Am4rii«n P«/r
• Sect. VIH.— S^m
Now stood Eliza on the wood-crown'd heijrht,
O'er Mlnden's plain, spectatress of the fight ;
Sought with bold eye, amid the bloody strife,
Her dearer self, the partner of her life ;
From hill to hill the rushing host pursued,
And view'd his banner, or believed she view'd.
Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread
Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led ;
And one fair girl, amid the loud alarm.
Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm :
While round her brows bright beams of honour dart,
And love's warm eddies circle round her heart.
—Near and more near the intrepid beauty press'd,
Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest,
Heard the exulting shout, " They run ! — they run !"
" Great Heaven !" she cried, " he's safe ! the battle
A ball now hisses through the airy tides
(Some Fury wing'd it, and some Demon guides), '
Parts the fine locks, her graceful head that deck,
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck ;
The red stream, issuing from her azure veins,
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.
" Ah me !" she cried, and sinking on the ground,
Kiss'd her dear babes, regardless of the wound ;
" Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn !
Wait, gushing life, oh, wait my love's return !"
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screnms from far,
The angel. Pity, shuns the walks of war. —
" Oh, spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age I
On me, on me," she cried, " exhaust your rage !'*
Then with weak arms, her weeping babes caress'd.
And sighing, hid them in her blood-stain'd vest.
From tent to tent the impatient v/arrior flies,
Fear in his heart, and frenzy in his eyes ;
Eliza's name along the camp he calls,
Kliza echoes through the canvass walls ;
Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread
O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead ;
Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood,
liO ! dead Eliza — weltering in her blood \
i i
I !
Pl
306
THE ENGLISH READER.
PAmr n.
Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds,
With open arms and sparkling eyes he bounds :
<* Speak low," he cries, and gives his little hand,
"♦' Mamma's asleep upon the dew-cold sand;
Alas ! we both with cold and hunger quake —
Why do you weep ] ' Mamma will soon awake."
— « She'll wake no more !" the hopeless mourner cried,
Upturn'd his eyes, and clusp'd his hands, and sigh'd ;
^Stretch'd on the ground, awhile entranced he lay,
And press 'd warm kisses on the lifeless clay ;
And then upsprung with wild convulsive start,
And all the father kindled in his heart:
" O Heaven !" he cried, <♦ my first rash vow forgive !
These bind to earth, for these I pray to live !"
Round his chill babes he wrapp'd his crimson vest,
And cUsp'd tkem sobbing to his aching breast.
Dabwix.
• Sect. IX.— Ode to Pity.
How lovely in the arch of heaven
Appears yon sinking orb of light.
As, darting through the clouds of even.
It gilds the rising shades of night !
Yet brighter, fairer, shines the tear
That trickles o'er Misfortune's bier !
Sweet is the murmur of the gale
That whispers through the summer's grove ;
Soft is the tone of Friendship's tale,
And softer still the voice of Love ;
Yet softer far the tears that flow
To mourn — to soothe another's wo !
Kicher than richest diadem
That glitters on the monarch's brow ;
Purer than ocean's purest gem,
Or all that wealth or art can show —
The drop that swells in Pity's eye,
The pearl of sensibility !
Is there a spark in earthly mould.
Fraught with one ray of heavenly fire 1
Does man one trait of virtue hold,
That even angels must admire ?
PAmr n. I Chaf. VL
PATHETIC PIECES.
That spark is Pity's radiant glow;
That trait, the tear for others* "vro.
Let false philosophy descry
The noblest feeling of the mind ;
Let wretched sophists madly try
To prove a pleasure more refined :
They only strive in vain to steal
The tenderness they cannot feel.
To sink in Nature's last decay,
M^ithout a friend to mouni the fall ;
To mark its embers die away,
Deplored by few, unwept by all —
This — this is sorrow's deadliest curse ;
Nor hate, nor hell, can form a worse.
Take wealth — I know its paltry worth ;
Take honour — it will pass away;
Take power — I scorn the bounded earth;
Take pomp^ — its trapping-s soon decay :
But spare me, grant me Pity's tear,
To soothe my wo, and mourn my bier.
307
jtnonyrmous.
i'. i
•Sect. X. — Presentiment of Death.
Now spring returns; but not to me returns
ITie vernal joy my better years hav«. Vnown;
Dim in my breast life's dying taper bunis,
And all the joys of life with health arc flown.
Starling and shivering in the inconstant wind,
Meagre and pale, the ghost of what I was,
Beneath some blasted tree I lie reclined,
And count the silent moments as they pass ; —
The winged moments, whose unstajing speed
No art can stop, or in their course arrest;
Whose flight shall shortly count me with the dead,
And lay me down in peace with them that rest.
Oft morning dreams presage approaching fate ;
And morning dreams, as poets tell, are tru« :
Led by pale ghosts, I enter Death's dark gate,
And bid the realms of light and life adieu.
hi
I'
308
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part U,
Cbaf.
I hear the helpless wail, the shriek of wo ;
I gee the muddy wave, the dreary shore.
The sluggish streams that slowly creep below,
Which mortals visit, and return no more.
Farewell, ye blooming fields! ye cheerful plains!
Enough for me the churchyard's lonely mound,
Where melancholy with still silence reigns.
And the rank grass waves o'er the cheerless ground.
There let me wander at the shut of eve,
When sleep sits dewy on the labourer's eyes,
The world and all its busy follies leave,
And talk with wisdom where my Daphnis lies.
There let me sleep, forgotten, in the clay,
When Death shall shut these weary aching eyes, —
Rest in the hope of an eternal day.
Till the long night is gone, and tl e last morn arise.
. / Brum.
'is
* Sect. XI. — Marcelia,
— It was a dreary place. The shallow brook.
That ran throughout the wood, there took a turn.
And widen'd : all its music died away.
And in the place a silent eddy told.
That there the stream grew deeper. There dark trees
Funereal — cyprus, yew, and shadowy pine.
And spicy cedar— cluster'd, and at night
Shook from their melancholy branches sounds
And sighs like death : 'twas strange, for through the day
They stood quite motionless, and look'd.. methought,
Like monumental things, which the sad earth
From its green bosom had cast out in pity.
To mark a young girl's grave. The very leaves
Disown'd their natural green, and took black
And mournful hue ; and the rough brier, stretching
His straggling arms across the rivulet,
liay like an armed sentinel there, catching
With his tenacious leaf, si 7fe, wither'd boughs.
Moss that the banks had lost, coarse grasses which
Swam with the current, and with these it hid
The poor Marcelia's deathbed. — Ne'er may net
Of venturous fisher be cast in with hope.
For not a fish abides there. The slim deer
Paut IL I ClIAF. VI.
PATHETIC PIECES.
309
mg eyes,—
Snorts, as he ruffles with his shorten'd breath
The brook, and panting flies the unholy place ;
And the white heifer lows, and passes on ;
The foaming hound laps not, and winter birds
Go higher up the stream. And yet I love •
To loiter there : and when the rising moon
Flames down the avenue of pines, and looks
Red and dilated through the evening mists,
And chequerM as the heavy branches sway
To and fro with the wind, I stay to listen.
And fancy to myself that a sad voice,
Praying, comes moaning through the leaves, as 'twere
For some misdeed. The story goes, that some
Neglected girl — an orphan, whom the world
Frowu'd upon — once stray'd thither, and 'twas thought
Cast herself in the stream : you may have heard
Of one Marcelia, poor Nolini's daughter, who
Fell ill, and came to want. — No ! Oh she loved
A wealthy man, who mark'd her not. He wed ;
And then the girl grew sick, and pined away.
And drownM herself for love. Procter.
♦Sect. XII. — The Mother to her Infant.
Welcome, thou little dimpled stranger.
Oh ! welcome to my fond embrace ;
Thou sweet reward of pain and danger,
Still let me press thy cherub-face.
Dear source of many a mingled feeling.
How did I dread, yet wish thee here !
Whilst hope and fear, in turns prevailing,
Served but to render thee more dear.
How glow'd my heart with exultation,
So late the anxious seat of care.
When first thy voice of supplication
Stole sweetly on thy mother's ear!
What words could speak the bright emotion
That sparkled in thy father's eye.
When to his fond, paternal bosom
He proudly press'd his darling boy !
Oh that thou mayst, sweet babe, inherit
Each virtue to his heart most dear:
rl
310
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt n. I Ca^J
Iff.
If
Hi^ manly grace, his matchless merit,
Is still thy doating mother's prayer.
While on thy downy couch reposing,
To watch thee is my tender toil;
I mark thy sweet blue eyes unclosing,
I fondly hail thy cherub-smile.
Smile on, sweet babe, unknown to sorrow,
Still brightly beam thy heavenly eye ;
And may the dawn of every morrow
Shed blessings on my darling boy ! AiiMiynuiUh
^^ ' •Sect. XWh— The Deserted Wife,
Hs comes not. I have watch'd the moon go down,
But yet he comes not. Once it was not so.
He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow,
The while he holds his riot in that town.
\et he will come and chide, and I shall weep;
And he will wake my infant from its sleep.
To blend its feeble wailing with my te^rs.
Oh ! how I love a mother's watch to keep
Ovor those sleeping eyes, — that smile which cheers
My heart, though sunk in sorrow fix'd and deep !
I had a husband once who loved me : now
lie ever wears a frown upon his brow.
And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip.
As bees from laurel-flowers a poison sip :
But yet I cannot hate. Oh! there were hours.
When I could hang for ever on hit: eye.
And Time, who stole with silent switti^ess by,
Strew'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers.
I loved him then — he loved me to — my heart
Still finds its fondness kindle, if he smile;
The memory of our loves will ne'er depart !
And though he often sting me with a dart, f/
Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile
Caresses which his babe and mine should share ;
Though he would spurn me, I will calmly bear
His madness; and should sickness come, &nd lay
Its paralysing hand upon him, then
I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay.
Until the penitent should weep, and say,
, How injured, and how faithful I had beta* Pi»BCi7it
(I
Pabt n. I Chaf. VI.
PATHETIC PIKCES,
311
•Sect. XIV.— vl Ship Sinking.
Her giant-form,
O'er wrathful surge, through blackening stor»^
Majestically calm, would go
'Mid the deep darkness white as snow I
But gently now the small waves glide,
Like playful Iambs, o'er a mountain's side.
So stately her bearing, so proud her array,
The main she will traverse for ever and aye.
Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast!
-Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her La*t
Five hundred souls, in one instant of dread^
Are hurried o'er the deck;
And fast the miserable ship # :i '. ^
Becomes a lifeless wreck. i
Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,
Her planks are torn asunder,
And down come her masts with a reeling shock,
And a hideous crash like thunder.
Her sails were draggled in the brine,
That gladdened late the skies; yt
And her pendant, that kiss'd the fair moonshme^
Down many a fathom lies.
Hor beauteous sides, whose rainbow huci
Gleam'd softly from below,
And flung a warm and sunny flash
O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,
To the coral rocks are hurrying down.
To sleep amid colours as bright as thulr own
Oh ! many a dream was in the ship,
An hour before her death ;
And sights of home with sighs disturb'd
The sleepers' long-drawn breath.
Instead of the murmur of the sea,
The sailor heard the humming tree
Alive through all its leaves,
The hum of the spreading sycamore
That grows before his cottage-door.
And the swallow's song in the eaves:.
/
!k
•i
312
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part t.
His arms enclosed a blooming boy,
Who listened with tears of sorrow and joy
To the dangers his father had pass'd ;
And his wife — by turns she wept and smiled.
As she look'd on the father of her child
Returned to her heart at last.
— He wakes at the vessers sudden roll,
And the rush of waters is in his soul.
Now is the ocean's bosom bare,
Unbroken as the floating air;
The ship hath melted quite away.
Like a struggling dream at break of day.
No image meets ray wandering eye,
But the new-risen sun, and the sunny sky.
Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapour dull
Bedims the waves so beautiful;
While a low and melancholy moan
Mourns for the glory that has flown. Wilsoji.
*Sect. XY.'—Hymn to Humanity*
Parbnt of virtue, if thine ear
Attend not now to sorrow's cry;
If iiow the pity-streaming tear
JL'hould haply on thy cheek be dry;
Indulge my votive strain, sweet Humanity.
Come, ever welcome to my breast!
A tender, but a cheerful guest.
Nor always in the gloomy cell
Of life-consuming sorrow dwell :
For sorrow, long-indulged and slow,
Is to Humanity a foe ;
And grief, that makes the heart its prey,
Wears sensibility away. ' .
Then come, sweet nymph, instead of thee.
The gloomy fiend, Stupidity.
Oh ! may that fiend be banish'd far.
Though passions hold perpetual war ;
Nor ever let me cease to know
The pulse that throbs at joy and wo;
Nor let my vacant cheek be dry.
When sorrow fills a brother's eye ;
CiAP. VL
PATHETIC PIECES.
313
Nor may the tear that frequent flows
From private or from social woes,
E'er make this, pleasing sense depart:
Ye cares, oh ! harden not my heart.
If the fair star of fortune smile,
Let not its flattering power hegxiilo;
Nor, borne along the favouring tide.
My full sails swell with bloating pride.
Let me from wealth but hope content,
Remembering still it was but lent;
To modest Merit spread my store,
Unbar my hospitable door;
Nor feed, for pomp, an idle train.
While Want unpitied pines in vain.
If Heaven, in every purpose wise.
The envied lot of wealth denies ;
If doom'd to drag life's painful load
Through Poverty's uneven road.
And for the. due bread of the day,
Destined to toil as well as pray ;
To thee, Humanity, still true,
Vii wish the good I cannot do ;
And give the wretch, that passes by,
A soothing word — a tear — a sigh.
Howe'er exalted or depress'd.
Be ever mine the feeling breast.
From me remove the stagnant mind
Of languid indolence, reclined;
The soul that one long sabbath keeps.
And through the sun's whole circle sleeps;
Dull peace, that dwells in folly's eye,
And self-attending vanity.
Alike the foolish and the vain
Are strangers to the sense humane.
Oh for that sympathetic glow ^
Which taught the holy tear to flow.
When the prophetic eye survey 'd
Sion in future ashes laid !
Or, raised to heaven, implored the bread
That thousands in the deserts fed !
Or, -when the heart o'er Friendship's grave
Sigh'd — and forgot its power to save —
i'M!-
Hi
314 THE ENGLISH READER. PabtII.|
Oh ! for that sympathetic glow,
' Which taught the holy tear to flow !
It comes; it fills my labouring breast,
I feel my beating heart oppressed.
Oh ! hear that Ic.ely widow's wail !
See her dim eye ; her aspect pale !
To Heaven she turns in deep despair;
Her infants wonder at her prayer,
And, mingling tears they know not why,
Lift up their little hands, and cry.
Lord ! their moving sorrows see !
Support them, sweet Humanity !
Life, fiU'd with grief's distressful train.
For ever asks the tear humane.
Behold, in yon unconscious grovo.
The victims of ill-fated love !
Heard you that agonizing throe ?
Sure this is not romantic wo !
The golden day of joy is o'er; '
And now they part — to meet no more.
Assist them, hearts from anguish tne !
Assip': them, sweet Humanity!
Parent of virtue, if thine ear
Attend not now to sorrow's cry;
If now the pity-streaming tear
Should haply on thy cheek be dry;
Indulge my votive strain, O sweet Humanity I
LakohobiI'I
315
CHAPTKR VIL
PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
Sect. I. — The Order of Nature.
Ske, through this air, this ocean, and this earth',
All matter quick', and bursting into birth\
Above', how high progressive life may go'!
Around, how wide ! how deep extend belowM
Vast chain of beingM which from God began',
Nature ethereal, human; angel', man^;
Bcast^ bird, fish\ insect'; what no eye can sec',
No glass can reach\ from infinite to thee'.
From thee to notliing\ — On superior powers
Were we to press, inferior might on ours';
Or in the full creation leave a void',
Where\ one step broken', the great scale's destpoy'd^:
From nature's chain whatever link you strike'.
Tenth, or ten thousandth', breaks the chain alike\
And, if each system in gradation rolP,
Alike essential to the amazing whole',
The least confusion but in one, not all
Thaf system only, but the whole must fali\
Let earth\ unbalanced from her orbit fly',
Planets and suns run lawless through the sky';
Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurrd\
Being on being wreck'd\ and world on world';
Heaven's whole foundations to their centre notl,
And nature trembles to the throne of God\
All this dread ouhku break — for whom? for thee'?
Vile wormM Oh m;)diiess! pride'! impietyM
What if the foot', ordain'd the dust to tread\
Or hand, to toil', aspired to be the head^?
What if the hei>d\ the eye, or ea/, repined
To servo mere engines to the ruling mind^?
Just as absurd^ for any part to claim
To be another\ in this general frame':
Juit as absurd, to mourn the tasks or paina',
The great directing Mind of all ordaintt\
k\\ arc but parts of one stupendous whole',
Whose body nature is', and God the tour:
316
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part
^^■
That, changed through all\ and yet in all the samt',
Great in the earth', as in tjjie ethereal frame^;
Warms in the sun\ refreshes in the breeze',
Glows in the stars', and blossoms in the trees^;
liives through all life\ extends through all extent',
Spreads undivided', operates unspenO;
Breathes in our soul', informs our mortal part\
As full', as perfect^ in a, hair as heart';
As fuir, as perfect', in vile man that mourns',
As the rapt seraph', that adores and burn9\*
To him no high', no low\ no great\ no small';
He fills^, he bounds', connects', and equals^ all.
Cease^ then, nor order imperfection name':
Our proper bliss' depends on what we blame\
Know thy own poinf ; this kind\ this due' degree
Of blindness, weakness', Heaven bestows on thee\
Submit\ — In this', or any other sphere.
Secure to be as bless'd as thou can'st bear':
Safe in the hand of one disposing Power',
Or in the natal', or the mortal hour\
All nature is but art', unknown to thee^;
All chance, direction', which thou canst not see^;
All discord, harmony, not understood';
All partial evil', universal good^:
And, spite of Pride\ in erring Reason's' spitt>,
One truth is clear — Whatever is', is rigu/.
Pflpi
Sect. II. — The Viirsuit of Happiness of ten ill direcici
The midnight moon serenely smiles
O'er nature's soft repose ;
No lowQjing cloud obscures the sky,
Nor ruffling tempest blows.
Now every passion sinks to rest,
The throbbing heart lies still;
And varying schemes of life no more
Distract the labouring will.
In silence hush'd, to reason's voice
Attends each mental power :
Come, dear Emilia, and enjoy *
Reflection's favourite hour.
IChap. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 317
Come ; while the peaceful scene inviteS;
Let's search this ample round ;
Where shall the lovely fleeting form
Of happiness be found?
Does it amidst the frolic mirth
'*t)f gay assemblies dwell ;
Or hide beneath the solemn gloom,
That shades the hermit's cell?
How oft the laughing brow of joy
A sickening heart conceals!
And, through the cloister's deep recess,
Invading sorrow steals !
In vain, through beauty, fortune, wit,
The fugitive we trace ;
It dwells not in the faithless smile
That brightens Clodia's face.
Perhaps, the joy to these denied,
The Ij^art in friendship finds :
Ah ! dMr delusion, gay conceit
Of ifflHbnary minds !
Howc'er our varying notions rove.
Yet all agree in one,
To place its b#ing in some state.
At distance from our own.
Oh blind to each indulgent aim
Of Power supremely wise.
Who fancy ha))piness in aught
The hand of Heaven denies!
Vain is alike the joy we seek,
And vain what vvc possess.
Unless harmonious reason tunes
The passions into peace.
To temper'd wishes, just desires,
Is happiness confined ;
And, deaf to folly's call, attends
• The music of the mind. Caitxb.
■\
\
318
THE ENGLISH READER.
PabtuICiaf. '
• Sect. HI. — Reflections on a Skull.
Bebolt) this ruin! 'twas a skull,
Once of ethereal spirit full :
This narrow ceil was life's retreat;
This spa -e was thought's mysterious seat^,
What beauteous pictures fill'd this spot!
What dreams of pleasure long forgot!
Nor love, nor joy, nor hop(% nor fear,
Has left one trace or record here.
Beneath this mouldering canopy,
Once shone the bright and lovely eye ;
But start not at the empty cell ;
If on the Cross it loved to dwell.
If with no lawless fire it gleam'd.
But with contrition's tear-drop beam'd,
That eye shall shine for ever bright.
When suns and stars have lost their light
Here in this silent cavern hung,
The ready, swift, and tuneful tong]
If of redeeming love it spoke,
Confessing Jesus' easy yoke ;
If, with persuasive mildness bold,
Condemning sin, of grace it told ;
That tuneful tongue, in realms abojre.
Shall sing Messiaii's reign of love.
Say, did these fingers delve the mine,
Or with its envied rubies shine 1
To hew the rock or wear the gem.
Can nothing now avail to them;
But if th'j page of truth they sought,
Or comfort to tlie mourner brought,
Those hands shall strike the lyre of praise,
And high the palm of triumph raise.
Avails it whether bare or shod.
These feot the path of life had trod,
If from the bower of joy they fled.
To soothe aflliction's humble bed;
If, spurniug all the world bestow'd.
They sought the straight and narrow road, ^
These feet with angel-wings shall vie.
And tread the palace of the sky. Anonynw^
>ER. PABTnlCiAF. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
319
Sect. IV. — The Fireside,
Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In folly's maze advance ;
Though singularity and pride
Be call'd our choice, we 11 step aside.
Nor join the giddy dance.
From the gay world, we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire.
Where love our hours employs :
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near, \
To spoil our heartfelt joys.
If solid happiness we prize.
Within our breast this jewel lies;
Aad they are fools who roam:
The world has nothing to bestow ;
Fipm our own selves our joys must flow.
And jd^t dear hut, our home.
Of rest i^s Noali's dove bereft,
When, ;wth impatient wing, she left
That^flifc retreat, the ark ;
Giving her vain excursion o'er.
The disappointed bird once more
Explored the sacred bark.
Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powe«.
We, who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience know.
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good
A paradise below.
Our babes shall richest comforts bring ;
If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring
Whence pleasures ever rise :
We'll form their mindti, with studious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,
And train them for the skies.
While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,
And crown our hoary hairs:
^
':f ..'■
320 THE ENGLISH READER.
They'll grow in virtue every day,
And thus our fondest loves repay,
And recompense our cares.
No borrow'd joys ! they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown.
Or by the world forgot :
Monarchs ! we envy not your state ;
We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humbler lot.
Our portion is not large, indeed ;
But then how little do we need I
For nature's calls are few :
In this the art of living lies, •
To want no more than may suffice^
And make that little do.
We'll therefore relish with content,
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,.
Nor aim beyond our power;
For, if our stock be very small,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all.
Nor lose the present hour.
To be resign'd when ills betide,
Patient whgn favours are denied,
And pleased with favours given;
Dear Chloc, this is wisdom's part ;
This is that incense of the heart,
Wli ise fragrance reaches heaven.
We'll ask no long-protracted treat,
Since winter-life is seldom sweet;
But, V/hen our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we'll arise.
Nor grudge our sons, with envious eye».
The relics of our store.
Thus, hand in hand, through life we'll go
Its cheque r'd path of joy and wo,
With cautious ^teps, we'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,
And mingle with the dead :
While Conscience, like a faithful friend^
sShall through the gloomy vale attend^
And cheer our dying breath ;
PartIL
Part H. | Chap. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel, whisper peace,
And smooth the hed of death.
.321
Cotton.
Sect. V. — The Road to Happiness open to all Men.
O Happixess ! our being's end and aim ;
Good, pleasure, ease, content ! whatever thy name ;
That something still which prompts the eternal sigh,
For which we bear to live, or dare to die ;
Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies,
O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool and wise.
Plant of celestial seed, if dropp'd below.
Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow ?
Fair opening to some court's propitious shine,
Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine 1
Twined with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield,
Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field ?
Where grows ? where grows it not 1 If vain our toil.
We ought to blame the culture, not the soil.
FixM to ijko spot is happiness sincere ;
'Tis no where to be found, or every where ;
'Tis never t# be bought, but always free ;
And, fled from monarchs, St. John ! dwells with thee.
Ask of the learn'd the way. The leam'd are blind ;
This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind.
Somo place the bliss in action, some in ease;
Those call it pleasure, and contentment these. *
Some, sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain ;
Some, swell'd to gods, confess e'en virtue vain:
Or indolent, to each extreme they fall,
To trust in every thing, or doubt of all.
Who thus define it, sa-' they more or less
Than this, that happiness is happiness ?
Take nature's path, and mad opinions leave ;
All states can reach it, and all heads conceive.
Obvious her gosds, in ro extreme they dwell ;
There needs bv t thinking ripfht, and meaning well.
And mourn ou/ various portions as we please,
Equal is common sense, and common ease.
Remember, man, "the universal cause
Acta not by partial, but by general laws ;"
And makes what happiness we justly call
Subsist not in the good of one, but all. Pofb.
2o
I!
322
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt IL I Chap.
Sect. VI. — Providence vindicated in the Present State
of Man,
Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate,
All but the page prescribed, their present state ;
From brutes what men, from men what spirits know ;
Or who could suffer being here below?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day,
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
Pleased to the laA, he crops the flowery food,
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
Oh! blindness to the future! kindly given.
That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heaven ;
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ;
Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd,
And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
Hope humbly, then; with trembling pinions soar J
Wait the great teacher. Death ; and God adore.
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
Hope springs eternal in the human breas|s
Man never is, but always to be bless'd.
The soul, uneasy, and confined from home.
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Lo ! the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind :
His soul proud Science never taught to stray,
Far as the Solar Walk, or Milky Way ;
Yet simple Nature to his hope has given.
Behind the cloud-topp'd hill, an humbler heaven ;
Some safer world in depth of woods embraced,
Some happier island in the watery waste :
Where slaves once more their native land behold.
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To BE, contents his natural desire ;
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire :
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
Go, wiser thou ! and in thy scale of sense,
Weigh thy opinion against Providence ;
Call imperfection what thou fanciest such ;
Say, Here he gives too little, there too much.—
R- Pabt II, I Chap. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
323
Present State
ok of fate,
it state ;
spirits know ;
)Iay?
food,
is blood,
en,
Heaven ;
Id.
unions soar;
d adore.
tnoigv,
ow.
s|:
ae,
I mind
wind :
tray,
heaven ;
ace<},
I behold,
•r gold.
se,
ch. —
In pride, in reasoning pride, our error iie» ;
Ail quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.
Pride still is aiming at the bless'd abodes;
Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, .
Aspiring to be angels, men rebel;
And who but wishes to invert the laws
Of ORDER, sins against the eterxal cause.
PorK.
•Sect. VII. — The Anticipations of Hope.
TrRAifTS ! in vain ye trace the wizard ring;
in vain ye limit Mind's unwearied spring :
What ! can ye lull the winged winds asleop,
Arrest the rolling world, or chain the deep 1
No : the wild wave contemns your sceptred hand ; —
It roU'd not back when Canute gave command !
Man ! can thy doom no brighter soul allow 1
Still must there live a spot on Nature's brow 1
Shall war's polluted banner ne'er be furl'd]
Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world I
What ! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied 1
Why, then, hath Plato lived, or Sidney died?
Ye fond adorers of departed fame,
Who warm at Scipio's worth, or Tully's name !
Ye that, in fancied vision, can admire
The sword of Brutus, and the Theban lyre !—
Wrapp'd in historic ardour, who adc'-f?
Each classic haunt, and well-rcmembei'd shore,
Where Valour tuned, amid her chosen throng,
The Thracian trumpet, and the Spartan song;
Or, wandering thence, behold the later charms
Of England's glory, and Helvetia's arms! —
See Roman fire in Hampden's bosom swell.
And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell !
Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore !
Hath Valour left the world — to live no more 1
No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die,
And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye !
Hampden no more, when suifering Freedom calls,
Encounter fate, and triumph as he falls?
Nor Tell disclose, through peril and alarm.
The might that slumbers in a peasant's arm !
m
{■ »
fi !t
324
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part U. I CeiF.
Yes ! in that generous cause, for ever strong,
The patriot's virtue and the poet's song,
Still, as the tide of ages rolls away,
Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay !
Yes ! there are hearts, prophetic Hope may trust,
That slumber yet in uncreated dust,
Ordain'd to fire the adoring sons of earth
With every charm of wisdom and of worth ;
Ordain'd to light, with intellectual day.
The mazy wheels of Nature as they play ;
Or, warm with Fancy's energy, to glow.
And rival all — but Shakspeare's name below!
Camfbili.
Sect. VIII. — Human Frailty.
Weak and irresolute is man;
The purpose of to-day,
Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.
The bow well bent, and smart the spring,
Vice seems already slain;
But passion rudely snaps the string,
And it revives again.
Some foe to his upright intent
Finds out his weaker part ;
Virtue engages his assent.
But pleasure wins his heart.
'Tis here the folly of the wise.
Through all his art, we view;
And while his tongue the charge denies,
His conscience owns it true.
Bound on a voyage of awful length,
And dangers little known,
A stranger to superior strength,
Man vainly trusts his own.
But oars alone can ne'er prevail
To reach the distant coast;
The breath of heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost. Cowfkb.
Cbif. Vn. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 325
•Sect. IX. — The Harvest Moon*
All hail ! thou lovely Queen of night,
Bright Empress of the starry sky !
The meekness of thy silvery light
Beams gladness on the gazer's eye,
While, from thy peerless throne on high.
Thou shinest bright as cloudless noon,
And bidd'st the shades of darkness fly
Before thy glory — Harvest Moon !
In the deep stillness of the night,
When weary Labour is at rest,
How lovely is the scene ! — how bright
The wood — the lawn — the mountain's breast.
When thou, fair Moon of Harvest ! hast
Thy radiant glory all unfurl'd,
And sweetly smilest in the west.
Far down upon the silent world.
Dispel the clouds, majestic Orb!
That round the dim horizon brood.
And hush the winds, that would disturb
The deep, the awful solitude,
That rests upon the slumbering flood,
The dewy fields, and silent grove,
When midnight hath thy zenith view'd,
And felt the kindness of thy love.
Lo ! scatter'd wide beneath thy throne,
The hope of millions richly spread.
That seems to court thy radiance down
To rest upon its dewy bed :
Oh! let thy cloudless glory shed
Its welcome brilliance from on high.
Till hope be realized, and fled
Th .! omens of a frowning sky.
Shine on, fair Orb of Light! and smile
Till autumn months have pass'd away.
And Labour hath forgot the toil
He bore in summer's sultry ray ;
And when the reapers end the day.
Tired with the burning heat of noon.
They'll come with spirits light and gay,
And bless thee^ — lovely Harvest Moon! Milmr.
il'i-
! ?
r> - 'I
326
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part II.
•Sect. X. — Song of the Stars,
Wheic the radiant morn of creation broke,
And the world in the smile of God awoke,
And the empty realms of darkness and death
Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath ;
And orbs of beauty, and spheres of flame,
From the void abyss by myriads came ;
In the joy of youth, as they darted away.
Through the widening wastes of space to play,
Their silver voices in chorus rung, '
And this was the sonir^ the bright ones sung:
" Away, away, through the wide, wide sky, .
The fair blue fields that before us lie ;
Each sun with the worlds that round us roll,
Each planet poised on her turning pole,
With her isles of green, and her clouds of white,
And her waters that lie like fluid light. ,
*' For the source of glory uncovers his face.
And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space ;
And we drink, as we go, the luminous tides,
In our ruddy air, and our blooming sides :
Lo ! yonder the living splendours play !
Away, on our joyous path, away !
" Look, look through our glittering ranks afar,
In the infinite azure, stir after star,
How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pa&« !
How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass !
And the path of the gentle wind is seen.
Where the small leaves dance, and the-young woods lean.
" And see, where the brighter day-beams pour.
How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ;
And the morn and the eve, with their pomp of hues,
Shift o'er the bright planets, and shed their dews ;
And 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground.
With her shadowy cone, the night goes round.
" Away, away ! — In our blossoming bowers,
In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours.
In the seas and fountains that shine with morn,
See ! love is brooding, and life is born ;
And breathing myriads are breaking from night.
To rejoice, like us, in motion and light.'"
»>
Chap. V^I. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
327
)ung woods lean.
Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres !
To weave the dance that measures the years ;
Glide on in the glory and gladness sent
To the farthest wall of the firmament, —
The boundless, visible smile of Him,
To the veil of whose brow our lamps are dim.
Anonymous.
*Skct. XI. — The Ocean.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture in the lonely shore ;
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar :
I love not Man the less, but Nature more.
From these our interviews ; in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before.
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue ocean — roll !
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain
The wrecks arc all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own ;
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain.
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoflSn'd, and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields
Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise,
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields*
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray,
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth: — there let him lay*
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals —
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war —
M
fe^n
; f
328
THE ENGLISH READER.
Paht II.
These are thy toys ; and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee —
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free.
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou.
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves* play —
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow —
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest now !
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time.
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving — boundless, endless, and sublime !
The image of eternity ! — the throne
Of the Invisible ! Even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made ! Each zone
Obeys thee ! Thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone !
BiRorf.
*Skct. XII. — Lines written in a Highland Glen.
To whom belongs this valley fair,
That sleeps bciicath the filmy air.
Even like a living thing?
Silent — as infant at the breast —
Save a still sound that speaks of rest,
That streamlet's murmuring !
The heavens appear to love this vale ;
Here clouds with unseen motion sail,
Or 'raid the silence lie;
By that blue arch, this beauteous earth,
'Mid evening's hour of dewy mirtli,
Seems bound unto the sky.
Oh that this lonely vale were mine !—
Then, from glad youth to calm decline,
My years would gently glide ;
Hope would rejoice in endless dreams,
And Memory's oft-returning gleams
By peace be sanctified.
Chap. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 339
There would unto my soul be given.
From presence of that gracious Heaven,
A piety sublime ;
And thoughts would come of mystic mood,
To make, in this deep solitude,
Eternity of Time.
And did I ask to whom l)elong'd
This i'ale ? — I feel that I have wrong'd
Nature's most gracious soul ;
She spreads her glories o'er the earth,
And all her children from their birth
Are joint heirs of the whole.
Yea ! long as nature's humblest child
Hath kept her temple undefiled
By sinful sacrifice, ^
Earth's fairest scenes are all his own, , ,
He is a monarch, and his throne
Is built amid the skies. . WiisoK.
•Sect. XIII. — Modem Greece.
Know ye the land, where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that arc done in their clime 1
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle.
Now melt iftto sorrow, now madden to crime ]
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ;
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with perfume.
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom;
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute.
Where '\c tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twino ;
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine !
'Tis the clime of the East, 'tis the land of the Sun —
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell
Ar« the hearts which they bear, and the talcs which they tell.
Btion.
1^
w
330
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt II.
• Sect. XIV.— 7%« WeU of St Keyne.
A WELL there is in the west country.
And a clearer one never was seen ;
There is not a wife in the west country,
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.
An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,
And behind docs an ash-tree grow.
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.
A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;
Joyfully he drew nigh ;
For from cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.
He drank of the water so cool and clear, > ,
For thirsty and hot was he;
And he sat down upon the bank,
Under the willow-tree.
There came a man from the neighbouring town,
At the Well to fill his pail ;
On the Well-side he rested it,
And he bade the stranger hail.
"Now art thou a bachelor, Strangerl" quoth he;
"For an if thou hast a wife,
The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day.
That ever thou didst in thy life.
**0r has thy good woman, if one thou hast,
Ever here in Cornwall beeni
For an if she have, I'll venture my life,
She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne."
*• I have left a good woman who never was here,'*
The stranger he made reply;
"But that my draught should he better for that,
I pray you, answer me why."
"St. Keyne," quoth the Coniish-raan, "many a time
Drank of this crystal Well ;
And before the angel summoned her,
8be laid on the water a spell—
Chaf. VII. PROMISC OUS PIECES.
331
** If the husband — of this gifted Well
Shall drink before his wife,
A happy man henceforth is he ;
For he shall be master for life.
" But if the wife should drink of it first,
God help the husband then !"
The stranger stoop'd to the Well of St Keyne,
And drank of the water again.
"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimesi"
He to the Cornish-man said;
But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake,
And sheepishly shook his head.
" I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch ;
But, i*faith ! she had been wiser than I,
For she took a bottle to church." Southbt.
Sect. XV. — Conscience.
theachehous Conscience ! while she seems to sleep
On rose and myrtle, lull'd with siren song;
While she seems, noddin^j o'er her charge, to drop
On headlong appetite the slacken'd rein.
And give us up to license, unrecall'd,
Unraark'd; — see, from behind her secret stand,
The sly informer minutes every fault.
And her dread diary with horror fills.
Not the gross act alone employs her pen :
She reconnoitres Fancy's airy band.
A watchful foe ! the formidable spy,
Listening, o'erhears the whispers of our camp;
Our dawning purposes of heart explores,
And steals our embryos of iniquity.
As all-rapacious usurers conceal
Their doomsday-book from all-consuming heirs;
Thus, with indulgence most severe, she treats
Us spendthrifts of inestimable time ;
Unnoted, notes each moment misap{)lied;
In leaves more durable than leaves of brass,
Writes our whole history ; which death shall read
In every pale delinquent's private ear;
And judgment publish — publish to more worlds
Than this ; and endless age in groans resound. YoBjra.
i
ifii
t
I?:
332 THE ENGLISH READER. Part II.
•Sect. XVI. — Description of Spring.
Oh ! how delightful to the soul of man,
How like a renovating spirit, comes.
Fanning his cheek, the breath of infant Spring !
Morning awakens in the orient sky
With purpler light beneath a canopy
Of lovely clouds, their edges tipp'd with gold ;
A.nd from his palace, like a deity,
Darting his lustrous eyes from pole to pole.
The glorioi.. Sun comes forth from vernal sky
To walk rejoicing. To the bitter North
Retire wild Winter's forces, — cruel winds.
And griping frosts, and magazines of snow,
And deluging tempests. O'er the moistcn'd fields,
A tender green is sprea ; the bladed grass
Shoots forth exuberant; the awakening trees.
Thawed by the delicate atmosphere, put forth
Expanding buds; while, with meUifluous throat,
The warm ebullience of internal joy,
The birds put forth a song of gratitude
To Him who shelter'd when the storms were deep,
And fed tliem through the wiiiter's cheerless gloom.
Beside the garden-path, the crocus now
Puts forth its head, to woo the genial breeze ;
And finds the snow-drop, hardier visitant,
Already basking in the sclar ray.
Upon the brook the water-cresses float
More greenly, and the bordering reeds exali
Higher their speary summits. Joyously,
From stone to stone, the ousel flits along,
Startling the linnet from the hawthorn bough;
While '•n the clm-trce, overshadowing deep
The low-roof 'd cottage white, the blackbird sits,
Cheerfully hymning the awaken'd year.
Turn to the ocean — how the scene is changed?
Behold tlio small waves melt upon the shore
With chasten'd murmur! Buoyantly on high
The sea-gulls ride, weaving a sportive dance,
And turning to the sun their snowy plumes.
With shrilly pipe, from headland or from cape.
Emerge the lino of plovers, o'er the sanda
Chap. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
333
Fast sweeping ; while to inland marsh the heron.
With undulating wing scarce visible.
Far up the azure concave journeys on.
Upon the sapphire deep, its sails unfurled,
Tardily glides along the fisher's boat,
Its shadow moving o'er the moveless tide,
The bright wave flashes from the rower's oar
Glittering in the sun, at melisurcd intervals:
And, casually borne, the fisher's voice
Floats solemnly along the watery waste ;
The shepherd-boy, enveloped in his plaid.
On the green bank, with blooming furze o'er-topp'd.
Listens and answers with responsive note.
Anonymous.
*Sect. XVII. — Heavenly Minstrel.
Enthroned upon p, hill of light,
A heavenly minstre' sings;
And sounds, unutterably bright.
Spring from the golden strings:
Who wou'l have thought so fair a form
Once bent beneath an earthly storm 1
Yet was he sad and lonely here ;
Of low and humble birth;
And mingled, while in this dark sphere,
With meanest sons of earth:
In spirit jjoor, in look forlorn,
The jest of mortals, and the scorn.
A crown of heavenly radiance now,
A harp of golden strings,
Glitters upon his dcatiiless brow.
And to his hymn-note rings:
The bower of interwoven \\^i\i
Seems, at the sound, to grow more bright.
Then, while, with visage blank and sear,
The poor in soul we see ;
Let us not think what he is here,
But what he soon will be ;
And look beyond this earthly night,
To crowns of gold, and bowers of light.
1-.
V:
i 11
' II'
Edmestox.
■I
i'fl
334
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt II.
;
•Sect. XVIII. — Kirkatall Abbey revisited.
LoNo years have pass'd since last I stray'd,
In boyhood, through thy roofless aisle,
And watch'd the mists of eve o'crshade
Day's latest, loveliest smile ;
And saw the bright, broad, moving moon
Sail up the sapphire skies of June.
The air around was breathing balm;
The aspen scarcely seem'd to sway ;
And, as a sleeping infant calm,
The river streamed away, —
Devious as Error, deep as Love,
And blue and bright as heaven above.
Steep'd in a flood of glorious light,
— Type of that hour of deep repose —
In wan, wild beauty on my sight,
Thy time-worn tower arose,
Brightening above the wreck of years.
Like Faith amid a world of fears.
Years fast have fled, and now I stand
Once more by thy deserted fane,
Nerveless alike in heart and hand ;
How changed by grief and pain.
Since last I loiterM here, and dccm'd
Life was the fairy thing it seem'd !
Ay ! thoughts come thronging on my soul^
Of sunny youth's delightful mom ;
When free from rorrow's dark control,
By pining carrjs ..nworn,
rnd Fortune*8 smile,
d aisle.
Dreaming of Fame, ar
I linger'd in thy ruin (
How bright is every scene beheld
In youth and hope's unclouded hours !
How darkly — youth and hope dispell'd —
The loveliest prospect lowers !
Thou wert a splendid virion then ;
When wilt thou seem so bright again 1
Yet still thy turrets drink the light
Of summer-evening's softest ray,
Chaf. Vn. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
335
And ivy garlands, green and bright.
Still mantle thy decay;
And, calm and beauteous as of old,
Thy wandering river glidesin gold.
But life's gay mom of ecstacy,
That made thee seem so more than fair ;
Tlie aspirations wild and high.
The soul to nobly dare ;
Oh ! where are they 1 stern Ruin, say :
Thou dost but echo, Where are they?
Farewell ! — Be still to other hearts
What thou wertlong ago to mine;
And when the blissful dream departs,
Do thou a beacon shine, —
To guide the mourner through his tears,
To the bless'd scene of happier years.
Farewell ! — I ask no richer boon,
Than that my parting hour may be
Bright as the evening skies of Juno !
Thus — thus to fade like thee, ^
With heavenly Faith's soul-cheering ray
To gild with glory my decay. Alaeic Watt.
•Sect. XIX.— ^ Summer Sabbath Walk.
Delightful is this loneliness ; it calms
My heart: pleasant the cool beneath these elms,
That throw across the stream a moveless shade.
Here nature in her mid-noon whisper speaks:
How peaceful every sound! — the ring-dove's plaint,
Moan'd from the twilight centre of the grove,
While every other woodland lay as mute.
Save when the wren flits from her down-coved nest.
And from the root-sprigs trills her ditty clear, —
The grasshopper's oft-pausing chirp, — the buzz,
Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee.
That, soon as loosed, booms with full twang away, —
The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal.
Scared from the shallows by my passing tread.
Dimpling the water glides, with here and there
A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay
The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout
336
THE ENGLISH 5EADER. Pabt II.
,
i
Watches his time to spring ; or, from above,
Some feather'd dam, purveying 'mong the boughs,
Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood
Bears off the prize : — sad emblem of man's lot !
He, giddy insect, from his native leaf,
— Where safe and happily he might have lurk'd —
Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings.
Forgetful of his origin, and, worse.
Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream ;
And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape,
Buoyant he flutters but a little while.
Mistakes the inverted image of the sky
For heaven, itself, and, sinking, miets his fate.
Now let me trace the stream up to its source
Among the hills; its runnel by degrees
Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle.'
Closer and closer still the banks approach,
Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble-shoots,
With brier, and hazel branch, aiKl hawthorn spray,
That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount
Into the open air : grateful the breeze
That fans my throbing temples ! smiles the plain
Spread wide below : how sweet the placid view !
But, oh! more sweet the thought, heart-soothing thought
That thousands, and ten thousands of the sons
Of toil, partake this day the common joy
Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale.
Of breathing in the silence of the woods,
And blessing Him who gave the Sabbath-day.
Yes, my heart flutters with a freer throb.
To think that now the townsman wanders forth
Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy
The coolness of the day's decline ; to see
His children sport around, and simply pull
The flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon,
Which proudly in his breast they smiling fix.
Again I turn me to the hill, and trace
The wizard stream, now scarce to be disc^rn'd ;
Woodless its banks, but green with ferny leaves.
And thinly strew'd with heath-bells up and down.
Now, when the downward sun has left the glens,
Each mountain's rugged lineaments are traced
Upon thp adverse slope, where stalks gigantic
Paet II. I v«A». Vn. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
337
twughs,
brood
lot!
urk'd—
fate.
3urce
ihoots,
>rn spray,
t
e plain
view!
)othing thought.
sons
day.
forth
I
con,
iix.
«rn'd ;
leaves,
ad down,
i the glens,
raced
antic
The 8hepherd'« shadow thrown athwart the chasm,
As en the topmost ridge he homeward hies.
How deep the hush ! the torrent's channel, dry.
Presents a stony steep, the echo'u haunt.
But, hark! a plaintive sound floating along !
'Tis from yon heath»roof' d shielin ; now it dies
Away, now rises full ; it is the song
Which He-x-who listens to the halleluiahs
Of choiring seraphim— nie lights to hear;
It is the music of the heart, the voice
Of venerable age,— of guileless youth,
In kindly circle seated on the ground
Before their wicker door. Behold the man !
The grandsire and the saint ; his silvery locks
Beam in the parting ray ; before him lies.
Upon ths smooth-cropp'd sward, the open book,
Hi& comfort, stay, and ever-new delight ;
While, heedless, at a side, the lisping boy
Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch.
Grahami.
Sect. XX. — Youth*
How beautiful the scenes of youth
Awaken to the mind
Scenes like the summer ocean smooth,
Serener — fairer far — than truth
On earth shall ever find !
Time is a tyrant : months and years
Pass onward like the cea, that laves
A solitary isle, which rears
Its passive bosom, and appears
Between the rolling waves.
In life there is no second spring ;
The past is gone — for ever gone:
M^e cannot check a moment's wing,
Pierce through futurity, or bring
The heart its vanished tone.
Resplendent as a summer's sky.
When daylig^ht lingers in the west,
To Retrospection's loving eye
The blooming' fields of childhooi lie,
By Fancy's finger dreas'd.
P
\
! ,
I n
338 THE ENGLISH READER. PiitD.
A greener foliage decks the gp'ore ;
A brighter tint pervades the flower ;
More azure seems the heaven above ;
The earth a very bower of love,
And man within that uower.
And ever, when the storms of fate
Come darkening o*er the star of life,
We backward turn to renovate
Our thoughts with freshness, and create
An antidote to strife.
Thus dead and silent are the strings
— As legends say— of Memnon's lyre ;
Till, from the orient, Phoebus flings
His smiles of golden light, and brings
Life, harmony, and fire.
Anonymow.
*Sect. XXL — Westminster Abbey,
* •^^J't!
Here, all that strikes the admiring eye
Breathes beauty and sublimity ;
Where the cool air, and tranquil light,
The world-worn heart to peace invite.
Whence comes this sadness, pure and holy,
This calm, resistless melancholy,
This hallow'd fear, this awe-struck feeling,-
Comcs it from yonder organ pealing 1
From low chaunt stealing up the aisle.
From closed gate echoing through the pile,
From storied windows glancing high,
From bannerets bright of chivalry 1
Or from yon holy chapel, seen
Dimly athwart the gothic screen 1
No: 'tis the stranger's solemn tread
KesGunding o'er the mighty dead.
He came to see thy wondrous state, —
The wise, the beautiful, the great ;
Thy glory. Empress of the wave.
He came to see, and found a grave —
But such a grave, as never yet
To statesman paid a people's debt !
The battle-strife, the hero's sigh.
Is breathed for thee, or victory ;
Hi,
tr
JR. Put nJcHAP. VH. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
And bards immortal find in thee
A second immortality.
339
He who first raised, from gotliic gloom
Our tongue — ^here Chaucer finds a tomb ;
Here gentle Spencer, foulest stain
Of his own Gloriana's reign ;
And he who mock'd at art's control*
The mighty master of the soul,
Shakspeare— our Shakspeare, by his side
The man who pour'd his mighty tide ;
— ^The brightest union genius wrought
Was Garrick's voice and Shakspeare's thought —
Here Milton's heaven-strung lyre reposes ;
Here Dryden's meteor-brilliance closes ;
Here Newton lies, and with him lie
The thousand glories of our sky —
Stars numerous as the host of heaven,
And radiant as the flashing leven.
Lo, Chatham ! the immortal name,
Graven in the patriot's heart of flame !
Here, his long course of honours run,
The mighty father's mighty son ;
And here — ah ! wipe that falling tear ! —
Last, best, and greatest, Fox lies here !
Here sleep they all. On the wide earth.
There dwell not men of mortal birth
Would dare contest Fame's glorious race
With those who fill this little space.
Oh ! would some wizard spell revive
The buried dead, and bid them live !
It were a sight to charm dull age.
The infant's roving eye engage,
The wounded heal, the des^ man cure,
The widow from her tears allure ;
And moping idiots tell the story
Of England's bliss, and England's glory.
And they do live ! — Our Shakspeare's strain
Dies not, while EngUsh tongues remain ;
Whilst light and colours spread and fly,
Lives Newton's deathless memory ;
Whilst freedom warms one English breast,
There Fox's honour'd name shall rest.
i
t: '■
340
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt II.
Yes ; they do live ! — They live to inspire
Fame's daring sons with hallow'd fire ;
Like sparks from heaven they wake the blaze,
The living light of genius raise ;
Bid English glories flash across the gloom,
And catch her hero's spirit from the tomb.
Miss MlTFO&O.I
II
*Sect. XXIL — A Morning Scene.
But who the melodies of morn can tell, —
The wild brook babbling down the mountain-side ;
The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell ;
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliff above ;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ;
The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love.
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
The cottage-curs at early pilgrim bark ;
Crown'd with her pail, the tripping milkmaid sings;
The whistling ploughman stalks afield ; and, hark !
Down the rough slope, the ponderous wagon rings;
Through rustling corn, the hare astonish'd springs;
Slow tolls the village-clock the drowsy hour;
The partridge bursts away on whirring wings ;
Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower;
And the shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower.
O Nature ! how in every charm supreme !
Whose votaries feast on raptures ever new !
Oh for the voice and fire of seraphim,
To sing thy glories with devotion due !
Bless'd be the day I 'scaped the wrangling crew,
From Pyrrho's maze, and Epicurus' sty ;
And held high converse with the godlike few,
Who to the enraptured heart, and ear, and eye,
Teach beauty, virtue, truth, and love, and melody.
And hail, ye mighty masters of the lay,
Nature's true sons, the friends of man and truth !
Whose song, sublimely sweet, serenely gay,
Amused my childhood, and inform'd my youth;
ER. Pabt III cg^p^ VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
341
Oh ! let your spirit still my bosom soothe.
Inspire my dreams, and my \vild wanderings guide I
Your voice each rugged path of life can smooth ;
For well I know wherever ye reside,
There harmony, and peace, and innocence, abide.
Then grieve not, thou to whom the indulgent Mus«
Vouchsafes a portion of celestial fire ;
Nor blame the partial Fates, if they refuse
The imperial banquet, and the rich attire.
Know thine own worth, and reverence the lyre.
Wilt thou debase the heart which God refined 1
No : let thy heaven-taught soul to heaven aspire,
To fancy, fnedcm, harmony, resign'd;
Ambition's giovelling crew for ever left behind.
Oh ! how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields ;
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds.
And all that echoes to the song of even.
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of Heaven, —
Oh ! how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven 1
A Beattii.
s*( *'A
•Sect. XXIII. — Thunder Storm among the Alps,
It is the hush of night ; and all between
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear,
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen —
Save darken'd Jura, whose capp'd heights appear
Precipitously steep; and drawing near.
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore,
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more :
He is an evening reveller, who makes
His life an infancy, and sings his fill !
At intervals, some bird firom out the brakes,
Starts into voice a moment — then is still.
?42
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt n.
Is-
There seems a floating whisper on the hill-
But that is fancy; for the star-light dews
AH silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they inflise
Deep into Nature's hreast the spirit of her hues.
The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! O night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong!
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among
Leaps the live thunder ! — not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue ;
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud !
And this is in the night : — ^Most glorious night I
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! Let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — .f h
A portion of the tempest and of thee !
How the lit lake shines ! — a phosphoric sea ?
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth !
And now again 'tis black — and now, the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth.
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way betweeiil
Heights — which appear as lovers who have parted
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene.
That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted !
Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted,]
Love was the very root of the fond rage
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then — departed!-]
Itself expired, but leaving them an age
Of years — all winters! — war within themselves to wage !-|
Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way,
The mightiest of the storms had ta'cn his stand :
For here, not one, but many, make their play.
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand,
Flashing and cast around ! of all the band,
The brightest through these parted hills hath forkM
His lightnings, — as if he did understand,
That in such gaps as desolation work'd,
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd.
BR. Pabt n.| Cbaf. VIL PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
•Sect. XXIV. — The Daisy in India.
Tbrics welcome, little English flower !
My mother-country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour.
Never to me such heauty spread :
Transplanted from thine island-bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
Strange as a spirit from the dead, '
Thine embryo sprang to birth.
343
-^ffr
.>hi
'J'
Thrice welcome, little English flower !
Whose tribes, beneath our natal skies,
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower ;
But, when the sun's gay beams arise.
With unabashM, but modest eyes, ' /'' *
Follow his motion to the west, «»
Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies.
Then fold themselves to rest. ' '
( ■ ,
Thrice welcome, little English flower! ■ ,
To this resplendent hemisphere, , • .
Where Flora's giant-oflspring tower.
In gorgeous liveries all the year ; ;
Thou, only thou, art little here,
liike worth unfriended and unknown,
Yet to my British heart more dear ,
Than all the torrid zone.
Thrice welcome, little English flower !
Of early scenes beloved by mo.
While happy in my father's bower, ;
Thou shaft the blithe memorial be ;
The fairy spots of infancy,
Youth's golden age, and manhood's prime,
Home, country, kindred, friends, — with thco,
I flud in this far clime.
I.
Thrice welcome, little English flower !
I'll rear thee with a trembling hand ;
Oh for the April sun and shower,
The sweet May-dews of that fair land.
Where daisies, thick as star-light, stand
In every walk ! — that here may shoot
Thy scions, and thy buds expand,
A hundred froim one root.
■I'll '<
. * ., i
t 1
i »
'n't ■•
■M
I I 4
\
344 THE ENGLISH READER. Part If.|
Thrice welcome, little English flower ?
To mc the pledge of hope unseen ;
When sorrow would my soul o'erpower
For joys that were, or might have been,
I'll call to mind, how, fresh and green, ,^ j ./^^
I saw thee waking from the dust ;
Then turn to h aven with brow serene.
And place in God my trust.
MOKTGOMKST. I
•Sbct. XXV,^Home.
:...t^--
ff*
Theri is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven, o'er all the world beside ;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light.
And milder moons make lovely every night —
A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth,
Timc-tutor'd age, and love-exalted youth.
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores.
Views not a realm so beautiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.
In every clime, the magnet of the soul,
Touch'd by remembrance, trembles to that pole ;
For, in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of Nature's noblest race.
There is a spot of earth supremely bless'd,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre* pageantry and pride ; j ,
While in his softened looks, benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend.
Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow path of life ;
In the clear heaven of her delighted eye.
An angel-guard of Loves and Graces lie ;
Around her knees domestic dvities meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall this land, this spot of earth, be found!
Art thou a man? — a patriot? — look around:
Oh ! thou shnlt find, where'er thy footsteps roam.
That land thy country, and that spot Uiy home.
Chip. VH. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
345
MOKTGOMKST.
a -4 ;.
Sect. XXVI.— Ocfe to Adversity*
Daughter of Heaven, relentless power,
Thou tamer of the human breast,
Whose h-on scourge, and torturing hour,
The bad affright, afflict the best !
Bound in thy adamantine chain.
The proud are taught to taste of pain.
And purple tyrants vainly groan
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.
When first thy sire to send on earth
Virtue, his darling child, designed.
To thee he gave the heavenly birth.
And bade thee form her infant mind.
Stem rugged nurse ! thy r«?id lore
With patience many a year she bore ; ,
What sorrow was thou bad'st her know ;
And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' wo.
rr
Scared at thy frown terrific, fly
Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood.
Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, '
And leave us leisure to be good.
Light they disperse ; and with them go
The summer friend, the flattering foe : „ ^jr
By vain Prosperity received,
To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.
Wisdom, in sable garb arrayM,
Immersed in rapturous thought profound
And Melancholy, silent maid.
With leaden eye, that loves. the ground,
Still on thy solemn steps attend ;
Warm Charity, the general friend ; *
With Justice, to herself severe ;
And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.
Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, •
Dread power, lay thy chastening hand ! t^.
Not in thy gorgon terrors clad, j^
Nor circled with the vengeful band,
— As by the impious thou art seen,—
With thundering voice, and threatening mien,
With screaming Horror's funeral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.
St
i
II
m
: '. ■
I ;
! S
346
THE ENGLISH READER. Paut II. I Chai
T|yr form benign, propitious, wear ;
Thy milder influence impart ;
Thy philosophic train be there,
To soften, not to wound my heart.
The generous spark, extinct, revive ;
Teach me to love, and to forgive ;
Exact my own defects to scan ;
What others are, to feel; and know myself a^man.
Grit.
ti..
ih
•Sect. XXVII.— TAc Butterjly.
The shades of night were scarcely fled,
The air was mild, the wind was still ;
Ai^d slow the slanting sunbeams spread
O'er wood and lawn — o'er heath and hill ;
From fleecy clouds of pearly hue
Had dropp'd a short, but balmy shower,
That hung like gems of morning dew,
On every tree, and every flower;
And from the blackbird's mellow thro/it
Was pour'd so loud and long a sw >,
Ab echoed, with responsive note.
From mountain-side and shadowy dell ;
When, bursting j|irth to life and light,
The offspring or enraptured May,
The Butterfly, on pinions bright,
Launch'd in full splendour on the day.
Unconscious of a mother's care.
No infant wretchedness she knew ;
But, as she felt the vernal air.
At once to full perfection grew.
Wer slender form — ethereal, light — ,
|Ier velvct-tcxturod wings infold,
With ull the rainbow's colours bright.
And dropp'd with spots of burnish'd gold.
Trembling with joy, awhile she stood, .
And felt the sun's enlivening ray ;
Drank from the skies the vital flood,
And wondcr'd at her plumage gay ;
U
R. Part II. | Chap. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
And balanced oft her broider'd wings,
Through fields of air prepared to sail;
Then on her venturous journey springs,
And floats along the rising gale.
Go, chVid of pleasure, range the fields,
Taste all the joys that Spring can give ;
Partake what bounteous Summer yields.
And live — while yet 'tis thine to live.
Go ! sip the rose's fragrant dew.
The lily's honied cup explore;
From flower to flower thy search renew,
And rifle all the woodbine's store.
And let me trace thy vagrant flight,
Tl'v moments, too, of short repose ;
And mark thee then, with fresh delight.
Thy golden pinions ope and close.
347
R«ISC0B
•Sect. XXVIII — Ode m a Distant Proipeet of
Eton College,
- - ■ • ■ J • _
Yb distant spires, ye antique towere, ,:. ^.^,^j
That crown the watery glade.
Where grateful Science sjjill adores
Her Henry's holy shd^ ;
And ye, that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights the expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers aBpbonf >
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver winding way. • ,^
Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! *' :•?■■
Ah, fields beloved in vain! •
Where once my careless childhood strayM,
A stranger yet to pain !
I feel the gales that from you blow,
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing.
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.
* I
t * I
348 THE ENGLISH READER. Paet H. I Ohai
Say, Father Thames— for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margin green,
The paths of pleasure trace —
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave ?
The captive linnet which enthral 1 a
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball 1
While some, on earnest business bent.
Their murmuring labours ply
^Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty :
Some bold adventurers disdain
ft
The limits of their little reign, ' •*
And unknown regions dare descry ;
Still as they run, they look behind.
They hear a voice in every wind,
i And snatch a fearful joy. ,^ ,
Gay Hope is theirs by Fancy fed.
Less pleasing when possess'd ;
* I'he tear forgot as soon as shed.
The sunshine of the, breast.
Theirs, buxom Health hf rosy hue, .
Wild Wit, Invention ever new.
And lively Cheer, of Vigour born ;
The thoughtless day, the easy night.
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly the approach of morn.
Alasf regardless of their doom,
The little victims play !
No sense have they of ills to como,
No care beyond to-day ;
Yet sec how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate.
And black Misfortune's baleful train f
Ah ! show them where in ambush stand,
To seize their prey, the murderous band I —
Ah ! tell them, they are men !
Chap. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
These shall the fury passTons tear,
The vultures of the mind, —
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,
And Shame that skulks behind :
Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart ;
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart.
349
Ambition this shall tempt to rise.
Then whirl the wretch from high, —
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice.
And grinning Infamy.
The stings of Falsehood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness' altered eye.
That mock'd the tear it forced to flow ;
And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
And moody Madness laughing wild
Amid severest wo.
Lo ! in the vale of years beneath,
A grisly troop are seen, —
The painful family of Death, ,,
More hideous than their queen :
This racks the joints, this fires the veins.
That every labouring sinew strains,
Tliose in the deeper vitals rage :
Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow-consuming Age.
s',:-u?: ^
To each his sufferings : all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan ;
The tender for another's pain.
The unfeeling for his own.
Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate!
Since Sorrow never comes too late,
And Happiness too swiftly flies :
Thought would destroy their Paradise.
No more. — Where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.
I'-n
'.m
I
GmAi.
350
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pamt V.
* Sect. XXlX.—Mmi Blanc.
Monarch of mountains ! in thy cloudy robe
Thou sitt'st secure upon thy craggy throne,
Seeming to lord it over half the globe,
As if the world beneath were all thy own ; —
Encircled with thy purf , thine icy zone,
Thou lift'st towards heaven thy proud, majestic breast;
Above this nether world thou stand'st alone,
And seem'st to dare the sun to touch thy vest —
Thou laugh'st and shakest the storm from thy tremendous
crest.
1^
jflv
Thy cataract, rushing on with maddening force,
Leaps in its sport along thy fertile base :
No human eye can search its mighty sou/ce ; *
No human thought its origin can trace; ' ' '
They can but see it rush into the vase '
Heaven hath assign'd it in the vale below— '
They can but see it foam its desperate race, /
Amidst the scatter'd avalanche of snow
That thou hast shorn, and thrown from thine exalted brow.
The sun is setting, and his parting beams
Their own pure beauties o*er thy bosom shed;
And light clouds float around thee, likd the dreams
That weave their pinions o'er the sleeper's bed ;
And round thy form, so desolate and dread,
A flood of soft and rosy sun -light plays ;
And brightness o'er thy snowy breast is spread,
Like memory revelling in past pleasure's blaze,
Or calUng back the calm of other happier days.
? ■'"
■»i
Faster and faster sinks the setting sun,
And now he reaches the horizon's verge ;
His task is o'er — his daily race is run, '-
His flaming steeds their course no longer urge;
And now, like the low dash of distant surge,
The evening breezes sing their mighty song,
Solemn and low, as floats a funeral dirge ;
The night-wind and its echoes creep along.
And the pines rustle that they walk their way among.
16 exalted brow.
Cmaf. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 351
'Tis night, and all is silent, all is dark —
No light is seen, and not a sound is heard,
Save 'tis a shepherd watch-dog's distant bark.
Or the short twitter of some startled bird, —
Until, as if by some enchanter stirr'd,
The moon slow rises in her bright array.
As, in obedience to the wizard word,
She came to chase the awful gloom away,
And smile the night into a sweeter, softer day.
Mountain of mountains ! thy stupendous height.
On which the moon-beams now so softly shine,
Must bow before the Lord of power and might.
Must quake if touched by the hand divine ;
Wrench'd from thy seat by mightier power than thine,
Hurl'd from thy throne of rocks, tliou — even thou —
Must all thy steadfast r ;nity resign;
And, headlong thrown, :;v i thy gigantic brow
Must kiss the earth thot fro^'uest proudly over now.
Ann Browne.
•Sect. XXX -^To the Evening Privirose.
Fair flower, that shunn'st the glare of day.
Yet lovest to open, meekly bold,
To evening's hues of sober gray.
Thy cup of paly gold ; —
Be thine the offering, owing long
To thee, and to this pensive hour.
Of one brief tributary song.
Though transient as thy flower.
I love to watch, at silent eve.
Thy scatter'd blossoms' lonely light ;
And have my inmost heart receive
The influence of that sight.
I love, at such an hour, to mark
Their beauty greet the night-breeze chill ;
And shine, 'mid shadows gathering dark.
The garden's glory still.
For such 'tis sweet to think the while.
When cares and griefs the breast invade,
Is friendship's animating smile
In sorrow s darkening shade.
[''■■
I
J*
352 THE ENGLISH READER. Pibt II.
Thus it bursts forth, like thy pale cup,
Glistening amid its dewy tears,
And bears the sinking spirit up,
Amid its chilling fears.
But still more animating far.
If meek Religion's eye may trace.
Even in thy glimmering earth-born star.
The holier hope of grace ;
The hope, that as thy beauteous bloom
Expands to glad the close of day,
So through the shadows of the tomb
May break forth Mercy's ray. Bamto.x.
<!
♦Sect. XXXI. — The Evening Hour.
Tais is the hour when Memory wakes
Visions of joy that could not last ;
This is the hour when Fancy takes
A survey of the past.
She brings before the pensive mind . ^^
The hallow'd scenes of earlier years ;
And friends who long have been consign'd
To silence and to tears !
The few we liked — the one we loved —
A sacred band ! — come stealing on ;
And many a form far hence removed,
And many a pleasure gone !
Friendships, that now in death are hush'd,
And young affection's broken chain ;
And hope, that fate too quickly crush'd,
In memory live again ! - ^. .
Few watch the fading gleams of day,
But muse on hopes as quickly flown ;
Tint after tint, they died away,
Till all at last were gone !
This is the hour when Fancy wreathes
Her spells round joys that could not last ;
This is the hour when Memory breathes
A sigh to pleasures past. Anonymous.
'\^
, *,M
Chip. VH. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
35S
Sect. XXXII. — Ode to Cotitent.
O THOU, the Nymph with placid eye !
O seldom found, yet ever nigh !
Receive my temperate vott:
Not all the storms that shake the pole,
Can e*er disturb thy halcyon soul,
And smooth, unaltered brow.
Oh ! come in simplest vest array'd.
With all thy sober cheer display'd.
To bless my longing sight;
Thy mein composed, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste, subdued delight.
No more by varying passions beat.
Oh ! gently guide my pilgrim feet , v
To find thy hermit cell !
Where, in some pure and equal sky.
Beneath thy soft, indulgent eye,
The modest virtues dwell.
Simplicity, in attic vest ;
And Innocence, with candid breast.
And clear undaunted eye ;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears,
A vista to the sky.
There Health, through whose calm bosom glide
The temperate joys in even-tide,
That rarely ebb or flow;
And Patience there, thy sister meek.
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek,
To meet the offer'd blow.
Her influence taught the Phrygian sag«,
A tyrant master's wanton rage.
With settled smiles to meet :
Inured to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek, submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.
But thou, Nymph, retired and coy !
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy tender tale?
i I
•I
\
354 '^HE ENGLISH READER.
The lowliest cHldren of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet blossom round,
And lily of the vale.
Oh ! say what soft propitious hour
I best may choose to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway 1
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse.
And shed thy milder day ?
When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy baimy spirit loves to breathe,
And every storm is laid ?
If such an hour was e*er thy choice.
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice,
Low whispering through the shade.
Paet II.
Mi
1
i
•i'^
Babbauld.
.-v
Sect. XXXIII. — Ode to Peace,
OoMs, Peace of mind, delightful guest!
Return, and make thy downy nest '»
Once more in this sad heart:
Nor riches I, nor power pursue.
Nor hold forbidden joys in view;
We therefore need not part,
Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, ?
From avarice and ambition free.
And pleasure's fatal wiles 1
For whom, alas \ dost thou prepare
The sweets that I was wont to share,
The banquet of thy smiles?
The great, the gay, shall they partake ii*l
The heaven that thou alone canst make ?
And wilt thou quit the stream
That murmurs through the dewy mead,
The grove, and the sequcster'd shade.
To be a guest with theml . ^ ^
For thee I panted, thee I prized, - ,^f|
For thee I gladly sacrificed
Whate'er I loved before ;
And shall I see thee start away.
And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say-
Farewell, we meet no more ? CowPEH.
CMAr. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
355
Babbauld.
est.
' 4
lf.fL
ujjL
:m ^
• Sect. XXXIV.— il Field Flower,
Thkre is a flower — a little flower —
With silver crest and golden eye.
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field.
In gay, but quick succession shine ;
Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline ;
But this small flower, to Nature dear.
While moon and stars their courses run.
Wreathes the whole circle of the year,
Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May,
To sultry August spreads its charms,
Lights pale 'October on his way,
And twines December's arms.
The purple heath, the golden broom,
On moory mountain catch the gale ;
O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
The violet in the vale :
But this bold floweret climbs uie hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round,
It shares the sweet carnation's bed ;
And blooms on consecrated ground,
In honour of the dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem.
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast ;
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem,
Light o'er the sky-lark's nest.
*Ti8 Flora's page: — ^in every pl& t,
In every season, i'resh and faii.
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms every where.
1- I
ill
I
356
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part II.
'f'i
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise ; —
The Rose has but a summer-reign,
The X)a/«v never dies. ^ MoNTooMBaT.
■r^nn
■WtR'^'^
•Sect. XXXV. — Spring. y
Now the golden mom aloft
Waves lier dcw-bespangled wing ;
With vermeil cheek, and whisper soft,
She woos the tardy spring; , /,
Till April starts, and calls around
The sleeping fragrance from the ground ;
And lightly o'er the living scene
Scatters his freshest, tenderest green.
h
iu;h
New-born flocks, in rustic dance.
Frisking ply their feeble feet:
Forgetful of their wintry trance,
The birds his presence greet ;
But chief the sky-lark warbles high t^^
His trembling, thrilling ecstacy ;
Aii'J, lessening from the dazzled sight,
Melts into air and liquid Ught. . ,
• ti I
k.) I
..>■
■■I-
Rise, my soul ! on wings of fire.
Rise, the rapturous choir among :
Hark ! 'tis Nature strikes the lyre,
And leads the general song:
Warm let the lyric transport flow,
Warm as the ray that bids it glow.
And animates the vernal grove
With wealth, with harmony, and love.
Yesterday, the sullen year
Saw the snowy whirlwind fly;
Mute was the music of the air,
The herd stood drooping by :
Their raptures now that wildly flow, '
No yesterday nor morrow know ;
'Tis man alone that joy descries.
With forward and reverted eyes.
ii
MoNTGOMEar.
Chip. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
See the wretch that long has toss'd
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe, and walk again :
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gah
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening paradise. —
357
IH "1
!■■
,- 1 .
, -^iW
: .-I
..^"■i^
•...: -_
, ' 'W^
■■ ^-n
Bma
■'i.<
'■: .'.*/
i
(
t
.U ■ :.
>'f*
• ',r ' t;
?'!
)>».♦?
*Sect. XXXVI. — Genius.
FrtOM Heaven my strains begin; from Heaven descends
The flame of genius to the human breast,
And love, and beauty, and poetic joy,
And inspiration. Ere the radiant sun
Sprang from the east, or 'mid the vault of night ^•
The moon suspended her serener lamp ; ' '
Ere mountains, woods, or streams, adorn'd the globe,
Or Wisdom taught the sons of men her lore ;
Then lived the Almighty One ; then, deep retired ^ •'
In his unfathom'd essence, view'd the forms.
The forms eternal of created things;
The radiant sun, the moon's nocturnal lamp.
The mountains, woods, and streams; the rolling globe,
And Wisdom's mien celestial. From the first
Of days, on tbem his love divine he fix'd,
Hi» admiration ; till, in time complete,
What he admired and loved, his vital smile
Unfolded into being. Hence the breath * '
Of life, informing each organic frame ;
Hence the green earth, and v.ild-rcsounding waves ;
Hence light and shade alternate ; warmth and cold ;
And clear autumnal skies, and vernal showers ;
And all the fair variety of things.
Ijut not alike to every mortal eye N
Is this great scene unveil'd. P^or, since the claimi
Of social life to different labours urge
The active powers of man; with wise intent, .i .,
The hand of Nature on peculiar minds
Imprints a different bias, and to each J ' • ^ ^
Decrees its province in the common toil.
To »ome she taught the fabric of the sphere,
'Vha changeful moon, the circuit of the atari,
ii:
.'%
358
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pa»t II.
Ci
The golden zones of heaven : to some she gave
To weigh the moment of eternal things,
Of time, and space, and fate's unbroken chain,
And will's quick impulse : others by the hand
She led o'er vales and mountains, to explore
What healing virtue swells the tender veins
Of herbs and flowers; or what the beams of mom
Draw forth, distilling from the clifted rind
In balmy tears. But some to higher hopes
Were destined : some within a finer mould
She wrought, and tempcr'd with a purer flame.
To these the Sire Omnipotent unfolds
The world's harmonious volume, there to read
The transcript of himself. On every part.
They trace the bright impressions of his hand ;
In earth or air, the meadow's purple stores.
The moon's mild radiance, or the virgin's form
Blooming with rosy smiles, they see pourtray'd
That uncreated beauty which delights
The Mind Supreme. They also feel her charms,
Enamour'd : they partake the eternal joy.
AK£M8IDI.
?
1
- •Sect. XXXVII Memory,
Dear to fond Memory's pensive hours
Are the young thoughts which early bless'd her,
When, 'midst gay Fancy's fragrant bowers.
Sweet Hope, and Joy, and Peace caress'd her.
But soon — oh ! soon, Hope fajthleris grew.
And Joy's bright eye was dimm'd with bDrrow ;
And Peace on angel-pinions flew
Back to some infant's dawning morrow.
Yet still the thought, — they once were thine,
Revives afresh those dreams of gladness.
While like gay evcr^;recns entwine
The heart, — though all around is sadness.
Then weep not, though life's changing sky
Frowns dark — 'twill lighten at the even;
And Hope's bright star will beam on high, '
Amidst the cloudless blue of heaven. '
II
/
Chap. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
Yes ! lovelier far that light will be,
Than ever rose on life's gay morning,
Which hope will then unfold to thee, —
The realms of peace and joy adorning.
No change shall mark thy blessed hours ;
Thy sky shall wear no cloud of sorrow ;
No wintry winds shall nip the flowers
That blossom in eternal morrow.
359
Anonymout.
•Sect. XXXYIIL— The Hour of Death.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set ; — but all,
Thoii hast all seasons for thine own, O Death !
Day is for mortal care,
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth.
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer ;
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.
The banquet hath its hour, . t-
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine ;
There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power,
A tim« for softer tears ; — but all are thine.
Youth and the opening rose ' "^
May look like things too glorious for decay,
And smile at thee ; but thou art not of those
Who wait the ripen'd bloom to seize their prey.
We know when moons shall wane,
When summer birds from far ahall cross the sea,
When autumn's hue shall tinge the njolden grain;
But who shall teach us when to Jook *i»' thee I
Is it when spring's first gale
Comes forth to whisper where the viol<»t8 lie 1
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale 1
They have one season — all are ours to die !
Thou art where billows foam,
Thou art where music melts ujwn the air,
Thou art around us in our peaceful home,
And th : world calls u» ibrth — and thou art ihert !
360
THE ENGLI3IT READER.
PiRT ir.
It ^
■4 I %
:h-^-^ii'*'
Thou ?iii where frit^nd mecU iriei f,
Beneath the : adcHi < i <ac ftlm to roF';
Thou art wlifc-3 fre ro?^ s ioe, and trumpets rend
The skies, L.ad ?iwoivJ j«;it iown the princely crest.
Leaves have their time to fall, - - ,'.
And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath,
And stars to set; — but all, • <^ '• ' ' "
Thou hast all seasons for hine own, Def.th!
Mus. H*MX?»S.
•Sect. XXXIX.— 0« Parting,
Farewell ! — and if for ever 1 -what a doubt
tStrik.es through the soul at that tremendous thoikght!
^Tis not the world's ywr ever; that will pass
Brief as the dew-drop on the morning grasa.
And I shall lose thee, even as a dream
That flies before the day's unwelcome beam. i .
f^u^h dreams as thoHe that deck the weary night , '■
With many a fairy i>iiantom of delight —
Phantoms so inic, so real while they stay —
We love not to exchange them for the day;
We feel that thiiv are going, and we try
To hold them yet a moment ere they fly.
'Tis but a dream — but yet a little on — '
'Tis but a dream — we wake, and it is gone !
^nd we may sleep, and we may dream again, /
But we would find the broken thread in vain.
80 pais the joys of earth — ^and so, I deem.
The thread is broken of our friendship's dream.
And thou art gone ! — and never more the tide
Of fate will cast us at each other's side.
B'it is this all ] — there is a distant sphere
Where partings arc not; shall I meet thee there t
The path is strait, the passengers are few ;
You look'd, and did not like it, and withdrew.
Wilt thou forget it, and, though now refused,
Not once look back to see if it is closed 1
Affection's anxious voice, to silence driven,
JSuppress'd on earth, perhaps was heard in heaven ;
For they whose adverse pleadings triumph'd here,
And gain'd their suit, forgot to plead it thers.
Ci'A*. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
361
^ i
.-q.
,,«.- -? - *
Though truth's unwelcome whispers now be sti'l'd , y^rj
Though hfe's exhausted chalice Ue ref^l''d
With yet another and anotfter di^iugiit, ' j.^. : - :.
Each n^cre insipid than the ktest quaff'd, ^^^ > ,
'Twill ill F'^ffice thee. There will come an houi:
When life, exhausted, will supply no more ;
And pleasure, urged, solicited in vain,
Refuse to fill the golden bowl again.
'Tis then, suspended between earth and heaven,
Disclaim'd of both, the last, dead pause is given.
And there will come, amid the shadowy train
Of things that were, but cannot be again,
The thought of one fair spot on memory's waste, ^
Whose bright but slighted promise is not past ; '. '
One only flower, that, placed upon thy breast, ' .
Wouki not have died and left thee like the rest.
And then, perhaps, thy spirit's lorn estate
Will faintly whisper, ^^s it yet too latcl" " ' *" '
"Is it too latel" — Ten thousand voices round
The vaults of heaven will repeat the sound.
Is it too late for mercy to forgive 1 —
Too late for folly to repent and live ?
Oh ! grant it be not ! May the Father hear
From his high throne the long-expected prayer!
That prayer at which his mercy has decreed
Love should prevail, and justice should recede ;
The i.rayer for which his yearning pity raits
To draw the bar of heaven's eternal g-nte**,
Before rejoicing angels to avow
The child he loves and pardons even no ^ ?
,.'J
• Sect. XL. — Seasons of Prayer.
To prayer, to prayer, — for the morning breaks,
And Earth in her Makcr'.i smile awakes.
His light is on oil below and above.
The light of gladness, and life, and love.
Oh ! then on the breath of this early air,
Send upward the incense of grateful prayer.
-for the gl ifious sun is gone,
To prayer,-
And the gatiieriiig dari^nt^si of night <^me« au
362
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part II
4
>>
.-nt"'*'
liikc a curtain from God's kind hand it flows,
To shade the couch where his chiMren repose.
Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright,
And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of Night.
To prayer, — for the day that God has bless'd,
C'omes tranquilly on with its welcome rest.
It speaks of Creation's early bloom; '
It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb. ^ •
Then summon the spirit's exalted powers, • . c '
And dovote to Heaven the hallowed hours. *'■ '■
There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes,
For her new-born infant beside her lies,
Oh ! hour of bliss when the heart o'erflows
With rapture a mother only knows : ~
Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer,
]<et it swell up to Heaven, for her precious care.
There are smiles and tears in that gathering band
Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand ;
What trying thoughts in her bosom swell,
As the bride bids parent and home farewell ! '
Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair, '
And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer- ' '
■ • i
Kneel down by the dying sinner's side.
And pray for his soul through Him who died.
1^3 rge drops of anguish are thick on his brow.
Oh ! what is earth and its pleasures now 1 . ,
Aiif] what shall assuage his dark despair.
But the penitent cry of humble prayer 1
^ueel down at the couch of departing faith,
And hear the last words a believer saith ;
He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends.
There is peace in his eye that upward tends ;
There is peace in his calm, confiding air.
Far his last thoughts are God's, his last words prayer.
The voice of prayer at the sable bier ! — .
A voice to suritain, to soothe, and to cheer, —
11 commends the spirit to God who gave ;
It lifts the thought from the cold, dark grave ;
It points to the glory where He shall reign
Who whispcr'd — " Thy brother shall rise again."
3R.
Pabt II I CeiF. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
363
ows,
epose.
B bright,
dian of Night.
jss'd, *l ;• »v
St. ;
nb. r^' ' ,
S, -VI*'
rs. '■ *' '
's eyes,
W3
T
yer,
ous care.
ring band
mbiing hand f
11,
rell!
ir,
prayer*
died. ..
brow,
v] „.. , ,
t
lith,
1 »
ids,
ends;
words prayer.
jer, —
frave ;
-8" . .,
gc again.
The voice of prayer in the world of blisb,
But gladder, purer, than rose from thi«, — J^
The ransom'd shout to their glorious King, • * •
Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing;
But a sinless, joyous song they raise.
And their voice of prayer is eternal praise.
Awake, awake, gird up thy strength,
To join that holy band at length :
To Him who unceasing love displays.
Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise, —
To Him thy heart and thy hours be given,
For a life of prayer is the life of heaven. W\hk.
. *Sect. XLI. — Meditation on the Woods.
Father, thy hand
Hath rearM these venerable columns ; thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze.
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow,
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches ; till, at last, they stood.
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark.
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker. Here are seen
No traces of man's pomp or pride ; no silks
Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes
Encounter ; no fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of thy fair works. But thou art here : thou liU'st
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summits of these trees
In music ; thou art in the cooler breath.
That, from the inmost darkness of the place.
Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground,
The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee.
Here is continual worship; Nature, here,
In the tranquillity that thou dost love.
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around,
From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs,
364
THE ENGLISH READER.
Part II.
m
'{>
Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale ***S4 ***^
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
'i'hyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace,
Arc here to speak of thee. This mighty oak —
By whose immoveable stem I stand, and seem
Almost annihilated — not a prince, — •
In all the proud old world beyond the deep.
E'er wore his crown as loflily as he - .
Wears the green coronal of leaves, with which .' '
'JMiy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root
Is bt»auty, such as blooms not in the glare
Of tlio broad sun. That delicate forest flower,
With scented breatli, and look so like a smile,
fSeenis, as it issues from the shapeless mould,
All emanation of the indwelling Life,
A visible token of the upholding Love, ' • ''
'I'hat are the soul of this wide universe.' '
My licart is awed within me, when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on.
In silence, round me — the perpetual work *^
Of thy creation, fmish'd, yet renew'd ^f- '< ''
Vov ever. Written on thy works, I read
The lesson of thy own eternity.
Lo! all grow old and die : but sec, again, '"*
How on the faltering footsteps of decay.
Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth
III all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees
V\'av(' not loss proudly, that their ancestors
Moulder beneath them. Oh ! there is not lost
One of Earth's charms, upon her bosom yet,
Aller the flight of untold centuries.
The freshness of her fair beginning lies, '
And yet shall He. Jiife mocks the idle hate ' ♦*
Of his arch enemy, Deat'i; )ea, seats himself • '
Upon the sepulchre, and blooms, and smiles,
And of the triumi)hs of his ghastly foe
Makes his own nourishment. For he caine forth
From thine own bosftm, and shall have no end.
There have been holy men, who hid themselves
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave
'J'heir lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived
The generation born with them, nor secm'd • »""
I
lii'yf jji ,
)••»•.
■)».<*
Ch
]
J
^
]
1
]
Chap. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
365
IiC«8 aged than the hoary trees and rocks
Around them ; and there have been holy men,
Who deem'd it were not well to pass life thus.
But let me often to these solitudes
Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure
My feeble virtue. Here, its enemies, ^^*- "t'»>*-^ '
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps, shrink,
And tremble, and are still, O God ! when thou
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire
The heavens with falling^ thund(;rbolts, or fdl,
With all the waters of the firmament,
The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods.
And drowns the villaj^es ; when, at thy call
Uprises the great deep, and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms • -
Its cities;— -who forgets not, at the sight '
Of these tremi ndous tokens of 'hy power.
His pride, and lays his follies by 7 '■
Oh ! from these sterner aspects of thy face
Spare me and mine ; nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad, unchain'd elements, to teach
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate.
In these calm sbadcS; thy milder majesty ;
And, to the beautiful order of thy worki^.
Learn to conform the order of our lives.
//
( iV
»,..!"'
Uf
,i:
I- i.
BUYANT.
<'.i
?»'..
cr ^I'i'i
-ft tFlJf,'
Sect. XLII. — The Pilgrims to Emmaus, , "}
»«•
1 1
It happen'd on a solemn even-tide.
Soon after he who was our Surety died,
Two bosom friends, each pensively inclined,'- " '^
The scene of all tneir sorrows left behind,
Sought their own village, busied as they went '
In musings worthy of the great event : ^,
They spake of him they loved, of him whose life,
Though blameless, had incurr'd perpetual strife; .
Whose deeds had left, in spite of hostile arts, , ,"
A deep memorial graven on their hearts.
The recollection, like a vein of ore, ' '• ''^** '
The further traced, enrich'd them still the more ;
They thought him, and they justly thought him, ou
Sent to do more than he appear'd to have done ;
./
u
I-
i
-•Iff 1
f) '
®
I
J"
366
THE ENGLISH READER.
Paet II.
To exalt a people, and to place them high
Above all else, and wonder'd he should die. /
Ere yet they brought their journey to an end, t
A stranger join'd them, courteous as a friend; i..-
And asked them with a kind, engaging air,
What their affliction was, and begg'd a share.
Inform'd, he gather'd up the broken thread,
And, truth and wisdom gracing all he said,
Explain'd, illustrated, and search'd so well . ^ ;
The tender theme, on wliich they chose to dwell,
That reaching home, " The night," they said, " is near,
We must not now be parted, sojourn here."
The new acquaintance soon became a guest ; *
And, made so welcome, at their simple feast
He bless'd the bread, but vanish'd at the word, (
And left them both exclaiming, " 'Twas the Lord ! ?
Did not our hearts feel all he deign'd to say 1
Did they not burn within us by the way V
COWPER.
•Sect. XLIII. — The Beacon.
The scene was more beautiful far to my eye, v ^.j
Than if day, in its pride, had array'd it ;
The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure arch'd sky
Look'd pure as the spirit that made it.
The murmur arose, as I silently gazed
On the shadowy waves' playful motion;
Prom the dim-distant isle till the beacon-fire blazed,
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.
jN"o longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast
Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers ; (
The sea-bird has flown to her wave-girdled nest, ;'
The fisherman sunk to his slumbers. »
I sigh'd as I look'd from the hills' gentle slope ; '
All hush'd was the billows' commotion ;
And I thought that the beacon look'd lovely as Hope,
That star of life's tremulous ocean.
The time is long pass'd, and the scene is afar ;
Yet, when my head rests on its pillow.
Will Memor)"^ sometimes rekindle the star
That blazed on the breast of the billow, s , ? ♦
Chap. VII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
367
In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,
And Death stills the soul's last emotion.
O then may the seraph of Mercy arise,
Like a star on eternity's ocean. Anonymous
* Sect. XLIV. — Hymn on a Review of the Seasons*
These, as they change, Almighty Father! these
Are but the varied God. The rolling year ,^ ,
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring
Thy beauty vvalksy thy tenderness and love.
Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ;
Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles;
And every sense, and every heart, is joy.
Then comes thy glory in the Summer months,
With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year ;
And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ;
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve.
By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales.
Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfincd,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
In Winter, awful thou ! with clouds and storms '
Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd, '/
Majestic darkness ! On the whirlwind's wing,
Riding sublime, thou bidd'st the world adore, '^ ^
And humblest Nature with thy northern blast.
Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine,
Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train,
Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, ' *^'
Such beauty and beneficence combined ;
Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ;
And all so forming an harmonious whole.
That as they still succeed, they ravish still.
But, wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze,
Man marks not thet — marks not the mighty hand.
That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ;
Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence
The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring ;
Flings from the sun direct the flaming day ;
Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ;
And, as on earth this grateful change revolves,
With transport touches all the springs of life.
•f !«
368
THE ENGLISH READER.
Pabt n.
Ws
Nature, attend ! join, every living soul, .- .t : ,«
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, / : , /•
In adoration join ! and, ardent, raise ,, ^ i
One general song ! > •
Ye, chief, for whom the whole creation smiles.
At once the head, the heart, the tongue of all.
Crown the great hymn !
For me, when I forget the darling theme —
Whether the blossom blows, the Summer-ray
Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams,
Or Winter rises in the blackening east —
Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more, ;
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat !
Should fate command me to the farthest verge
Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes.
Rivers unknown to song ; where first the sun
Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam
Flames on the Atlantic isles, — 'tis nought to me ; "
Since God is ever present, ever felt.
In the void waste, as in the city full;
And where Hk vital breathes, there must be joy.
When even at last the solemn hour shall come,
And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, , ..y
I cheerfully will obey ; there, with new powers, ^ :
Will rising wonders sing. I cannot go , ^^ _;
Where univehsal lovk smiles not around, . •/
Sustaining all yon orbs, arvd all their suns ; , i
From seeming evil still educing good.
And better thence again, and better still,
In infinite progression. But I lose . , • •
Myself in him, in light ineffable !
Come then, expressive Silence, muse his praise.
TUOMSOX*
«/, ^ A, MMllan, Printers, St. John, JV, B.
i^
P ?J 'y %
W, '■'
I.
Pabt II.
al, .;;. -: .f: .'■
. smiles,
e of all,
ne —
aer-ray
Icams,
no more,
eat!
hest verge
IS climes,
the sun
; beam
lUglit to me ;
nust be joy.
shall come,
worlds,
;w powers, , J
go < V h
around, ^ ! ',;^
• suns; . . .;
i, : r : A
Btill, ; ^-
e his praise.
Thomson.
Johrif JV. B'
197
{.,<,■ di*:n-