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Tous les atttres exemplaires originaux sent filmfo en commenpant par la premiAre page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la derniire page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparaftra sur la derniire image de cheque microfiche, selon Ie cas: Ie symbols — ^ signifie "A SUIVRE", Ie symbols ▼ signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent Atre filmto A des taux de rAduction diff Arents. Lorsque Ie document est trop grend pour Atre reproduit en un seul clichA, 11 est f ilmA A partir de I'angle supArieur gauche, de gauche A droite, et de haut en bas. en prenant Ie nombre d'images nAcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la mAthode. 1 2 3 4 S 6 i ■n-f .■..■■-;ifcj I I. E PI CESIGNE o.\ a PRINTED . r^ » rffeT ^ THE ENGLISH READER; OR PI£€EI§ I.X FROISE /n.1 POETRY, SELECTED FROM THE BEST WRITERS DESIGNED TO ASST'?! YOr.vr, PEKSOVS TO KFAD UTTH PROPRIETY AND XFftCT; TO IMPROVE TliEIR LANGUAGH AND SENTIMENTS ; AND TO INCULCATE SO.-.IB; OF THE MOST IMPORTANT PRINCIPLES OF riETV AND VIRTUE. WITH A FEW PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS o.\ THE prixcipl:.es of good reabuvg. RY L.I.1IDL.EY JIIJRRAY, Author of an English Urammar^ if c. HAMILTON, U. C. PRINTED AND PUBLISHED AT RUTHVEn's BOOK AND JOB OFFICIf AND BINDERY, KING-STREET. 1840. r ; c ckA I* u^ ol yoi] fresh II wi liistritl ijtjCt ol guai I PREFACE. M .ANY selection? of excellent matter have been made for the benefit oi youn^ pfrsonn. Fcrtbrmaticos of this kind are of so great utility, that fresh productions of tiicm, and new attempts to improve the young mind, will scarcely be deemed superfluous, if the writer make his compilation iiistruciive and interesting, and sufficiently 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 mehorate their Ian- guuire nnd se!itiinent.< ; and to inculcate some of the moat important principles of piety and virtue. The piec es selected, not only give exercise to a great variety of emo> tions, and the correspondent tones and variations of voice, but contain Hentences and members of sentences, which are diversified, proportioned, and pointed with accuracy. Exercises of this nature are, it is presumed, well calculated to teach youth to read with propriety and effect. A se- lection of sentences, in which variety and proportion, with exact punc- tuation, have i)een carefully observed, in all their parts aa well as with respect t') one anotlier, will probably have a much greater effect, in pro- perly tenching the art of reading, than is commonly imagined. In such constructions, every thing is accommodated to the understanding and the voice ; and ih(; C(jmmon difliculties 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 tlie improve- ments lie luis made, to sentences more complicated and irregular, and of a construction entirely different. The lnner"'iiJt' oftlie pieces chosen fortius collection has been carefidljr regiirded. i*urity, propriety, perspicuity, and, in many instances, ele- gance of diction distinguish them. They are extracted from the work* of the most correct and elegant writers. From the sources whence the sentiments are drawn, the reader may expect to find them connected and rei,'ular, sufixcieMitly important and impressive, and divested of every tiling that is either irite or eccentric. The frequent perusal of such com- position naturally tends to infuse a taste for this species of excellence ; and to produce a habit of thinking, and of composing, with judgment andao- curacy.* * The learner, in his progress through this volume and the SeqMel to it, will meet vvith ninnr rous instances of composition, in strict conforinity to the rules for promoting perspicuous and elegant writing contained inthe Apjiendix to the Author's English Grammar. By occasionally examininf this coMf>rmity. he will be confirmed in the utility of those rules ; and be enabled to apply them with ease and dexterity. It is proper further to observe, that the Reader and the Sequel, besidee tearhitnr torend accurately, and inculcatincr many important sentimenla, may be eonsidered as auxiliaries to the Author's F^nglish Grammar ( M prQctioa) iHuHtratiims of the principles and rules txmtained in that worlk !i .1; i N »t PREFACE. That this collection may also serve tlip pMrposc of promotinGf piety and virtue, the Compiler has in trod need liiiuiy extract.--, whicli pl;u'r rclirrion in the most unliable li^^ht : and vvliicli it'cununciid a READl.NO. i TO read with propriety is a pleasing and important attainment; pro. ?5;-', must be, to make hinif»lf l)«' heard i)y all those to whom ho reads. lie must endeavour to fill with his voice, the sj)ucc occupied I'V the company. Tlsis power of voice, it may be thought, is wholly a natural talent. It is, in a good measure, the gifl of nature ; but it may receive considerable assist- ance from art. Much depends, for this purpose, o;i the proper pitch and inanagemeut of ilu; voice. Every per.-5on li.is tiiree pitches in his voice ; the HIGH, the middle, and the low one. The iiigli, is that which he us;ea in calling aloud to some person nt a distance. The iov\ is, wlicn he ap- proaches to a whisper. The middle is, thai which he employs in common conversation, and which he should generally use in reading to others, p'or it is a great mistake, to iinagino that one nmst take the highf^st pitch of hi>i voice, in order to he well heard in a large company. This is eonfuimding two things which an' different, loudness or strength of sound, with the key or note on which we speak. There is a variety of sound within the coin- pass of each key. A speaker may therefore render his voice louder, with- out altering the key : and we shall always be able to give most body, most persevering force of sound, to that pitch of voice, to which in conversation we are accustomed. Whereas by setting out on our highest pitch or key, we certainly allow ourselves less compass, and are likely to strain our voice before we have done. We shall fatiirue ourselves, and read with pain ; and whenever a person speaks with pain to himself, he is always heard with pain by his audience. Let us thi>i;<"ri()\ ♦n oublloss, must is. IIo mupt npaiiy. Tliis t. It is, in a drrahle assist- nper pilch and i iji his voice ; which he utes wliGii he ap- ys in common mothers. For 3St pitch of hi>! s conf'mindin^' , with the key ithin the coin- i louder, with- 3St body, most conversation t pitch or key, rain our voice rith pain ; and s heard with strcn^nh and untf key. It )i" voice than 'xtraordinary an? of speech and we fhall 'e transgress n age men t of our eye on cr ourselves words with the person As this is But let us >ssible to of- ng the voice nt manner, is rendered istitutes the pleasure to ible monot- irge rooms; reading to earing; or 3 the chief trcjUiJ'itt; in forrmiig ft unod re'ulcr. These arc cirriimstiinreH whii'li (!»•- , maud the t^erijiis atte!ui<>ii of e\ory one to wh-jni the idui-Mtion o( youth ■Jis con)initted. ^rKCTlUN II. Dixtinctndis. In the next place, to being well h:.'ard and clearly understood, distinctncsa ' of articulation contributes inure than mere loudness of sHouiid. Tlie (|uan. ■ tity of i-aund necessary to till oven ;i larj_:i' space, ia smaller than is com- monly imagined ; i\rn\, with distinct aiiirulalioii, a person wiih a weak voice will make it reach farther, than the stroM^a-.-^t voice can reach witliout it. To this, thcretorr', every re.nler ought to p>iy great atfftntion. He nuist iiivti every sound which lie utter-', its due p:\ip;jrtioii ; and make ev«>ry Byl!ai)le, and even every Ic.ter .1 thi; w jrd whi(;h he pronounces, be heard distinctly; without slurring, whispering, (4e ol'iiie siiiij)!e, e!( nientnry sounds of the language, and a faciliiy in expressing them, are so iie-cerjsaiy to distinctness of(>xprcs, sion, that if the [i;irner's attainments are, in this respect, imperiect, (and many there are in ihis situation) it will be incumbent on his teacher, to car. ry him back to these primary articulations ; and to suspentl his jinigresg, till he become perfectly master of them. It will be in vain to press him forward, with the Injpe ef torming a good reader, il he cannot cempletely articulate every tlcmentary sound of the language. SHCTIOX III. Due (Irgrce of slowness. In order to express ourselves distinctly, modoiation is requisite with regard to the speed of pronouncing. Precipitancy ofsj)eech confounds uil articulation, and all meaning. It is scarcely lu'cessary to observe, thai there may be also an extreme on the opposit«> side. It is obvious that a lifeless, drawling manner of readinu", vvhich allows the minds of the hear- ers to be always outrunning the speaker, must render every such perform, ance insipid and fatiguing. But the extreme of reading t(»o fast is much more common, and retpiires the nuux' to be guarded against, be. cause, when it has grown into a habit, few errors are more dJiHcult to bo corrected. To pronounce) with a proper degree of slowness, and with full and clear articulation, is necessary to be studied by all, who wish to become good readers; and it cannot be too much recommended to them. Such a pronunciation gives weight and dignity to the subject. It is a great assistance to the voice, by the pauses and rests which it allows the reader more easily to make ; and it enables the render to swell all his sounds, both with more force unrl more harmony. .SECTION IV. Propriety of Pronunciation. After the fundamental attentions to the pitch and manngement of the voice, to distinct articulation, and to a proper degree of slowness of speech, what the young reader must, in the next place, study, is propriety of pro. nunciaiion ; or, giving to every word which he utters, that sound which vin INTRODl.'CTION. the best usage of the hni^uugt' approprififea to it : in o[ii)usitian to broad, vulgiir, or pruviiu'ial proiiuiiciaiioii. Thi> i~ retiui.site both lor reading in- ttUigibly, &nd ior reading wiih corrf . nesa aiui caHe. Int^truelions con- cerniiig \\ua arlicle may he Ix sf iriveii by the liviiiir teaeher. liut there is one observation, wiiieli it tnuy not be iinproi)er lure to make. In the En. glish lani^uai,^', every word wiiicii consists ot' more .-jlhible'^ than one, has one aeeeiited syllable. The accents rest sometimes on tiie vowel, some- times on the consonant. The f,'pnius of the !anf,nia^^( requires the voice to mark that syllable by a stroni^'er percussion, and to pass more slightly over the rest. iVow, after we have learned the proper S(at3 of these accents, it is an important rule, tofxive every word just the sairu; accent in reading, as in common discourse. Many persons err in this respect. When they read to others, and with solcnmity, they pronounce the syllables in a ditferent manner from what they do at othi r times. They dwell upon them and protract them ; they miiltijdy aereiits on the same word ; from a mistaken notion that it gives gravity and imi)ortanee to their f-ubject, and adds to the energy of their d<'livery. Whereas this is one of the greatest faults that can be committed in proimaciation : it makes what is called a pompous or mouthing uiarmer; and gives an artificial, ali'tcted ?iir to readmg, which detracts greatly boh from its agrei^ableness and its impression. Sheridan and Walker, have pu!)l)shed Dictionaries, for ascertaining the true and best pronunciation of the vvords of our laiiiruage. By attentively consulting them, particularly " Walker's Pronouncing Di(;tionary," the young reader will be much assisted, in his endeavours U) attain a correct pronunciation of the words belonging to the English language. SUCTION V. Emphasis. By Emphasis is meant a stronger and fuller sound of voice, by which we distinguish some word or words, oa which we de. ign to lay particular stress, and to show how they aifect the rest of the sentence. S^jmetimes the em- phatic words nmst be distinguished by a particular tone of voice, as well aa by a particular stress. On the right mann'jemcnt of the emphasis de. pends the life of pronunciation. If no emphasis 1)e placed on any words, not only is discourse rendered hiavy and lifeless, but the meaning left often ambiguous. If the emphasis be placed wrong, we pervert and confound the meaning wholly. Emphasis may be divided info the Superior and the Inferior emphasis. The superior emphasis determines 'lie meaning of a sentence with reference to something said before, presupposed by the author as general knowledge, or removes an ambiguity, wlicre a passage may have more senses than one. The inferior emphasis enforces, graces, and enlivens, but does not fix, the meaning of any passage. The words to which this latter emphasis is given, are in general, such as seem the most important in the sentence, or, on other accounts, to merit this distinction. The following passage will serve to exemplify the superior emphasis. •» Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit "Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste •• Brought death into the world, and all our wo," &,c. "Sitto heaven!; Muse!" Suil C )niii)| $nd ii!| r But (jeaih i it till tl 4 INTRODUCTION. IX on to broad, r reading in- iK'tions con- iiai there is la the En- [lun one, has owel, suinc- < the voice to shglitly over sc accents, it n rending, as icn they read n a ditferent n them and I a mistaken J adds to the ^t faults that I pompous or idmg, which n. •ertainingthe Jy attentively tionary," the ;iin a correct by which we icular stress, imcs the em- ice, as well mphasis de. any words, ingleft often ad confound \r emphasis. lith reference knowledge, (senses than hut does not [cr emphasis le sentence, ing passage Suppf^^inSf 'liiit oti;'-iiirdl\- other lu'ii'.i.r'^, losides inoti, had di.^ohcvrd the tmimands uf the AlinMxIiry, and that the circunistriiifo.s wnc well known io us, thprc would fall nn cnijihusip upon the wurd iiiiiu's\'.\ iLl tiryt line; ind hrncc i: would rt vA ilm- : i ''Of nunt^s tirst disobcdienrr, niul llu' friiit," A:c. ■ But if ii were a iii>iorii)iis trutli, tl;;ii iiiiiiikiiid IkkI Jruiistrrcsy-cd in a eculiar inauia'r niore i1ki:i uhcl', the t iiiidui.-i.^ would fall on fir-it ; a;id liic lie be riaiJ, "Of Minn's /?/•.'.'/ disobedieiire," ^.c. f |c. AL'ain, ;ul!iii'riiiLf dcrith (as wf.s rcr.ib' the ca.-r) to have luon an un- heard of and dreadful iiuMishinent, liroii;;Iil up'Hi liiaii in r-ii-equciife uf his traiii-gri.' :.-ii)ii ; on tb;.; suii;)). itinn 'A:v il.iul line wuuld te read. " P.,ou[fht (ffcith into the w.(m !.','' '^■<'. But if we werp to suppose that innnkind k.'U^w there wn.* «uch nu evil as (Jeatb in otl'.cr reirioiis, lliou'ili the place ihey inhaiiited had lieeu free from |t till their trunsmession, the lino would run ilui.s : f "Brought death into the irorlJ,'' ^c. - The sujierior ( inpliaMs. find:- pl;icp in tl;'.- b.llowinix ^-bort sentence, which Hdnuts of four didliiict meaning.-, etieli of v.liicb i:s u;;eertaincd by the em- hasis only. "Do you ride to to'.vn to-day?" The f)llowiiig examples iliiistrtitc the nature and u.-^e of the inferior oni- )liasis : •' Many per.-ons mistake the lave for the prarllr" of virtue." "j "Siiall 1 reward hii- ser\if(.s \\\{\\ false fmod f Shall I luri^ct him who ^cannot fbi'L^et mr V I '• If his principles are ffi!si\ no ap;»] r.ry fr.Jin hintiflf can make them tight: if founded in truth, no ci'UHure I'rotii o///.'f.)'can make thea> ivruii*^.** " Though drcp, yel clear ; thou^rb irint.'r, yet not dull; " .S'/rortij" without ri.';;'e : widiMur u' ( rjlo la i n g . fall." i " A /r/e;?*/ exaggerates a man's t.j7//p.v; n\i iiinni/, \iU rrimes.*' s " The wise man is ha])j)y, when Ik.' ^iiins hi-: uirn aijprobufion ; tbo Jool, when he gains that vi others."' The .superit)r cnipha.-i.s, in reading us in -j-eakinif, nuu't be determincfl iCntirely by the sen.^e of the passage, and always made alike : but as to fthe inferior emphasis, taste alone seem.s to have tlie riyht of fixing its Isitualion and tjuantity. ) Among the number of pr r^ons, who have had proper opporiunitieH of learning to read, in the best maniier it is now tai;£,du, \ery few oould be iselected, who, in a given instance, would us*; the inb rior empha.=*i.s alike, jcither as toplace or quaniity. S;;me persons, ind(>ed, use scarcely any iegrec of it ; and others do not scruple to carry it far bey(7nd any thing to Ibe found la common discourse ; and even sometimes throw it upon words Ito very trifling in themselvei. that it is evidently done with no dher view. INTRODl.CTION m n ^ i f tlmn to give greater variety ti» tlic inj(l;ilati.)iu* N jtwith.-jtaridi/ig tliia di- versity of practice, tliere are certainly prui)er hoiindaries, within which this enipliasisi inii.ai be restrained, in order to nuike it meet ilie approbation of Round j'i(i:,niient and correct taste. If will doiibiless have diH'erent degrees of exertion, acr-nrdinir to the irreafer or less decrrees of importanc* of the word." upon which it operates; and then^ may be very properJN ftonie varifMy in the n^^e of il ; but its application is not arbitrary, depen. ding on the caprice of reader?. As j'tnphasis often f-dls on words in 'liflcrent pnrf-i of lite pamc sentrncp, po i( in frequently reipiired to be continuen in the pr.phecv ol lO/.ikicl, " Why will ye die !" rimfil'.acjs, bf^ides its f)Mier ofHccs, i.-; ilie arci'.f regulator of quantity. ThouLrli the (piantiiy of our syllalilcs is fixed, in words seperately prorujun. ce(J, yet it is jiiuiable, when the-e words are arranged in sentences: the long being chann'd into short, ihe short into lonir. aceordinir to the impor. tance of the word with regard to meaniuL'. Kniphasis also, in parti .ulur eases, alters the seat of the accent. Thi^ is d;-.v//,ib'!iiy." In these ex. nniples, tfie emplia'^is ropiires th(> accent to be placed on pyllahles, to V. ..ich it does not conuiionly belong-. In order to acipiire ih(> pro[)er manafrpmcnt of the emphasis, flic great rule to be given, is, that the reader study toatiain a just conception of tho| force and spirit of the fentiments which lie is to pronounce. For to lay' the emjthasis v.i'h exact propriety, is n ciui'^tant exercise of irood scMise and ntteniion. Ii i'.i far from bciuii an iiicunsideriibic a'lainmcni. It x-* o:i< of the most deeisive trial* <;!" a true and just tnstc ; nnd mii-' nrine from feeliiiLT dtlicately ourselvc:!, and from juuyir.g acciirtitcly of wliat is fittcsl lo strike the fn lings of others. There irt t>ne errm', a.'iuinst v. 'li'-li it is particularly proper to caution the leariu'r; namely, thai (»f nxdtiplving emi)hatical words too much, and using the einpha-is indiy a pru(leru reserve and distmc'ion in the u^eofthein. titai we canirive ihem iiiiy weijdit. If lliey recur tooof-en ; il'a reailer cttemptsto remh r every thing he expresses of high'impMrianci>, by a nud'Kude of strong empha-is, we soon learn to pay little regard to them. T.» crowd every scnfen«-«' wiih emphatical wortis, is like crowdinir nil the p-igesofa book wiih Italic chiiracicrs ; which, as t«) the effect, is just the same a^ to use no such distinctions at nil. * \\\ moilulalion is nie.uil tli il piciioiiig variety of voir*', winch is perceived in uil»'iiii<4 M >e!ilry properly rbiirary, depen- ■ pame Penfrncp, riiition, on two, ences exemplify rich, study not ['he Mexican fi. ley exhibit iinu- io>^l every word md piainf !" or, " Why will y»' tor of qtiantify. ■raiely pronoun- sentences : tlu' iiy to the iinpor. so, in parti. -ulur trotn the follow. " There is a ies of cdniposi. In these ex. n syllables, tu as!'*, fijc prrat neepti'in of the, ce. For to lay irooil sense ami It III. It i'* on< 1,1 ^' ari'ie from \ what is fittest )• to caution thf oo much, and nt reserve and •i;dit. If they le expresses ol m learn to pay ihtitieal wortls, :r ; which, as nt all. Tones are diircrcnf both from (Miiphasis and pauses ; consisting in tho Botes or vari.v.ions of soutid which we eniplov, in the ex, -"ssion of our fentiinents. Emphasis all'icts piirticuhir wi.rds iind phrases, with a de. tree of tone or inilcclion of voice ; but toius, peculiarly so called, allect ?ntences, paratrriiphs, and 'iometimes even the whiilo of a diseourKe, ■ To show the use. and necissiiy of tones, we need only observe, that the J^iind, in coniniuiiicatincr its ideas, is in a constant state cf activity, emotion, (|r ayitation, from the flitlerent elli-'cts which those ideas produce in iHh Ipeaker. Now the end of such eominiimcalion beiiur, niU merely to lny #pen the ideas, [)ut also the different fcelini/s which tiny t .\cile in him who utters them, iliere must In," otlu r .«i{i-iis llian words, to mnnifest tiioso feelings ; as words uttered in a monotonous manner can represent only • similar state of miiul, perfi ctly free from all activity and einoiion. Ad tile communication of these iniernid feelini^^s was of much more eonse- ^uence in our social intercourse, thiin the mere conveyance of ideas, the Autlu)r of our bein|.^ did n<»t, as in that conveyance, leave th(> invention of the language of emotion to man ; but impn s.-cd it himself upon our na. ture, in the same manner as he has done with regard to the rest of tlui tnimal world ; all of w hi(di express their various I'eelings, by various t<)ne«. Ours indeed, from the superior rank that we hold, tire in ii high degree more comprelu-nsive ; as there is not an act of the mind, tin exertion of tho fancy, or an emotion of the heart, which has not its peculiar f(»nc, or note f)f the voice, by which it is to I;e exi)rcssed ; and which is suited exactly to the degree of internal ficling. It is chielly in the piopcr use of these tone.s, that the hfe, spirit, beauty, and harmony vi' delivery consist. The limits of this Iiitroductii;n do not admit of examples, to illustrate tlie variety of tones belonging to the diU'ereiit passioiis and emotions. \V(» . shall, however, .'■iltctone, wiiicli is extiiiittcl from the beautiful lamen. tation of David over Said and .IiuiiUhiin, and which will, in son.e degree, elucidate. what litis been said on this subj* ct. "The beauty of Israel is ilain upon thy high places ; how ar(^ the mighty f dlen ! Tell it not in Gatli ; publish it not in the si reels of Askelon ; lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice ; lest the daught'jrs (jf the uncircumeised triumph. \ e mountninrt of Gilboii, let there be no dew nor rain u|)oii you, iu;r fields of oU'eringH ; for there the shield of the mighty was vilely east away ; the shield of IStiul, as though he had not been anointed with oil." The fir.st of these divisions expresses sorrow and lamentation : therefore the note is low. The next contains u spirited command, and sluaild be pronounced much higher, The other sentence, in which he makes a pathetic address to the mountains where his friends had br en shiin, must be ixpressed in a note quite ditfer- :ent from the tw(» former ; not so low as the lirst, nor so high as the secund, in itnianly, firm, and yet plaintive tone. i The correct and natural language of the emotions is not so difTiciilt to be attained, as most readi;rs seem to imagine. If we etiter into the spirit of the nut hor's sentiments us Well us into the meaning of his words, wo shall not fail to deliver the words in properly varied tones. F'or there are few people, who speak Hnglish without a jirovincial no'e, that have not ait accurate use of tones, when tin y utt« r tlnir seniiments in earnest dis. course. And the nason that they have not theKamn use of them, in read- ing aloud the sentiments of oiherR, mnv he frni-erl to iho vorv defertivw And erroneous method, in which the art of reading in taught , \vhe1eb7 all II su INTRODUCTION. 1 the various, nnturnl, c.vpr£-.«ive tones ofsppeoli, are suppressed; andafe w artifi nial, unniPrriing ro<'i'lin.s a uood deal of care, so asuot l(» oblige us |o divide words from one another w hich liave so ititinuite a connexion, that they ought to be pronoimced with the same bienth, t\]\(\ without the least septM'ution. Many H sentence is miserably mangletl, and tin- f.'rcc of the emphasis totally lost, b}' divisiims being made in the wrong place. To avoid this, every one, breal feiusii It mJ fetull I sui |i>rru) Irtifii fomti |8cd tohel Bcrhd tone Stv o on OntI freat to the What To |n the 1vhic^ longtl only a ■gree o %nd c We ar tcachi *rhe pause first a fcdves the in Th nimpl radei kind, Tl the ri amp) con«i the f admi not I tenc« grate Bi " it is h •e??cd; and a few icm. he fono and Ian. proper limitation. i"<,'s. For when •ill manner, and iiiers; because ii re inrlispensablo niofions must be 't' iJropcr in the '»r the tones that >'t>ur ione« of ex. in fonie degree, iri,'ans of action; to the which it would understanding lees, and their and next, such renerally made 1 which we de. 'hing is said, ave the same : esj)ecially »•< liuy excite nipuriance of occasion dis- iii.irk the divi. iw his bicath; "f the mosi ii.'itrement of • divide words y ought to be afion. Many 'is totally lost, every one, INTRODUCTION. %hile he is readinir, should he very careful to provide a full supply of breath for what he is to utter. It is a great mistake t* ' .laginc that the breath inusf be drawn only at the end of a {)eriod, when the voice is allowed to fall. It may easily be gathered at the intervals of the period, when the voice issu?. •ended only for a moment : and by this manairement, one may always have I sufficient stock for carrying on the longest sentence, without improper in- terruptions. Pauses in reading mu«t generally be formed upon the manner in which we iiiter ourselves in ordinary, sensible conversation ; and not upon the stiff trtificial nmnner, which is acquired from reading bo«}ks according to the f ommon punctuation. It will by no means be sufficient to attend to the points psed in printing ; for these are far from marking all the pauses, which ought Id be U'ndc in reading. A mechanical attention to these resting places, has £;rhaps licen one cauFc of monotony, by leading the reader to a similar ne at every stop, and a uniform cadence at every period. The primary use of poinds, is to assist the reader in discerning the gramatical construe- won ; and if is only a secomlary f)bject, that they regulate his pronunciation. On tliis head, the following direction may be of use : "Though in reading Jreat attention should be paid to the stop , yet a greater should be given |o the sense; and their correspondent limes occasionally lengthened beyond What is usual in common speech." To render pauses pleasing and expressive, they must not only be made |n tlie right place, but also accompanied with a proper tone of voice by Which the nature of these pauses is intimated ; much more than by the length of them, which can seldom be exactly measured. Sometimes it is only a slight and simple suspension of voice that is proper ; sometimes a do- ■gree of cadence in the voice is required ; and sometimes that peculiar tone Und cadence which denote the sentence to be finished. In all these cartes, V'e are to regulate ourselves by attending to the manner in which nature teaches us to speak, when engaged in real and earnest discourse with others, ^he following sentence exemplifies the suspending and the closing j)auscs : " Hope, »he balm of life, sooths us under every misfortune." The iirsl and second pauses are acccmipanied by an inflection of voice, that I,'ive8 the hearer an expectation of something further to complete the sense : the inflection attending tlie third pause signifies that the sense is completed. The preceding example is an illiistrati(»n of the suspending pause, in its simple state : the fullowinir instance exhibits that pauMc with a degree of cadence in the voice ; " If content cannot remove the disquietudes of man- kind, it will at least alleviate them." The suspending pauf^e is often, in the same sentenep, attended with both the rising and the falling inflection of voice; as will be seen in this ex- ample : •' Moilerate exercise', and habitual temperonce', strengthen the constitution."* As the suspending pause may be thus attended with l>oth the rising and the falling inflection, it is the same with regard to the closing pause : it admila of both. The falling inflection generally accompanies it ; but it is not unfrequently conneefetl with the rising inflection. Interrogative sen- tences, for instance, are often terminated in this manner : as, ♦• Am I un- grateful'?" ♦• Is he in earnest'?" But whfire a sentence is begun by an interrogative pronotin or ndverh, terminated by the faUing inflection: a«, '• What has he nly * The litiiig iiiflectiun is dutiotod by the at uic ) the falliitf , by the gras e aicei)* ( ll V. it i \ xtv INTKODliCriON'. f gained bv his t'oJly' .'" " Who will nssi.'^t iiim' ?" "Where is the mo* aenfrer' r " When diil ht- arrivt-' ?" When two qiioHtions are uiiiifd in one penienee, nnd ronnccted by iho conjunction or, tlie lirst takes the iiMiiig, the second tlie falling inUectiun : as, " Does his conduct support discipliju/', or destroy it'I" The rising and falHng inflections must not be confounded with emphasi.«. Though they may often coincide, they arc, in tlieir nature, perfectly dit, linct. Emphasis sometimes controls those inflections. The regular application of the rihiing and falUng inflections, confers so much beauty on expression, and is so necessary to be studied by the young reader, that we shall insert a few more examples to induce him to pay greater attention to the subject. In these instances, all the inflections are not marked. Such only are distinguished, as are most striking, and will best serve to show the reader their utility and importance. "Manufactures', trade', and agriculture', certainly employ more than nijieteen parts in twenty of the human species." "He who resigns the world has no temptation to envy', hatred', malice*, anger'; but is in constant possession of a serene mind ; he who follows the pleasures of it, which are in their very nature disappointing, is in con- fitant search of care', solicitude', remorse' and confusion'." "To advise the ignorant', relien'c the needy', comfort the afilicted', are duties that fall in our way almost every day uf our lives." " Those evil spiritj=, who, by long custom, have contracted in the body habits of lust' and sensuality'; malice', and revenge': an aversion toevery thing that is good', just', and laudable', are naturally seasoned and pre. pared for pain and misery." " I am persuaded, that neither death', nor life'; nor angels', nor prin- cipalities', nor powers'; nor things present', nor things to come': nor height', nor depth': nor any other creature', shall be able to separate us front the love of God'." The reader who would wish to see a minute and ingenius investigation of the nature of these iiifleciion?, and the rules by which they are govern- ed, may consult Walker's Elements of Elocution. SECTION VIII. Manner of reading Verse, When wc arc reading verse, there is a peculiar difllculty in making the pauses justly. The diflicultty arises from the melody of verse, which dic- tates to the ear pauses or rests of its own : and to adjust and compound these properly with the pauses of the sense, so as neither to hurt the ear, nor oflend the umlerstanding, is so very nice a matter, that it is no wonder we so seldom meet with good readers of poetry. There are two kinds of pauses that belong to the melody of verse : one is, the pauc:o at the end of the line ; and \\\t other, the ciesural pause in or near the middle of it. With regard to the pause at the end of the line, which marks that strain or verse to be finished, rhyme renders this always sensible ; and in some mea- sure compels us to observe it in our pronunciation. In respect to blank verse, we ought also to read it so as to make every line sensible to the ear : for, what is the use of melody, or for what end has the poet composed in verse, if, in reading his lines, we suppress his numbers, by omitting the flnal pause ; and degrade them, by our pronunciation, into mere prose 7 Ai the same time that we attend to this pause, every appearance of sing. r by this cie«;iiral p;ni, if the sense were •Bcriticed to tlu; sound. Jb'or itistunce, in the following line of Milton, -" \\'luif in in(' i-i dark. " Illumine ; what is low, raise and support." tlie «ense <'lenrly dicfafj's the pause af;er illutninr, at the end of the fliird •yllable, which, in readintr, oiiifhf to be matfl' aeeordingly ; though if the llielodv only were to Iw retrarded. ilhnninr slionld be conneeted with ^luit f illovvs, and the pause not made mII the fiuifh or sixth syllable. So in the following line of Tope's liiiiisiN' to Dr. Arbuihnot. ': " I sit, with sad civility I read" the ear plainly points out the ca'snriil pan^e ns f.illiuff nfer ttftfl the f )\irth syllable. I^|| it would be very bad rfading to make any pause there, so as to separate sad and civility. The sense admits of no other pause than after the second syllable sit, wliieb theref ue must be tin- only pause mndo in reading this part of the seuteiu'c. 'i'liere i-i another mode of dividing some verges, by introducing what tntiy be enlled demi-ca'snras, which re<|uire very sliirht pauses; and which Ibe render should manage with judirment, or he will be apt to fall into an aHecfed sing-song niode of pronouncing verses of this kind. The follow- Ing lines exemplify the demi-c«>sura ; " Warms' in the sun", n-freshes'in the breeze, ♦•(ilows' in the stars ', and blossom'^' in the trees; "Lives' fhronL'li all life"; extends' throiiL'li all extent, •• J^prtadif undivided ', op( rates' unspent." xn INTRODUCTION. Before the conclusion of this introduction, the Compiler takes the liberty to recommend to teachers, to exercise their pupils in discovering and ex. plaining the emphatic words, and the proper tones and pauses, of every portion assigned to them to read, previously to their being called out to the performance. These preparatory lessons, in which they should be regu- larly examined, will improve iheir judgment and taste ; prevent the prac. tice of reading without attention to the subject ; and establish a habit of readily discovering the meaning, force, and beauty of every sentence they peruse. Sei-t. Sect. M -^ingi- Ssrx PART I. Pieces Ii\ i*UOSE- CIIAPTKR I. Pafrr. Select Sentences and Paragraphs, 23 CHAPTER II. Narrative Pieces, Sect. 1. No rank or possessions can ninke the pnilty mind Iinppy, 3f> ij. Clianire of (wtcrniil condition oticn adverse to virtue, 4(1 3. Human; or the misery of pride, 41 4. Lady Jane (irey, A2 5. Orihogrul ; or the vanity of riches, 45 6. The hill of scieiue, 47 7. The journey of a day ; a picture of human Ufe, 50 CHAPTER III. Didactic Pieces, Sect. 1. The imporfancc of a good education, 54 2. On gratitude, 55 3. On forgiveness, 5G 4. Motives to the practice of ^(Miilencss, 57 5. A suspicious temper the source of misery to its possessor,.. 58 (5. Comforts of religion, 59 7. Dinidence of our abihties a mark 184 i 185 187 18f) 191 193 19i 19.-) 19« 198 200 212 Page 4. Care of birds for their younff 214 5. Liberty and slavery contrasted 215 6. Charity. A paraphrase on the 13;h. chapter of the First Epis:Ie to the Corinthians 216 7. Picture of a good man, 217 8. The pleasures of retirement, .• • • • ^^^ 9. The pleasure and benefit of an improved and well-direct- ed imagination, 220 CHAPTER V. Pathetic Pieces, [Sect. 1. The hermit 221 2. The befjgar's petition, 223 3. Unhappy close of life, 224 4. Klegy to pity, ib. 5. Vcriies suppo>red to be written Ivy Alexander Selkirk, during his soliiai V abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez,. . 225 6. Gratitude ." 227 7. A man perishing in the snow; from whence reflections are raised on the miseries of life, 228 8. A morning hymn, 230 CHAPTER VI. Promiscuous Pieces, Sect. 1. Ode to Content, 231 2. The shepherd and the philosopher, 233 3. Tiie road to happiness open to all men, 235 4 The goodness of Providence, 236 5. The Creator's works attest his greatness, ib. 6. Address to the Deity, 237 7. The pursuit of happiness often ill directed, 238 8. Thefire-side, 240 9. Providence vindicated in the present state of man, 242 10. Selfishness reproved, 243 11. Human frailty, 244 12. Ode to peace, 245 13. Ode to adversity, ib. 14. The Creaiion requiredtoprui.se its Author, 247 1.'). The universal prayer, 249 IG. Conscience, 250 17. On an infant, 251 18. The cuckoo ib. 19. Day. A pastoral in three parts, 252 20. The order of nature, 255 21. Hymn composed during sickness, 256 22. Hymn, on a review of the seasons, 257 23. On solitude, 259 'I'h Ir riety tiaec vari piec fur in r PART I. PIECES Ii\ PRO^E. CIIAPTEU I. SELECT SENTENCES AND rAKAGRAPHS. I SKCTION I. ILIGENCE, Industry* and proper improvement of lime, ate material duties of the young. The acquisition of knowledge is one of the most honourable ccupations of youth. Whatever useful or engaging endowments we possess, vir- e is requisite, in order to their shining with proper lustre. Virtuous youth gradually brings forward accomplished and ourishing manhood. Sincerity and truth form the basis of every virtue. Disappointments and distress arcoften blessings in disguise. "^ Change and alteration form the very essence of the world. ] Tru(! happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy to fompand noise. In order to acquire a capacity fur happiness it must be our first study to rectify inward disorders. Whatever purifies, fortifies also the heart. From our eagerness to grasp, we strangle and destroy plea- sure. ISIOTE. In the first chapter, the compiler has exhibited sentences in a great va- riety of construction, and in all the diversity of punctuation. If well prac- tised upon, he presumes they will fully prepare the young reader for the various pauses, inflections, and modulations of voice, which the succeeding pieces require. I'he Author's " English Exercises," under the head o/ Punctuation, will afibrd the learner additional scope for improving himself in reading sentences and paragraphs variously constructed. S4 The English Readtr Pari 1. A temperate spirit, and moderate expectations, are excellent safeguards of the mind, in this uncertain and changing state. There is nothing, qxcept simplicity of intention, and purity of principle, that can stand the test ofnear approach and strict examination. The value of any possession is to be chiefly estimated, by the relief which it can bring us in the time of our greatest need. No person who has once yielded up the government of his mind and given loose rein to his desires and passions, can tell how far they may carry him. Tranquillity of mind is alwaysmost likely to be attained, when the business of the world is tempered with thoughtful and sc* lious retrc'at. He who would act like a wise man, and build his house on the rock, aud not on the sand should contemplate human life, not only in the sunshine, hut in the shade. Let usefulness and beneficence, not ostentation and vanity, 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 the im- pression which trouble makes from without. Compassionate affections, even when they draw tears from our eyes for human misery, convey satisfaction to 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 anxiety about worldly success. The veil which covers from our sight the events of succeed- ing years, is a veil woven by the hand of mercy. The best preparation for all the uncertainties of futurity con- sists in a well-ordered mind, a good conscience, and a cheerful submission to the will of Heaven. SECTION II. ► a The 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 distress, wo should often find them peopled with the victims of intem- perance and sensuality, and with the children of vicious in- duleuce and sloth. Chap. I. Select Sentences, <§-c. 25 ire excellent ngi ng stale. , and purity :h and strict To be wisoinour own eyes, to he wise in tlie opinion of the world, and to be wise in the sight ofour Creator, are three things so very difl ercnt, as rarelv to coirieide Man, in bis highest oarlidv glorv, is but a reed floating on the stream of tinic, and forceil to follow every new direction o( th e current. The corrupted temper, and tlie ^uiliy passions of the bad, frustrate the elfect ofevrry advantage which the world confers on ihem 'J'he external mi-jfi^rtunes of life, disappointments, poverty, are liglit in comparison of those inward distresses and sickness, of mind, occa s house on f I luman life, md vanity, idst all the • sts the iin< tears from the heart. d relief to iioned by folly, by pasf^ion and by guilt. No stiition is so higli, no powor sogrea lo character so un- from the attacks of rashness, really good 88. f succeed- turity coiT a cheerful ► i traced to distress, I of intern • icious in- blemished, as to exempt men malice, or envy. Moral and religious instruction derives its efRcacy, not so much from what men are taught to know, as from what they are brought to feel. He will) pretends to great sensibility towards men, and yet lias no feeling for the high objects of religion, no heart to ad- mire and adore the great Father of the universe, has reason lo distrust the truth and delicacy of his sensibility. When, upon rational and sober incjuiry, we haveestablished our principles, let us not sutfer them to be shaken by the scotFs of thfi licentious, orthecnvils of the sceptical. AN'lien we observe any tendency to treat reliiiion or morel.s with disres|)ect and levity, Ictus hold it to be a suie indication of a perverted understanding, or u depraved heail. ICvery degree of guilt incurred by yielding to tcmptatinn, tends to debase the mind, and to weaken the generous benevolent principl(!s oj" human nature. lAiMiry, pride, and vani'y, navel're(pjenfly as much inniirnce in cornipling the s(;nlini(Mits ol tlu; i^rcat, as ijrnorani'c, bigotry, ami prejudice, have in ujislcading iIk; opinions of the mulliiude. Mi.xnl as the present stale is, n:Mson and relicion nro- nounce, that geimrally, if not always, ilw.'re is more happiness than misery, more pleasure ihan pain, in the condition of man. Society, wh(;n formed, r<'(pures distinctions of propijrty, diversity of conditions, subordmali/»n of ranks, and a mul- tiplicity of occupations, in onler to advance tliy the example and disposii ion of the persons with whom they associate, i-s u reiloclion wliich has longsinco passed into a pro- verb, and been ranked among the standing maxims of imman tvisdom, in all ages of the world. SECTION III. The desire of improvement discovers a libera! mind, and ia connected with many accomplishments, and many virtues. Innocence confers ease and freedom on the mind ; and leavea it o|)en to every pleasing sensation. Moderate and simple pleasures relish high with the temper- ate: In the midst of his studied refinements, the voluptuary languishes. Gentleness corrects whatever is ofFonsive in our manners; and, hy a constant train ofhuman attentions, studies to alleviato Uie burden of common misery. That gentleness which is the characteristic of a good man, has, like every other virtue, its soul in the heart: and let mo add, nothing, except what (lows 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 iustro like the blaze of a comet ; but regular in its returns, like iho lightof day : not like the aromatic gale, which sometimes feasts the sense i 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 circumstance : 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 criminal deeds. Yet those riches, when obtained, may very possibly overwhelm us with unforseen misoiies. Those pleasures may cut short our health and life. *■ lie who is accustomed to turn aside from the world, and com- mune with himself in retire .lent, will, sometimes nt least, hear (he truths which the multitude do not tell him. A more sound instructor will lift his voice, and awaken within the heart thoso latent suggestions, wiiich the world had overpowered and sup- presscj. ^ acqui « Mi to t:n \ Ti lost f( TI distu lectir TI ))i)USi bet w It bumi expo Ai mate fa mi ilrod C shin (1.1 rl; M nro Sck'cf Sentences^ ^c. 27 fi whom tlipy '^'A into a pro- I i^s of human I Tii nti, and is virtues. I; and loaves I > I ho temper- voluptuary r manners; J to alleviato I good man, and let mu render even Amusement oficn becomes the business, instead of the re- laxation, of young persons: it is then highly pernicious. lie that waits for nn opportunity, to do much at once, may l>rcatlie out iiis life in idle wishes ; and regret, in tl>e last hour, his useless intentions and barren zeal. The spirit of true religion breathes mildness and afiabiUtV' It gives a native, unafTected ease to the behaviour. It is sociafr kind, and cheerful; far removed from that gloomy and iMiberal superstition, which clouds the brow, sharpens the temper, de- jects the s|)irit, and teaches men to lit themselves for another world, by neglecting the concerns of this. lieveal none of ilie secrets of thy friend. He faitljful to hii> interests. Forsake him not in danger. Ahl»or the ti>owglU of acquiring any advantnge by his ()rejudice. Alan, always prosperous, would be giddy and insolent ; no- ways nfllicted, would he sullen or despondent. Hopes nnil fears, joy and sorrow, are, therefore, so blended in iiis life, an both to give room f>r worldly |)ursuits, and to recall fromtim* to time, the adnvjnilions of oouscience. eljabituaiiy isitnt lustre lis, like the times feasts fies the air, the state of a nee : nay, vea secure 5 very agp, hairS) and o criminal y possibly sures may , and corn- least, hear ore sound leart thoso d and sup* SHCTION IV Time once past never returns : tlie moment which is lost is lost forever. . There is nothing on earth so s;;.ble, as to assure us of im- p disturbed rest ; nor so powerful, as tu alllird us couhtant pro- lection. The house of feastinjr too often becomes an avenue to the bouse of mourning. {Short, to the licentious, is iIkj interval between them. It is ofgr(!at importance to us, to forma proper estimate of human iile ; without either loading it with imngin-iry eviU, or expecting from it greater advantages than it is able to yir the prnclico of virtue ;anJ arc not so much good mm, as the friends of goodness. 29 The English Reader. ricnuine virtue has a language that speaks to every heart throughout the world. It is a lahgiiage which is understood hy all. Ill every region, every climate, liie homage paid to it is thf e same. In no one sentiment where ever man kind more goiir»rally agreed. The appearances of our security arc frequently deceitful. When ourskv seenn most settled and serene, in some un- observed quarter gathers the little black cloud in which the tem- pest ferments, and prepares to discharge itself on our head. [ The man of true? fortitude mav becoinparefi to the castle built on a rock, which defies the attacksof surrounding waters: tho man of a feeble and timorotjs spirit, lo a hut placed on th<' irhore, which every wind shakes, and every wave overflows. Nothing is so iricotisistenl with >eIf-possessif>n as violent anger. It ovtjrpowers reason ; confounds our ideas ; distorts tie appearance, and blackens the colour of every object, by the storms whicth it raises within, and by the mischiefs whicli ir occasions without, it generally brings on the passionate and revengeful man, greater misery than he can bring on the olijeclofhis reseutmiuit. 'I'he palac'i of virtue has, in all ages, been represented ai? placed on the summit of a hill; in tlu; ascent of which labour IS requisite, and dillicullies are to be surmounted ; and wiiere a conductor is nes his own hapj)iness re- lloi'f, that while he forms his purpose, the day roUa on, and " the night cometli, when no man can work." nersons. hardiv auv tiiiiin- jensi inv What It appears to bf ; and what (litters most, is always farthest from reality. There are voices which sing around them ; but whose strains Jtllure lo ruin. There is a baixpiet spread, when' poison is in every dish. There is a couch which invites them to repose; but to slumber upon it, is d«M\th. If we would judge whether a man is really happy, it is not iolt'ly to his houses ami lands, to his ecpiipage and his retinue we are to look. Unless wo could see further, and disicera Chap. 1. Select Sentences, ^c. 39 overy heart understood ige paid to it nkind more deceitful. n some un- lic'h the tem- Hir head. j ? castle huih waters ; tho ced on tho overflows. as violent i»s ; distorts object, hv hiefs which '■ passionate ring on the ^:'sontef| OS' lich labour id where a steps. and em- ing ot'our- f haste to hat every alue of his )piMess ro- i on, and ppoars to ;ality. )se strains )ison is in ) repose ; ♦ it is not is retinno I diiicern what joy, or what bitterness, his lieart feels, we can pro- nounce little concerning him. The book is well written ; and I have perused it with plea- sure and profit. It shows, first, that true devotion is rational and well founded ; next, that it is of the highest importance to every other part of religion and virtue ; and lastly, that it is most conductive to our happiness. There is certainly no greater felicity, than to be able to look back on a life usefully and virtuously employed ; to trace our own progress in existence, by such tokens as excite neither shame nor sorrow. It ought therefore to be the care of those who wish to pass the last hours with comfort, to lay up such a trea- sure of pleasing ideas, as shall support the expenses of that timOf which is to depend wholly upon the fund already acquired^ SECTION V. What avails the show of external liberty, to one who has lost the government of himself? He that cannot live well to-day, (says Martial,) will be less qualified to live well to-moriow. Can we esteem that man prosperous, who is raised to a situ- ation which flatters his passions, but which corrupts his prin- ciples, disorders his temper, and finally oversets his virtuel What misery does the vicious man secretly endure ! — Ad- versity ! how blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver, in compa- rison with those of guilt ! Wljcn we have no pleasure in goodness, we may with cer- tainty conclude the reason to be, that our pleasure is all de- rived from an opposite quarter. How strangely are the opinions of men altered, by a change in their condition ! How many have had reason to be thankful, for being disap- pointed in designs which they earnestly pursued, but which, if successfully accomplished, they have aflerwards seen would have occasioned their ruin ! What are tho actions which afford in tho remembrance a rational satisfaction? Are they pursuits of sensual plea- sure, the riots of jollity, or the displays of show and vanity? No : I appeal to your hearts, my friends, ifwh.it you recollect with most pleasure, arc not the innocent, the virtuous, the hon- ourable parts of your past life. C 2 m 30 The English Realer. Part 1, The present employment of time should frcqucnily be an ol)ject of thought. About what are we now busied? What is the ultimate scope of our present pursuits and cares ? Can we justify Ihem to ourselves ? Are they likely to produce any thing that will survive the moment, and bring forth some fruit for futurity ? Is it not strange (says an ingenious writer,) that some per- sons should be so delicate as not to bear a disagreeable picture in the house, and yet, by their behaviour, force every face they see about them, to wear the gloom of uneasiness and dis- content ? If we are now in health, peace k safety; without any particu- lar or uncommon evils to atBict our condition ; what more can we reasonably look for in this vain and uncertain world \ How little can the greatest prosperity add to such a stale .' Will any future situation ever make us happy, if now, with so few causes of grief, we imagine ourselves miserable .' The evil lies in the state of our mind, not in our condition of fortune ; and by no alteration of circumstances is likely to be remedied. When the love of unwarrantable pleasures, and of vicious companions, is allowed to amuse young persons, to engross their time, and to stir up their passions ; the day of ruin, — let them take heed, and beware ! the day of irrecoverable ruin begins todraw nigh. Fortune is squandered; health is broken ; friends are olfended, atrronied, estranged; aged parents, per"* haps, sent alllicted and mourning to the ilust. On whom does time hang so heavily, as on th»' slothful and lazy? To whom are the hours so lingeiing? Who arc so often devoured with spleen, and obliged to fly to every ex- pedient, which can help them to get rid of themselves? In- stead of producing tranfiuillity, indolence produces a fretful restlessness of mind; gives rise to cravings v hieh me never satisfied ; nourishes a sickly, elfeminate delicacy, which sours and corrupts every j)leasure. SECTION VI. Wo have seen the husbandman scattering his seed upon the furrowed ground? Itsprings up, is gathered into his br-..n.r, and crowns his labours with joy and plenty. — Thus the man who distributes his fortune wim generosity and prudence, is amply repaid by the gratitude of tliose whom he obli-Tcs, by the approbation of his own mimi, and by the favour of Ilcavcn. II Select Sentences, SfC. SI onlly be an ied? What iirea ? Can produce any I some fruit t some per- ^l>le picture every face ess and dis- ny particu- it more can orld f How ! VVill any few causes I lies in the nd by no f>f vicious o engross ruin,— let al)le ruin is broken ; nts, pefN 'tliful and o are so very ex- /es? In- a fretful Me never ich sours upon tho . br^. >, the man PHce, in s, by the Moavcn. T(^mperance, by fortifying the mind and bovly, leads to hap- piness : intemperance, by enervating them, ends generally in misery. Title •est I jdei good illusti an more illustrious ^ but an ill one, more contemptible. Vice is infamous, though in a prince; and virtue honourable, tlinufrh in a peasant. An e'evated genius employed in liile ihiii^'s, nj)pcars (to use the simile of Longiuus) like the «iin in his evening de- clination: lie remits his splendom, but retains his magnitude, and pleases more, though he dazzles less. ifrnvious people wore to a-k themselves, whether they would exchange llicir entire siiu;itions with the persons en- vied, (I mean their minds, passions, notions, as well as their persons, fortunes, and dignities, ) — I presume the self-love, common to human nature, would generally make them prefer their own condition. We have obliged some persons: — very well ! — wliat would we have more ? Is not tho consciousness of doing good, a sulhcient reward? Do not iiu!t yourselves or others, by the pursuit of plea- sure. Consult your whole nature. Consider yourselves not only as seitsilive, but as rational beings ; not only as rational, but social ; not only as social, but nmnorlal. An thou poor? — Show ihyselfactive and industrious, peace- able and CDiitemed. Art thou wealthy ? — >Show thyself bene- ficiters, of friends and lelulions, give to every Furruumling objeit, and every returning day ! With what a lustre does it gild even the small !iabitatii)n, whore Ibis 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 prolusion of beauly and ornament is poured forth on tho face «)f nature! What a magnificent ppcctacio presented to the view of man! ^Vhat supply con- \m 82 The English Reader. Pari i Ch\ trived for his wants! What a variety ofobjecta set before him, to gratify his senses, to employ his understanding, to entertain his imagination, to cheer and gladden his heart ! The hope of future happiness is a perpetual source of con* flotation to good men. Under trouble, it sooths their minds; amidst temptation, it supports their virtue; and in their dying moments, enables them to say, " O death! where is thy sting 1 O grave! where is thy victory?'* . SECTION VII. AoESiLAus, king of Sparta, being asked, ** What things he 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 philosopher expressed in his motto that " time was his estate." An estate indeed which will produce nothing without cultivation; but which will always abundantly repay the labours of industry, and satisfy the most extensive desiret, if no part of it be suffered to lie waste by negligence, to be over- run with noxious plants, or laid out for show, rather than use. When Aristotle was asked, ** what a man could gain by telling a falsehood," he replied, ** Not to be credited when he speaks the truth." L*Estrange, in his Fables, tells us that a number of frolic- some boys were one day watching frogs, atthe side of a pond; and that, as any of them put their heads above the water, they pelted them down again with stones. One of the frogs, ap- pealing to the humanity of the boys, made this striking obser- vation ; ** Children, you do not consider, that though this may bo sport to you, it is death to us. " Sully, the great statesman of franco, always retained at his table, in his most prosperous days, the same frugality to which he had been accustomed in early life. He was frequently re- proached, by the courtiers, for this simplicity ; but he used to reply to them, in the words of an ancient philosopher: "If the guests are men ofsense. there is sufficient for them ; if they are not, I can very well dispense with thfir company." Socrates, though primarily attentive to the culture of his mind, was not negligent of his external appearance. Mis clean- liness resulted from those ideas of order and decency which \ go hCf t\V( ihej rv del m ^^ ^m c)u ^m wii 1 the 1 'y ' 1 n V 1 ''' Select Sentences^ ^c. urce of con- fheir minds; n their dj'ing is thy sling? at things Ire d, "Those ►e men." A sentiment ; ^hen he is hat " time ce nothing y repay the rfesireg, if to be over- r than use. '<^ gain by iited when r of frohc- of a pond J 'ater, they ^fogs, ap- ing obser- i ough this j ned at Iiis ^ to which Jently re- 9 used to I her; "If * 1 ; if tiiey e of his iis clean* ' v*hich governed all his actions ; and the care which he took of hit health, from his desire to preserve his mind free and tranquil. Emin(3ntly pleasing and honourable was the friendship be- tween David and Jonathan. *' I am distressed for thee, my bro- ther Jonathan," said the plaintive and surviving David; •* ve- ry pleasant hast thou been to me : thy love for me was won- derful; passing the love of women.'' Sir Philip Sidney, at the battle nearZutphen, was wounded by a mu.sket 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, hecalled lurdriiik. It wasimmediate- ly brought to him : but, as he was putting the vessel to his mouth a |irior wounded soMier, who hapened at that instant to be car- ried by him, looked up to it with wishful eyes. The gallant and generous Sidney took the bottle from his mouth, and deliv- ered it to the soldier, saying, **Thy necessity is yet greater than mine." Alexander the Great demanded of a pirate, whom he had tak'Mi, by what right he infested the seas; •* By the samo 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 andarmies." Wo too often judge of men by the splendour, and not by the merit of their actions. Antoninus Piu-^, the Uoman Emperor, was an amiable and good man. When any of his courtiers attempted to inflamo hini Willi a passion for military glory, he used to answer: "That he more desired the preservation of one subject, than the destruction ofa thousand enemies." Men are too often ingenious in making themselves miser- able, by aggravating to their own fancy, beyond bounds, all the evils which they endure. They compare themselves with none but those whom they imagine to be more happy ; and com- plain, that upon them alone has fallen the whole load of humaa Horrows. VVould tliey look with a more impartial eye on the world, ihny would see themselves surrounded with sutfereri; anl till J that they are only drinking out of that mixed cup, which Providence has pre|)ared for all. — ** I will restore thy daughter again to life," said the eastern sage, to a prince w'lo grieved immoderately for the loss of a beloved child," providi'd ihou art able to engrave on her tomb, the names of three persons who have never mourned," The prinue macU u The English Reader. Pari I J I inquiry after such persons; but found the inquiry vain, nntl was silent. SECTION VIII. fie that hath no rule over Im own spirit,islikc a city tliat is broken down, and without walla. A soft answer turncth away wrath; but grievous words slir up anger. Bctterisadinncrof herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith. Pride goeth before destruction ; and a haughty spirit before a fall. Hear counsel, and receive instruction, that thou* maycst bo truly wise. Faithful are the wounds of a friend ; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful. Open rebuke is better than secret lovo. SeMt thou a man wise in iiis own conceit 1 'J'here is imore hope of a fool than of him. He that is slow to anger, i-s better than the mighty ; and he that ruleth his spirit, than ho that taketh a city. He that hath pity on the poor, lendeth to the Lord; that which he hath given, will he pay him again. If thine enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat; and if he be thirsty, give him water to drink. He that planted the ear, shall he not hear ; I3e that formed the eye, shall he not see ? 1 have been young, and now I am old ; yet have I never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread. It is better to be a door-keeper in the house of the Lord, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness. I have seen the wicked in great power; and spreading him- self like a green bay-tree. Yet he passed away : I sought hin>, but he could not be found. Happy is the rrwin that findeth wisdom. Length of days is in her right hand; and in her left hand, riches and honour. Her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. How good and how pleasant it is for brealhren to dwell to- gether in unity ! It is like precious ointment : Like the dew of Hermon, and the dew that descended' upon the mountains of Zion. The sluggard will not plough iCq reason of the cold : he shall therefore beg in harvest, and have nothing. 1 Pari I vain, nrxJ J a city that 3 words slir lied ox and pirit before niaycst bo sses of an Dcret lovo. re is move y : and ho •ord; that ; and if he lat formed lever seen 'Ord, than t^in^ hrm- iJghl liinj, )f days 13 J honour. «'iths are dwell to- c (low of ntains of old : he Chuv- 1. iSelccl Sentences, S^c. 35 I went by the field of the slothful, and by the viney. rd of the man void of understanding : and lo! it was all grown over with thorns; nettles had covered its face; and the stone wall was broken down. Then I saw, and considered it well j 1 looked upon it, and received instruction. nonourablc ago is not that which standeth in length of time; nor that which is measured by number of years : — Wwi wisdom is the gray liair to man ; and an unspotted life is old age. Solomon, my son, know thou the God of thy fathers; and sorvc him with a perfect heart, and with a willing mind. If thou seek him, he will be found of thee; but if thou forsake him iio will cast thee off forever, SECTION IX. That every day has its pains ami sorrows is universally exl rerienred, and almost universally confessed. But let us not attend only to mournful truths: if wo look impartially about MS, we sliall find, that every day has likewise its pleasures and its joys. We should cherish sentiments of cliarity towards all men. The Author of all good nourishes much piety and virtue in hearts that arc unknown to us; and beholds repentance ready to spring up anjong many, whom we consider as ro- ll robates. 1^0 one ought to consider himself as insignificant in tho siglrt of his Creator. In our several stations, we are all sent forth to be labourers in the vineyard of our heavenly Father. Every man has his work allotted, his talent committed to him ; by the due improvement of which he may, in one way or other, serve God, promote virtue, and be useful in iho world. The love of praise should be preserved under proper sub- ordination to the principle of duty. In itself, it is a useful mo- tive to action ; but when allowed to extend its influence too far, it corrupts the whole character, and produces p;uilt, dis- grace, and misery. To be entirely destitute of it, is a defect. To be governed by it, is depravity. The proper adjustment of the several principles of action in human nature is a matter that deserves our highest attention. For when any oneof ihem becomes either loo weak or too strong, it endangers both our virtue and our happiness. The desires and passions of a vicious man, having onco ob- M. 80 The English Reader. Part 1 ; ' i I tained an unlimited sway, trample him under their feet. They make him feel that he is suhjecl to various, contradictory, nnd imperious masters, who often pull him diflerent ways. His •oul is rendered the receptacle of mnny repugnant and jarring dispositions; and resembles some barbarous country, cantoned out into different principalities, which are continually v/aging war on one another. Diseases, poverty, disappointment, and shame, are ^:\y from being, in every instance, the unavoidable doom of man. They are much more frequently the offspring of his own misguided choice. Intemperance engenders disease, sloth produces poverty, pride creates disappointments, and dishonesty exposes to shame. The ungoverned passionspf 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 which any man is here allowed to enjoy ; on the small difference which the diversity of fortune makes on that scanty proportion ; it is surprising, that envy should ever have been a prevalent pas- sion among men, much more that it should have prevailed among Christians. Where so much is suffered 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, when yet unacquainted with the world and its snares, when every pleasure enchants with its smile, and every object shines with the gloss of novelty, let us beware of the seducing appearances which surround us; and recollect what others have suffered from the power of head- strong desire. Ifwe allow any passion, even though it bo esteemed innocent, to acquire an absolute ascendant, our inward peace will be impared. But if any, which has the taint of guilt, take early possession of our mind, we may date, from that moment, the ruin of our tranquillity. Every man has some darling passion, which generally affords the first introduction to vice. The irregular grati- fications, into which it occasionally seduces him, appear un- der the form of venial weakness; and are indulged, in the beginning, with scrupulousness and reserve. But by longer practice, these restraints weaken, 6i the power of habit grows. One vice brings in another to its aid. By a sort of natural affinity they connect and entwine themselves together ; till their roots come to be spread wide and deep over all the soul. Part 1 m ^^^P' ^' Select Sentences^ 8fc. 87 • 1 r feet. They •adictorvi nnd ways. Mis nt and jarring try, canloned Jally n-aging , are ilir from man. 'J'hey n misguided )th produces lesty exposes ay them into their crimes 1 abound in !s which any rence which Portion ; it is revalent pas- ive prevailed pmmon, little or pity and Jainted with chants with fnovelty, let irround us; werofhead- lough it bo aidant, our ich has the e may date, I generally ;'jlar grati- appear un- ;ed, in the by longer abit grows, of natural ^ether; till II the soul. t SECTION X. vViiKsTK arisft^ |}i« iitiscrv of this jtrfsent world? It is ncit ovviii/ t » 'Jill' f.lMilv aim i-^jih'vf;. 0:11 i'lnn;;ini; se.Kons. nnd ijK'iemerit ^ki-'s. It is mii nwini '•» 'l>'' 'U'Imihv ot' «»ur bodies, or to tlu? (iM'-fjii il di>lrilinfion ot tin* }»ti<»(ls (»!' lorturn'. Amidst all (lisiidvMntM^es oriiiis kiiiiJ m mte. i steadliisl aiitd enlijrhtened mind, ptts.st'-.sinl of string \\ hit\ «' Av\\ jnl-.ub>is* tence. tosuppoi; the wife jiud children ul»oinihe\ love, and who look up to them with eager eyes for that br(?ad whicli thev can hnrdlv pri»cute; multitudes groaning under s-ickness in desolate cottages, uutemled and unmiiurned ; mnny apparently in a blotter >itujition of life, pining .nvay in -eeret with concealed griefs; families weeping over the beloved friends whom they have lo. iu llu; worst of limes, ore always leO to in'ruiiii\ ami \iifue; and IJC nevftf lo jrive up the hope that b«'tter &\\s \\v\w \(m ar How manv young persons have at fi.^I sel out ;n the wo^M withexcellent di-posilions ofheart; geneiois, cl'.aritable and hu- mane; kind t«» their friends, and nn.iuhlc ann ng nil \vi!h wiioni they had Inlerco'jrse ! And yvX. how ofieu have vve seen ali th«»se fair appearances unhappily blasted I'n the progress ol life, merely through the influence of U)ose and corrupting pleasures : aVld those very person^, who pKanlsed once lo be ble-ht:igs to l^hn world, sunk down, in the end, to be the buidonui tj iivi>'"M^C of'society. The most common propen-ilv ct^ niankintU is t(» store futu- rity with whatever is agu'enhle to ih'Ui; opeeially in those periods ol" life. wli-n innginaiion \< iiv»'lv, and hxpc is atdcut. L»»okin«f forward to ihe year now hcinuniiiii, th»'V lue ready to promise thems«rve.«» much. iVom ih'* Itamd niun^ •asl not yours* Ive-i of to murn»w ; lor yLii know not what a day may bring forth !" w Chap. I. hnd It \ielij. '''"V l^lJliiely ^ liad been in's(:'ives lo • ifiy Miind. liir Ill's soul I- irt iIj*-- evil •'U'liiisl the i li. in ili(.« ;iii jC. ) I Ik; wo'M ib.'e fir)(J Ih4- Nvi'lt V. Il(.|)) <-* seen all '■OS of life;, j)f(!!isijres ! ile(J l'«^ "ilV lll;r this (l;iy, y to lliciii not what i Chap. 1. iSf/fc^ Sentences f Sfc. 90 CHAP. H. NARRATIVE PIECES. SECTION r. JSTj rank or pns.':cs.'iio7}s can make ihe gvilhj mind happy. DioNYsiLS. \\\o. f\ rani of Sicily, wns far from bein" hnnpv* ihotigh iur |M)s>(;>'i J ^f.Mi richt! s|»i'(;i()ijs ap|)(\'iiances ol* happiness, took ociMsioii to coiuplnD'nr him on iho (Wient of hi^ power, his tn aNiiHjs and io\iil niaginlict'iict' : and drclarfd that no innn- aich had rvf-r hcvii urciiicr or hap|ii(!r than Dionysiiisj. ♦•Hast tiion a niind, Dainoidcs," says the kinij;, "to lasto this hnppi* no^s ; and lo know, hv cvperi'-nce. tvhat the enjoy menfs are, of which thou hast so hij^h an idea ?^ Damocles, wiilijop, nc- ce|Ucd ihei.H'i'r. The king oifU* red that a royal banquet shoiild l>H prepiucd. a^id a jrilded sola, coveurd wiih rich ernbioidery, placed (or his lavonrile. Side boards, loaded ,wiih }i;uld and silver pl;\i,-» of ;iniii('n>(; value, wert* 'irran«j;ed iw the apnitnient. r.i^'es ol'exiraordinary beuMv upre ordeied to attend his tabic, iirid »o obov hi> eoininnnds with the nlrnost readiness, 21 nd the •tno>i profound submission. Fragrant ointments, chaph-ts of fl 'wers. and lich peiiiimes, were added to the enteitainrncnt. 'I'he tal>le was l(»adcd with th(! niosf exquisite delicacies ofevery kins, as he lay indulging hitr.st'llin state, be sees let down fronfl the ceilinir. exactly over his head, a glittering hivnrd hung by n ^ingl(i hair. The sight olimpcnding de^truetion put a gpeedy end to his joy and rovflling. The pomp ofhis atteadnnco, the gliucr oftl*.'' carved plaie, and tlie delicacy ol' the vianda, centie trd hiin any pleasuru. IJe dreads to stietch forth ills tr 'id to till' table, lie throws tttf the gat land it[' roses. He li i*-!»iis to rei I ive from his dang(?rous siinaiion ; and en.^neHliy C'liiTHs the ! iiigto restore hill) to his I'ornier hnrnblH condition, h iving no desiie to enj iv ni:v loni:^»r a haiplness j«o lerrihie^ ilv thi> device. DiunN siii, .)u»\i niid* erable he wa»- in the n\idsi of all his treasures; and jn poi*se><« ^'ion of all tiiu honuuri and enjoytnent« which royalty coulj bestuw cicftfto. 40 !! '1 Tfie English Reader. SKCTION IT. Pari 1. Changp nf exfni'tl condifhni is ofwn advcrsp to vir'ue. In ihe d.iys of Joram, king of f.-jrael. fl>»il»«Mj ihc projilift Eilshn. Mis fluuncicr \*a>i sinMuiru'Ht, Hriri his iMirif < h lysjjre.id. tlj.Jt IJeiiliadiiiJ llio kiugofSyrin. ilioiigh ;n' In «ent to consult liiin, concerning llic i-^siif? of a di-iicit-;' %vl 1 1 to n le m- .ss(.'nL'cr cmplovet Ion ill threaiencd hi? \vtt-* HozMci, who appears to liav(? br'en one of the [ ii chi»'f men ofthf} Syrian court. Cliarired with ricli ;'! I the king, he presents himself ho'oie tht* prophet ; ntd him in terms of the higho^^t respect. During the « !. which ihey held together. iOlisha fixed his eyes >\c- » ihe countennnce of lia/.n-d ; and rli^ctirning by i\ • spirit, his future tyranny and (cruelty, he could not coi. self from burslniK inl<' a flood of l(^*nv. When HazHr' prise, inquired into the cause of this sudden emotion. • |>het plainly intormed him of the crimes and harharitirs, whici) he foresaw that he wt»idd afterwards commit. The so»d of Hazael abhorred, at thi«! time thotights of cruelty. I'ncor- rupted, as \ct. by ambition or greatness, his indignation rose nt Iwing thought c.i|)able of the savage actions witich the pro- phet had mentioned; and, with miich warmth he replies; — •'But what? is tijy servant a dog, that he should do this great thing?*' lilisha makes no return, but to point out a remnrk- nhle change, which was to take place in Ids condition; **The Lord hath shown me, thiM thou shalt L*^ kinir '>v»m' Syriri." In course \\ snme min. bv a chinjie of 'Vtrtditi m. an I jn uni;ua«*d'^d Rtateofinind trnn'n)rined ;n .d' !ms 'srntifiu'fts ; and a «* he ro'*e in greatness risinjr also in gni'f ; till nt la^it he completed that whole character of iniquity, which he once detested, blair. S CA< i«ie- i i '*?''• 1 the vU 1 lot V.,..,-, M iiili , ,)r : 1 liol Voin t M a ^ n>Is em As on 1 pti* ■-■•'' ' 1 cul :m- 1 >ur. ] pro- L-d lull 1 det. U)l \ Part 1. 'o vir'ue. ' lilC f)'-<)|)||Mf ^^ HJO- Infer, ;♦» Ml-; I.-' I i. I. 'i a.ui If m, • ' ^. or 'ICft I * ■■•u: iin- . Mir- firo- ''i»'s, \vj»icl) 'l»e siMii of >• I'licnr- Mjifion rose ich tlip pro- ' replies ;_« o ill is great f a I'Hamrk- "n; 'The >>'rh." In to pnss. — s^^f's^^ion of heir roasK ly nppp/irq '» n man of '>f> In line iflioiif siir« to liHliove Nnj; thnm; «Hiriiar(Hj '••*< li«» iit"*«' >leto(l ilwit !• BLAIR. 4 ^ Chojp. I. Se/ec^ Sentences, S(C, SKCTION III. 41 Hainan', or, the i tisery of jiride. Ahafukrls, who is siij-pnset(iri.»n'^. oy liu: iinmo dl' Ailaxeixes, liari .nrlvanced li» Uie ch't-i ui^niiy lu iiis km^rtjom. ll!miMn,aii Anii'ltkite, who iiiiiuiilod ill! tiif micicnt • innily ol'liis raci', to the Ju\\i>h nu- ii-ui. lie ;!i'|)(.\u:^, iVorn \\\vM i-. rucor. (id ofhini, to liuve been a v.^rv wieUfd miui.^lur. Uai^Oll I;j i^icatnoHswiihoul nkrit, he (•in|)l»'v«;(l his power >oU'Iy iVuih** j^rniificaiion ol'his passions. As thr t.oiioijis whicijhe | o>m-^^m »; \vo:c next lo iO}al, his piiJi. V. »< r'vcry day It-d wjih ihat --iiivile homage, which is pe- tMjiiar t I Asiatic courts; <^ m the; MMvaiii- «)rilie king proslrai- L'd ilu'iiiM !v('s bc'loic liim. in the iiiidsiofall this general adu- latioi:, one person only stooped not to Hainan. This was Mor- dec.ii the Jew ; whi, kiiovvmijr this Aina'ekite to be an enemy lo the peop.e <.t'vi»)(i, !>nd» wiili viituous indigipUion, despis- iri" Uial insolence of prosjeriiy v. ith which he saw him lifled up, " bowi'd not nor did l.mi reverence.*' On this appearance ,ordi«resj)ecl (Voni MorJecai, Ihunan *Mvns full of wrath : but he tho.iglil scoui to h«y hands on Mordccai alone." Personal revenge was not sulTicient to satisfy him. So violent and bluck wen? Ins |las^ions, thai !»(; resolved to exterminate the whole nation to which Mordecai belonged. Abusing, for his cruel purpose, the favour of his crcdu ous sovereign, he obtained a degree to be sent foith, that, against a certain day* all the Jews through<ar('d, *• he went forth that day j'»^ ful, and with a glad lieart." Jul beliolii how slight an incident was suOicicnt to poison his i' joy! As he went ibrth, ho saw Mordecai in the king's gate; and observed, lhat ho still r(3fu>cd to do him homage ! ** Ela stood not ui>, nor was moved lor him ;" although he well knew the fuimidablc designs, which Maman was preparing to exe- cute. One private man, who despised his greatness, and dis- dained Aubinission, while a whole kingdom trembjed before him ; one ; pirit, which tiie utmost stretch of his power could neither subdue nor humble, blas'cd his tiiumuhs. His whulo soul WHS (ihuken with a storm of passion. VVrath, pride, and desire ot revenge, roso into fury. With difiiculty he re«traiiQttd li ll I 43 The English Reader, himself MI pnl)lic; but as soon ns lie came to liis own house, he was forced l«> (li>rv ol' his i it hes, :ni«i the inuhitude of his cliildifii. ami lit' all th({ things whc'ieiii iht: kin<; hati prninoted n ill) ; and how ho iiad adv.-m.'ed him ahovK tho tfiinces and servants (>l'th«! kiniT. Iln said, ininen\er. tvi, l^Ml ler tl le qijHCd su {Tcu.d n'l man tocomi! in with the kin<;, to the ban* q Kit ihiit >h); Imd |)ii>|iai(Mi hut m^^el^; and toMUorrow al^o am I inviit'd to Ium wiih the king." After nil thi.>- |iieHmb)(', what is ihir conidnsion 1 "Yet all ihisavailKlh me nothing, >o onir a- I see 4M<»!d<;cai tin? Jew sitiini' '»• 'ho kinu% uaii' ?> Th'* sf-qiifl of I lamaii's history I .^hall ik»j now purine. \\ might utiord Ml liter for mnch intiuction. by the con-pionous jii^iice of Liiod m his fall \Si p j.i>t quoted present linn, and lli^r violcni agitaiioo jhi of it, a :«ingle disapp •intm< lit can destroy the reli>h of all its pleasures! iiow woak i< human naliire. which, in the ab>encc of u reul« is iIiih proue lo forui tu itself imaginary woes ! blair. SliCTION IV. hmhj June Gray, This exceellent |HMsonagt; was de^ccllded from the royal line oflOnijhind by both her paienis. •Sin; was ca (ifnily educa ed in the principles of the reforma- linn; and hur wi»dom andxiitue lendered her a «>hiiiie|;! ex* annd ■ l(» her sex. Ihit it was her lot lo conliiiue only •! >hort peri iJ on ihi'. si, »y[ho fell a sacrifice totht; wild.-imbiiionof ihe dukeof NorthnmUiilMnd; whopr<»rno(- vd a m irriage Ik t.veen her iu\y\ his son. lord (i>dlfoid l)ndle\ ; onl raised h"r tM th • tin «iie n ; wli >, instoiid of ex- posing them t i danger, snould have lieen the protectors of their inuoeenre and xouih. ' Tbui extiuuAdiuiiry yuung pemoui besiUo* tho solid endow* Part I Chap. 2. •Yarrative Piecet. 49 s own house, ''' gjjflu'red Jlfifude of his '•»♦' f)r«)i»H)f(.,J princes and . ti-flier il,e ''» ilie bMtc "*• I'KMniblf, purine. Ii t'"ii«|)iciious •r»'«'in^f(iniy j *>» quoted **'>ioli lUvy i low Ihj.fv » il. «l >il»ir|t* i>urcs ! hoxv real, is tliui blaik. e roynl line e reHtrma* 'iiiiiiii^ (1^. '>ly .» >hurt « •'"■ncnfico '»<»P''"fnMf. «Mi to ii,„ «'i'»;i«, nI»o 'ixiiid wnn »?i iiccoiiij»li>liuil pint*; and l»tMiig olan > qual age with king I'iMvvard VI. she li.id lectMvi^ii all Ik.t educalioii vvnii Inin, a;id *ct irif^u' «.'\<'n lo p. >.«s«'>s a gieaii'i laciliiv in ucquiiinj^ every p;ir( oi'tn inly aiid classical iiieiatiiic ^i'e liail aiiained a kniwlecjgo orthc lloinan 'Mid ijieck languages, a:i well as or^uveral modem tongue's ; had passed most ol her time in an applK'ution to learning; and expn.'s^ed a gieal indifliTf nee l\tt • ifULT (»i:ciip itions and anuiM-njents u^nal wiih her sex and siaiion. Ivogi-r Asclum, tutor to lh«5 lady KI.zibeth» having a; one iini>: pud h.T a vi-ii, found her emj>l())ed in reading J'iito. wlileihe ie>l «M'ihelannly were engaged in a parly of iinntnig ni the pai k ; and upon hi< adnn* ing ine singnlai iiy of hk.r choice, >he tnld him, that >he •' received moiepleusuie from tha aiiiliiM', linn oilier^ conid reap iViun all 'heir sport and giiciy." Il-T heart. r(.'plcivj wiih this l.ive of literature ;ind herii'us studies, and with ten«leine>s lowanis her husband, wtio was (l»'st;tvin'4 ol hei atfcciion. liad never opened itself to iho fl.iltermg aihiicincnis «d' aihbitioii ; and the infomialion of her advancem 'III to ihf tinone was by no means agreeable lo her, Sheeveji ri.lnsed to accept the crown; jileaded the pieferuble right of die two pii icesMjs; expressed Irr dread td' the conse- qijences attending an enterprise so dangerous, iiol to sny so crimin il ; and desneil lo remain in that private station in which she wa> born. Overcome at last with the entreaties, rather IIh'II reasons, of her lather and laihei in-law, and, »b ve nil, of her hn>hand, .-.iie subnnttfMl to tlaJr will, and was prevailed on to relintpn^h htn- t»v\n j idgment. lint her elevation was of very >hiMicon innanco. The nation declared for queen Mur\; Hi:d the lady Jane, alUir wearing the vain pageantry of a crown (hiring ten days, n Inriied to a private life with inneh mote (ta- li'-lficlion thin she fe-lt wh»'n rovalty was tendered to |i»t. Qm-eii Mary, who appears to have l)een incapable of gen- crt»>iiy or clemency, determined to remove every pcfMon, from vh.an the least danger could be nppirlH-inied. Earning was, the I e fore, given to I idy Jane to prepare for death: A do.. m which she had expected, and which the innocence of her life, as well as the misf.M tunes to whi«-h she had been px- p«»sed. rendered no uiiweh:ome news to her. The qiieftirs bigoted zeal, under colour of lender mercy to the |irisoner't Soul induced her to Mend piiesl:!, who molested her with |)er- peiuul di:<|)utuiiua ; uiid even a reprieve ofthren dayi wm i: 44 The English Reader. Part 1. i ' 'cil, drt'iuJing the comp.-Hsun of llic |»'.'«)i>!f^ l'»r llu'ir y<»utV', "Beauty, inn<»c(^iict\ and riolik^ l)iitli. cliiiniifed ilicir urdors, and 'g!ive directions thai slio should bo btdieacJod within tho vorgo of the 'I'owLT. She saw ho r husband led to r.votutiou ; .'nid havin;; frivL'n him from tho windovv some token ol'her reniern- brnnce, she waited with tranquilhty till her own appointed hour should biinf; her to a bke fate. She even j^aw 1m> head* less bf»dy carried back in a carl; and found herself nioro con- firmed bv the reports, which she heard of the c»>njJlancv of nis end, lljun >haken by so tenderand melancholy a spectncie. Sir John Gajro, constablo of the. Tower, when he led her to execution, desired her to bcj^tow on him some small present, Which he might keep as u perpetual memorial of her. She gave him her table hook, in which she had just written three sentences, on seeing her husband's i^end body ; one in Greek, onolher in Latin, n third in Krglish. The [>urporl of them was, *Mhut humin justice was \iiainst his body, but the. Divine I r of 8h( wl til pa hf ( ti< tl g J* gai Mercy would be fa vou ruble to his soul ; nnd that if her iault deserved punishment, her y(»uth, at least, and hor imprndencet were worthy of excuse; atid that God and posterMy, she trust- ed, would show her favour.'' On the scaffold, sho made a speech to the by-stivndet's, in which the mildness of her disposi- ^art 1. "rrrn,.,i, in |l(l l)(.T rt'd.r. ">'»in(nij). in I' "in V of l.cr '''';< -"^s-iof I fo lie lJ)rfiiU(J.j >IIJ ||i;if coi). K'.n. 'Jheir ; «'n!(irlj(y '.'"•"JJniont. ^"1, or dis- I I ' 'oici Guil- ; ^ 'I Jl»pen tr«'H!*'d. She said, ihal Iut nlU'iice was. no! ihal >he luul laid her h;iii(l ij|)(>n the crown, hut that ".ho had \v\\ rcjficKid it with suf- Hi'i^ul consfaijcy ; that >he had l»;ss erred throuiili ambition than throu^^h revereuoe to her parents, whom she had been taii^htj to resj^ect and obey : that she willinj»Iy receiveiJ dnath, as the ordy satisraction which she could now make to the in- j;ired stale; and ihou^l. her infrinirement f>rthfi laws iiad bren const rain^'d, she would show, bv her voluntary submission to their senfeu'-*', that she w.is desirous |(» atone f r that disohed- t'iu:e, inio which too nuich fili.tl piny Iwid belrayi'd her: that shehadjiHfiy deserved this |inni-hmer;t tor bpin«; made the in- strument, th Mi;rh tlu; un\villii;;:j iiistruiufnt, of the ambition ofo- thers : «V that the >ty I jroviuiT that umoceuce excusfs not gieal uws d(M'd? I I il th*'y tend any way lo the destruction of ilux-oinmonwealib. — After ulterinj^ these words, >he caused her^elf to be disrobed by her w..men, aiid with a steady, sercue countenance .-^ubmiited herseij" to the executioner. iiumk. SECTION V. Orfngrii/ ; i>r, the vnnihi of riches. As Ortogrul f»f Basra was one da v ivanderiij;: along the streets ofHagdat, miisinij on the varieties of me'chiuidise wb»ch the shops opened lohi^ vi(;w : andobscrviiiirtheihlii-reriloicnpaiions which l)(»sied ijie n)ullitude on every s-iiie. he wasawakeneil ftom the tranquillity of meditation, Ijy a crowd that olHtriicted his passajT". Me rai-ed his eyes, and saw the chi«d' vi/ier, who, bavin;; returned frctm ihf; divan, was etiteri \i \\\< palace. Ortojjnd min^^lcd with ihealiendaiit>; *.V l)eiiit/siip| oscd lt> have Home petition l<»r tij<' vizier, was permitted to enter. I lesurveNed. Ihespaciousfjessofthe a;»|)artments, admired the walls hun;j; with. I golden tapestry, and the floors covereil with silken carpets ; and dispi^erl \\\t' .simple neafnes^i «)f hi<< own little habitation. **Suiely." xaid [)e to himsrlt*. "this palace is the sent of happiness; where pleasure Micceed< to pleasure and discon- tent and sorrow can have no admi^'.ion Whatever nature had provided lor the deliijhf ofsenst*, is here spread forth li» b(! en- j'»yed. VVhatcau mmlals hope or im MrMic, which the iinster (d'lhis paiaee has r.it <»UJained ? 'I'he dishes olliixury cov*»r bin table I the voice of harmony lulls him in his bowers'; he breathes the fragrance of the groves of Java, and sleeps upou tfll I I 1 •I! I 'i 46 The Kunlish Reader, Part 1. w i-.e l>:i\ e vciv li'ilc pow rr n.iu fi lliii th'iri"-(;l\ <• 'IhiM rr,.'u; Ill t'ti ihedownof tl»ec\'gnet«>()rilu' G;in«jes. npspcak'?, nnd his man- B^"'^ '''I date is obf'yed ; lie wishes, ntid his wish is grniificd ; nil, w hnm ^li'ii- he s(;es, obey him, nnd fill, whom he iicnrs, flnrter him. llowHiii^i^ diderwrit. Oil Ortogtiil, islhy rdndiiiori, who art ddoinedto the ^'^''^'''^ j»erpptiiMl fnrments of un^ntisficd desire; nnd w lio h;i-t n(J'im avnii wiiii pov(Mly? N'uie u ill flitifr ih.' p.ior : 'uid the HAiHil lait I was e is >urelv the n»ost w.-lelud <'riiit' snii- ttl' u it'icliff!iips<, wiio lives with his own nuilis nnd (nlljcs n!un\s hdore !iim; nnd ■lH'^-i>^'| who has none to reeoneile him t>i hiiiis( 11" h\ prnis*- nnd xcner- ■lievrt ntion. I have lonir sonjiht (•oti!rn!. nnd Invr not fcniid if : I will rr«»m this rnonnMit cndf.vnour to he rich." I'li I of his new resolution, he s!nii himself iri ttisrliamher for six m«>nths, to dcliheraie how lu* ^hl>llld grow rich, tie sornetinies pr()p<^sed to tdli'i* hini'cdras a eounsfdler lo uuo. of the kinij's in India; nnd at olhcs lesilved to dig r»r diamonds in the inin sof ( Johrond.i. ()ne d^y.^ifiir some hours p,isR«*d in vioh.Mit (lietnaiion of opinion, sleep insensibly sei/.i'd l.ini in his chair, lie dreamed that he v as tanging' n i'(s»'rt ecnmry, in sen rid) oT^onie one that nii^ht teach lini tt» grow rieh ; and ns he stood (jn the fop ol'a hill, ^ll•^d(;d wiilu^vpiess. in doubt whi- ^^a" iher to direet lus>teps. his laibei* appfured on a suddrn slandfc ing 4*erore him. •• ()rtogrul,'\'-nid th(! old man, ** I know thy ])erplexify ; listHu to thy father ; tnrn thine e\e on the opposite mountain." OrtogrnI look«'d. and saw a Nirrent iijmbiin:; down \\\e rocks, roarinu with the noise (dihnnder, luid scatlerinj: ii- foam on the indnpending woods. ** tVow" >aid his rail»(;r. '• br^- hold the vallev that lies bet^^•l'en th«' iii'ls.-' ()rtn'rMiI loniuc nnd espied n li'th^ well onl of which issni'd a srndlHxaler. *• 'I'ell me now" said his fadier, *' r!(<. from the wtdl ?" "Let me h" ruirkl*, lieh," (^ni.l ( )i I"'.>m ** ^el the golden «tream be qniek Jied « i< but." *• !.••<. k •<<» th(Ms" sHtd his father, * once HL'ain."' <.)rtfvgnd I ,< K» ■' itf perceived tlie (diannel of the torirnt drv and«!ij*i\ : ' ii fol- lowing the rivniel jVoni ihf u«*ll. lu' Irartd it to a \^ i !•• lake, which the supply, slow nnd eonstant. kept afunvj In'l Ilf^ awoke, nnd dtMeirriineii lo jjrow rich by bilcn! profit, and per- seveiing industry. Part I >n(I his man. '; fill, whom ' liim. Ho;v ' 'iri>t 11(1 n- ' >»' iliy r.Mn 'f»|-: niifl |J,e ' h;n ri:;ii; rJiif's<, uiio • ^ii'y\; Mfifl filMJ \f'Mr,'r- >'i if ; I will '•*< ''hjimhpr rich, fie '■ '" one of • fll;« moiids I' tsst>(| it) ""itiiy. in *'• ; iuul ns l'>lll)t whi. lI'MI Sl(lM(?». ]« II t.'cciuo- }(.. Iu>'r. •» hf . ■ r Mu 'ic>] I Ji •! •( ,'!f • i" uliriifu )( |'>|.' M ' ■ I ..I r.,i- ' l.tlcf», n'l fir lujJ per* a. JVurra^yc Pieces. 47 ;.!. Il'ivinjr •. »^()ii:ii !?» '•tiojpiuiHisoo- t') lh:it ul'llie vizier, ti» whi«h he iuvilcii aii I'h' nuiii:>.ioi-N ol |)i(M>ur»?, (?.\]K;ctin;LI '•• L'".j'>y i'^' 'ho rilii-ily whw.'h lit' li-iil in!Mjj;inL'(] i i'.he-; ahie to iillind. Lei^jtire siK.n m:uJ», hi.ii weary i.]' himxt-lf, und he l()n<{cd to be ptTsiJiid- t'li tint he was 'jrrcia and happy. Me was courleom and Iih^ '•rai ; ho ^ave all i\\a\ approacljoil him h-ipcs of jjlca-.iiii; him, i!'ai-e was fried, niid every soiiree of adulaloty nclioti was exhi'i^t.'d. (),t.»„ntd heard his flitters without dehjrht, ij'H'aii^e he loiind hims-lf unahle to believe ihein. Mis own lietrt told hi;i) it- iVaJiiies ; his own iinderslandiiig reproached him with hi>l'mlt>i. "IImw loii^r,-' said he, with a deep >igh, " h ive I UrA'.U la').»iirinj[ iii vain to amass wealth, which al last is useless ! Ivt no mm lierojUer wi.-.h lu be rich, wlio is alieady too wise to be II ittered." »>«• Johnson. SKCTION VI. 'Ihe hill of science. I'N that seas )n of the year, wh.ri the serenity of the sky, the van Ills iV'jiis which cove:* the ground, the discoloured lliliage ol'lhn trees. aii(i ail the sweet, ijul laiing grace:? of inspiring a'iiiiiMii. opiMi i!» ; mind to l)jnevoleiice, and dispone it [iir con- temp! li Ml, 1 vvas watiijerin^ in a beintiful and ron)anl>c eouOf try, lid ciiri(»sil> b-gui to giv<; way to weariness; and I sat' il iwii oil the fi i^iiiicnt of j rocdi over^^rown witii mo^s ; where la : f.jstlin 'ofi'.i-! I'l liii:' leaves, the da^hmiX of waters, and tiie ht extended plain, int he, mild :• 1 tviiich aro^t? a mount tin higiterthan 1 l.nd beforeany c )ni .ptioN itf. it wa*. covered wit'i a mnhitude f»f people, cliiedy youth ; many of whom pressed forward Witb tiio liveli- ( .>l expression r.s«! jliitrjs wiih M>tf)hi"plication. He crept alon«; with a slow and unremitting pace his eyes fixed on the topof the moimtain. patiently removing every stone that ob- structed his way, till he saw mo-t of those below him, who had at first derided his slow ind toilsome progress. Indeed, there tvere lew who ascended the hill with equal, and oninterrupted sit-adinevss ; for, besides the dilliculties of the way, they were continually solicited to turn aside, by a niimerou'* ciowd ofAj>- petiteH. Passions, and {Measures, whose itHportutiity, when once complied w ih. they b<;came less and less able to resist: and though they idu^n returned to liie path, the asperities of the toad wore more severely felt ; ihe hill Appeared mf»re steep and rugged ; the fruits, which were wholes(jrne and refreshing, seemed harsh and ill tasted; tlieir sight grew dim; dt t hoi r feet tript at every little obstrticlion. I saw, with some surprise, that the Muses, whose business was to cheer and encourage those who were toiling up the ascent, would often sing in the bowers of Pleasure, and accom- pany those who were enticed away at the call of the Passions, riiey accompanied ihem, however, but a little way ; tnd •!- Part 1. As I was iftsJructcr jiiJlie, ''ia ill, w hi ISO overs her :iJt and ui- ny eye to- Cfnf; Hnd I'it'rcing mllfia^^ In* inoun- envy and »jpf»'d by I'ulley, lio s I he [ire- lighted in li ins iVorn him; I nh- )ul Truth :;iiius was a person He crept •d (in the that ob- who had ^ed, there term pied ley were ivd ofAp- y, »»hen resist : ies ofthe iteep and fresh ing, their feet bu'^iness 1 up the i accom- ^asttions. and ii> Chap. JVarrative Pieces. 49 ways fdrsook th'^m when th»'y lo?t sight of the hill. Tlio ty- rants then (iire the sago at his rnridiintiini. ( min"!e in the crowd of cities, anci bless the hermit in his cell. I have a lem(>le in eveiy heart that owns my udluenee and to him that wishes for mo, I am already present. JSei- ence may raise thee to eminence ; hut I alone can guideihee to felicity!" While Virtue was thus speaki ng, I siietched out my arms towards her, with a veliemence which broke my slum- ber. The chill dews were fallinijf around nic, and the shades of evenins^ stretched over the landscape. I hastened home- ward; anJ rcsignoJthy nighi to silence and medilalion. AIKEN. SECTION VII. The Jnurney of a day ; a pic hire of human life. Obidaii the son of Ahrinsini, left the caravansera earlv in the m irnin;^, and p'jrsiieil hn j »urney, through the plain«» of Indo-ilan. lie was fresh and vigorous with rest; he was ani- mated wiih hope ; he was incited by desire ; ho walked swiftly forwartl over the vallies, and saw the hills gradually rising before him. As he passed along, his ears were delighted w iih the morning song of the bird of paradise; he was fmned by the la>t fluilers of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew by groves of spices. Me sometimes contemplated the lowering height of the oak, monarch (»f the hills; and sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the priairose, eldest danwhter of thu spring : ail his senses were gratified, and all care was bauisb- p,d from his heart. Thus he went on, till the sun approached his meridian, nnd the increased he^t preyed upon his strength ; ho then looked round ab>ut him for sornj mire commodious path. He saw on his right hand, a grove that seemed to wave its shades as a sign of invitation ; Us entered it, and found the coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasint. He did not, however, forget whi- ther he was travelling ; but found a narrow way bordered with flowers, which appeared to h^ve 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 TCi^ thorefo HMnissi cmI to St |}!t;d in ing the fruits I irn to I Part I I Chap. 3. J^^urrative Pieces. 51 the rnwfirds of delijienro without PufTfring its fati^iirs. fie, therefore, still continued to wulk for a tini«, wiilioul the least HMuission of his ardour, o.vcept thil he was sooKMimes leinpl- (mI to stoj) by the ni'i^ic of thn hi ids. which tho heat had assf»ni- h!t;d in the sli id ; : an 1 sometimes amused himself wiih plnok- inijthe M »wers that covered tiie banks on either side, or the fruits that huni^ noon ihe brandies. At last, the ijreen \y,\}h be- gin to d fciiiio fro n its fir's! ten lencv, an 1 lo wind am »n<; l)ills and thickets co'-jled with fountains, and mnrtnurifig with water falls. Here Obidah paused for a lime, and beoan to cnn^-id- er whether it were ioiiijer safe to torsake tlie knowrjand com- mon tiack ; but rem '.m!»eriti;^ that the heat wa-^ now in it-j gieat- est vi »ienc», an I tliai thi pi lin w.i.s d jsfv an I unevtMi, he re- solved to pursue the new path, whieh he. ''Opposed only to make a f(.*w a!c;anflers, in compliance wiih the varieties of the ground, and t«» end at last in the common rnad. H iviijj^ thus cilmMJ his soli(;itiid;;, he renewed his pace, though he suspected that he was not j^ lining ground. Tins nn- ea^iness of his min I in^lin.nl bin t » I ly h d I on every new ohj !(.'t. aril give way to cwcrv sensation tint miglu south or divert him. IJe listened to everv echo ; he mounted every hill n)r a fresh prwsppct; he turned asside to evciy tn>ea('e; and plea>;ed himself with tracing tjic rourse of a gentle river llmt roib'd am'tng the trees, and watered a large Kgini wiili innu- merable circumv(»iu!ipnls, tlie lioms pas- sed a way uncounted; his deviations l)ud peiplexed his memory, and lie knew nut towards what point to travel, lie stood pensive and coiiAnvid. alViil to g) f)rwird lest he shuuld go wrong, yet c »nscio*is ih it ih'^ tioi ) of loitering was now past. While he WHl'ins tortur-vi wi h unceviaintv, th ; skv wis overspread wiih elm is; t!m d iv vanished from bjfire him ; and a sudden timnest jjithered n»nnd his head. He was n >w rois^d bv hH danger to a quick and pain'ul remembance «tf his ftlly ; he now saw how happiness is lost when ease is eon^n!led; be \>\- ic, Mjfi\J (he nnmanlv impatience that prompted liim to seek Ktielier in tlie g!Mv<^; an what yet remained in bis power, to tread back ihe ground which he had passed, & try to find s(»mo issue where the wood might open into the plain. Me prostrated himself on the ground, and r«conimended bia life to the Lord of 59 The EtfrUsh R ader. Part 1. n P Nature. Fie rose with confidence .ind trnnqnillity, nnd presseH on with resolution. The beasis ofiho de.'«erl were in motion, and on every hnnd we heard the minj^lod howl« of rage nnd fear, and iav:i(;e and expiration. All the horrors of daiknf'ss and solitude surround«^d hitn: the winds roared in the woods; and the torrents !un»hled from the liills. 'J'hus n^rlorn and distressed, he wandered thronj^h the wild, without knowing wiiiiher lie was "oin set befrre him such provisions as he had collected f-r himseli", on which Obidalj fed with »»ager- lioss and gratitudj;. When tli(f repast was over, "Tell me.'' said the hermit, ** bv what chance th')u hast been brt)u<;h! hither ?" I h»ive been now twenty years an inh.il)itaut of \\]>) wildtjrness, in which I never saw a man before." Obidah then relatedthe occurrences of l»is journey, withuut any concealmei»l or pal* IJution. **t>on," said the liermlf, " ht the errors and lollies, the dan- gers and esc.) pe olthisdav, sink dcvp intothv heart. Il'-rnem- her. my s/»n, dial human life is the journey of n da\ . \V«' ri>e in th(! morning ofyouth, f j!I of vigour ansJ fdl of esjKM-tatiou ; wo set forward with sj)irit and hope, wiih gaiety nnd with ddiifence, nnd travel on a while in the direcl road of piety towards the mJin-^ions of rest. Inabljort time, we remit our fervour, and endeavour to end some mititjation «)f our dutv, nnd some more easy means o( oijtainiug the same ern!. We then relax our vigour and re-^olve no longf.T to b«; lerrilied with crimes at a di.staure; hut rely upon our riwn cotisiaecv, nnd venture to n|)proa{di what we re- related the il or pal- I. the fl«m- K''fn«Mn- W«' ri>ein itioii ; we tliliiff'nce» vaids the fervour, nid some lifn rrliix crimes at /enfme to enter liie y. Mere ■n u'jljinu ar)(l v\ he- irdcns of ition ; wo ij always Chajh. 2. JSTarrativ^. Pieces. 53 hope to pass through them without loosing llic rond of virtue, which, I'lr a while, we keep iii our sight, nnd to which wo purpose to return. But temptation succeeds temptation, and compliance prepares us for another; we in time loease and anxiety obstruct our way. H'h then look back U|)on our lives with horror, with sorrow, wiih repentance; and wish, but loo often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue. Happy are they, my son, w ho shall learn from thy example, nJ to deapare ; but sliall remember, that, though the dav is past, nnd their strcngih is wasted, there yet ternainsone e(r)rt to be made : that reformation i* never hopeless, nor sincere endeavours ever unassisted ; that the wanderer may at length return after all \\\^ errors ; and that lie wlio implores strength ond courage from above, shall find danger and didiculty give way before him. Go now, my son. to thy repose ; commit thy- self to the care of Omnipotence t nnd when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey ond thy life." DR. JOHNSON. :» *. '■'± '£, c a 04: The English Rsadsr. Pari X. ■ I CHAP. III. DIDACTIC I liOCES?. SlvJTION I. The itup n'ttnice if a gi>od ednca'.iini. I CON'S DKU a liuniiiii soul, wiih-iut eluj.i'i lu, like mirb'e ,i\ tiitt (uniiry : vvlm-i) sliows none ul' iis iii'isTtMil l)i;.niti(js. uDiil the skill ol'liie (M>hfllu,'r ri.'icin.'s out the c»l uiis, m«lcf;.-» ihot. v^ vt»in tlial runs lhn»n^li,lhe l> »dy ofif. ICdueation, aCinr iIk^ siwwa m\\y\\\^'\'^ \vl;('ii It woi ks i)|H)ii a iioliU: miitd, draws out to viuiv qv«ry latent virtut^ and pei lection, winch, without such hclp^, uro never ah!o to make their Jipjjearani.-e. II' my reader wnl give me leave to change the nllnsKui so iiOoii iipun hnn, 1, shad make Urlaiuary only clears away the Hn[Mjin»io'js matter, and r|[^iiu»v.e:itht; ruhhi-h. The fiji;ure is in the stone, and the si!uln- tf)r only findi.it. Whit scuiuinie is to a hlock (d' marble, edu- cation is to u human soul, 'i'he jdiiiosophcr, the saint, or the hero, the wi-e, the p»o(J. or ihe great man, very (d'len lies hid and coivealed in a |)lteis, ur upon changing tneir servicct Imng tiiemselvcs upmi the next tiee, as it sometimes happens in uur Amerii'an plantuiioiH, who can forbisir admiring llii^ir fi- delity, though it c. ,»resses itself in sodreadltil a manner? What might not that savage greatness of soul, which appears in these poor wretches on many occasions. I)c raised to, were it rightly cultivated? And what colour of excuse can tliere he. forihe con- tempt with which we trcui this part uf uur .species; that we IS 'A Part t ;•!. iiDtjl ih'j siir- fO XltiVV Jsioii an L'e to i|- (>tl<^r|>(,t() lells us iliu art tcr, and le «:ulj)- l)le, etJii- I, or llie lies iiid HI rniiriit herein re iiiitiiir(s ; UIkJiUM- , r(»"i> ''-t :uiui'>i^iiili:u:ii liix; up 'ii ihc mail wiio mur- ders thtMii ; iiay. lh;it \\c >liu(j|(.l, as nuu'ti as lii us lies, eui thcin Otl'tlOt!! itu! piO.-pUClS I't hnj»pllM\->S III cUloli.Ci W'Jl Id, us \\ull a;i ill tlti"; and ciuiiv tiitjui iluii which wc k>.>U upon uci ihc pro- I )er means lur auaunng ii I ll i'i thuiuloro an uiispL-aU luio l)lessing, to be horn in ihose tjarls (►f the vvuiid wiiore wi>diim and knowledge flourish; ihoti'di, it must bn confessed, there are, even in lho.->e pails, several poor nnln^lrucled persons, wno aie bul liillc ubi>ve the inhal)itants. of ihose nalions ot' wliicti I liii\o Oeeii here .-peak* iir'i as those who have had the advantages of a more liberal eduea{i.»n, rise above one another by several dillereiil jlegrees ol* perleolion, I'\»i, to n^tLirn.lo our statue in the block t*t' mar- ble, we sec It soul iiinus i)niy ln^gun to b*; chipped, sometimes FiJU'li hew. I, and bul j'Jslskclc'liL'vl into u human ligure; some' linvis, we see the m in appearing uihIiik^iIv in all iiis limbs uiiJ fcaiuies; sometimes, w..* li.id ine liguie wrought up lo g^reit tiieg-incy ; hn seldom mj.M vvnh any to aIhoii the hiind olu lllndias or a Praxiteles could not give several luco louchea £U)d hnishings. Apui.->oN* SKCTION II. On Gi'uHhid*'. TriKRE is not a mnre pleising exerei.sn of the mind, thnn gratitude, it is aeeomp inie i with so < suiUcientIv rewartie I hv the iK'rlorniiiice. It is not. like the practiire ormmy otlit^r virtues. (iitFi :iilt and painful, bui attended with so much pleasure, tli.it w«! re there tin positive command which enjoined it, nor any rncompense laid up for it hereafter, a generous mind would indulge in it, fur the natural gnitiiication which it alFirds. Ifgraiitudi! in duj IVnm man lo man, how much morr from man to his M-iker: The iSuprome Being does not i>nly crtii- fer upon us those bounties which proceed moie inunedialely from his hand, but even those benelus which nre conveyed to us by others. Kvery blessing weeni«»y, l>.V what meanH so- ever it nmy be derived upon us, \a the gift of Him who is tho grent Author of good, and the Father of mercies. If gratituds, when exerted towards one another, nnturnlly produce.^ a very pleasing sensation in the mind of n grateful inaD» it vxults the soul into rapture, wlwn il ia employed oa m \ K.-S 50 The English Reader. Wt 1. n IT this great object of gratitude; on lliis beneficient Being, who has given us every thing wo already jtossess, and from whoin we expect every ihiug we yet hope lur. addison. SECTION III. On forgircufss. The most plain and natural senliinents of equity concur with divine nuthoriiy, to enforce the duty of forgiveness. — Let him who has never in his life done wrong, be allowed the privilege of remaining inexorable Hut let such as are con- {jcious of frailties and crimes, consider forgiveness as a debt which lh«^y owe toothers. Common failings are the strongest lesson of mutual forbearance. \Vm whom ADDISON. Chap. 3. Didactic Flaxes. 57 concur eness. — owed the arc con- s a deht trongest jfiknrtwn vould be oihecx- i* re. full do- lensurcs li soever azard of he viol- tormcnt 3»pcrate e re pre* that is icy and ^r ages impiety is Son, life and ich the nd, we cted oa 'or this nagna- >m the Col. lected u'iiii itself, if stands unmoved by their iippolcnt assaults; and wnh j;«MiProiis pitv, ralhor t'.ian with anj:(M*, jo^ks down on tJMjir nnworihy conduct. Ii i»ris lioen tnirly >;iid. tiuU the grc'iUjsl njiii on ca'thcHri no sooner commit an irij'iry, than u good m;ui can in^ilic liimselfgruatMr, by lorgiviiig it. BLAIR. SF.CriON IV. Malivrs to lhr> prar/ice of [^cuth n^ss. To promotn the virtue of (l nian with man, and rcH'-ct on tiw inhriin- ties conmion to ali. ll'th'; rcflt'clion on natnta! cfpiaiiiy and mutual (»irjn(res. he iiisolliu'icnt to j)romj»t humMHiiy. let us jit least rcni'Mnbor what we arc in the j-inht of onr Crtator. Have we none of tiiat lo.MK'araiK'c to give one anollan", wiiich we all so earnestly (uitreai fn-m h»'av(ui ? ('an we look for clemency or gfuiticncss (Vom our Judge, wiien we are so backwaid to show It to our own nicilnen ? Let us al.-io a'lcusiom ourselves to rcdect on the Fmriil mo- ment ot'thove tljini;s. which are the; usual incentives to violence and contention. In ;h»* ruin'-d -md an^n-y hour, we view eveiy a|)|)carance through a fnlse medium. The most inconsiderahle point of inicre^t, or honour, swells into a mon»eii'"Us ot)jr-cI ; and th(; sli'j;h;c>l attack, seems to '.Incalen immediate ruin. Hut aCier passion or prid'*, has suijsifiod, we lo«»k arramd in vain for the nnjjhtv mischiels we dreaded. 'J'he fabric wiiich ourdistuibed ima;iination liad roared totally disappears. Ihit though the cause of contention has d.vindlcd away, its conse* f|U<'ri'*cs remain. \V"o h ive nlienaied a liieiid; we ha\t'iud)it- lered an enemy, we have "-own the seeds «d'futur«.' suspicion, nnlevojcnce, or disgiist. r*et us suspend our violence for a moment, when causes of discord occur. Let us anticipate that period uf coo I ucsts, which, ofiibeli, will soon arrive. Lei ur . r, IV, J • % I '44 ■111 U} m 5S The EihtIUU Reader. Part 1. reflijct Inw Utile wn hiwe any prospect of giininir by fierce c>i'eiiii>n; bit li tw m i jli of* tir; true InpiMtiessdf lif^, wcfire certiiiii oriliroAin^i; I'.viv. Ivjsily, Jiiri (Voiii ti»'; srrnlle^f chink, tlvi biM(»r wiK'rs ofs'ril'; i\re Itji i'i>it!i ; b;jt tb^Mi' course can- n »t I) 5 fire^c mi ; firj I h.j s;i!(J )in f.iils of s!iH';iin2 m )st from their o jisoiijus elfiot, wh ) (i:*--! nlluw-; them to flow. blair. 1 SECTION V. A sn.pp ci'HS frtvp^r llu^ snnrce nj Ttu.^rry In Us pnssfS^nr. Asa s(i-i|iicioi:s spirit is ihe S'lUiCf? of in iny crimes and ca- hmi!i»'s ill the wuihJ, sm it is ihn sjuiti*; of curtMin misery to t*i" |»ersii(i wlio iitm's.S('^. Beiievinjr '•ihers to b" his enemies, he will ni coersM orike !h''m «»i<:b. Let his e.niti.Mj be ever so iiront, the asperity of his ihnutihls will oIumi bfe.ik fiui in hi- beliavioiir; and m return for sus- pe(!tin:^ and liitiu'/, he will iijfiir suvpicim ais! hnired. \Ui- rtides the li'^tiirnil oviU whi th he draws upon himself, arising* fiom aliennte J tVi(M» Iship, brokcei connienee, and open en- m IV, the siisjiici )iis teinper itse f is orie of the worst evih whieli aev m \n can siir If '• in all iWw there is torment »> b'»w miserable mist he his state w!»(» bv livin'jr in perpetual j'alii;niiii; men, be is « strany;»M' t'» i'niuic(; iint I hu-t. litMiiiowsuMi to whom to op'M) hiin-ij'lf I le /ire-isfs his ei>uiit(M) iiiGo in lorced smih'S, whilf his lie»'; l/iro!)s wiihin from appreh^Mtsions of secret treacdierv. ileiiee iVetriilMess and ill hum >ur. di-ftr ist ut tlie world, and all llu> piiuful aensnliv)ns of an irnialed and imbit- lered mint »So numerous and grenf are lliG evils ariioLj from a su-spi- cious disposition, tlv»t, of the two extri-'tnes, tt is more eli;;ible to ex!)o<«' ourselves to ofcusional disudvant.Tre frorn Miinkinif too v.'«'ll ofoth'i-^. linn to suill-r crmtiniil misery l>v thinkinjx »1- wa\s 1 1 iniun. It IS l-.('!I(;i to I >(• »-""ir. 'lime* nipose I Ujiun, ilnn tievfr to ttos» r'iiietv is purchased at too dear a rate, wiien, in ordtM lo serine if, we are nl)|i deprjx e ourselves of thu c..m'orls of life. The man ofcuidour cnj )vs |iis sitiMtivhatt,'\er it is, wi h ohefrfulnessattd pe.jce. Pru l.'nce dirt those hn.iutilul scenes ofnnfuro, on whieli the eye rests uiih j.lea- siire. W here.-is the sus|)ici{)us man, iiavisiiT Ins iinagittatioii filled with all the shi»ekiii<; rorrni of h'lniai) I'-JstMioud, deceit, and treacltery. reseiiiox-s il!,> triivejler in liiu- wiid.;, ness, whu discerns no o' jects around hi.u but such as are either dieary or terrible; caverns that o^^miu^ ser|jciils that hi?s, and beasts ofprey thai howl. blaiii. SL'CTION Vf. Com fir Is nf Re/ii>i>ii. TiiEiiK are many who have passed the ai^e of y(»'jlh and beautv ; who have resiijDfjd tbo pleasures of thul suiilinir sea- son; who b •n[iu to d.,M-lino in ihe vale of \ears, imiuiKed in their health, de|)ress(;d in their fortunes, striy)t ol their frietxis, their children, and perhaps still more tenderconne.\ii)ns. What resource can this world atlord them? It presents a daik and dreary waste. throu;/h which their ti()es not issue a sinj^le ray ofcoiufort. Every delusive pri>*ue. 'I of ambition is now ;it an end; loniif ex[»erieuee of uianlvind. an experience very ddlor- cut iViun wliat the open and i^ernMous soul of youth had fondly dreamt c»f, has rendered the luMrt almost inacrcesMble to new lrieiKJshij)S. The principal sources of activity are taken away, when ihey for wlhiuj we labour are cut olffnun us ; they who animated, and who swc'ctened all the toils of life. \N Ir^rc; then can tlie soul find rel'uiie, but in the bosom of Ueliuion \ There ►!je is admiitcd to thoj^e prospects of Providence and futurity, which alone can Wiirm and fill the heart. I wpeak here of such as retain tlie fut'lings of huuianiiy ; whom misforlune.j have sofiened. and perhaps nnulered mor.3 dtdicately sensible; n(»tofsuch as posst.-ss that stupid in.^en-ibiiily, which some are pleased lodi'^nify with the name of philosopljy. Jl mi;;ht thergfoie be expected, that those philosopiiers, who think ihey stand in no need theu»sclves of the as-^i -stance of rc- iii^ion to support their virtue, and wiio luHL-r feel the want of its consolations, wouhl \el have the humanity to con-iih-r ih(; very ditVcrent situation of the rest of mankind; and not endeavour to deprive lIuMn of wiiat habit, nt least, if they will not allow it to be nature, has nvulc necessary to their morals, and to their happiness. It miglil be oxpccted, that humanity would pre- vent them from broukirig into the last retreat of the unfortunate, ■I'V '^•■■i 60 The Cnrlish Ut*ad(r. Part 1. If i • H I ; C i i .«: who can tio longer bo obj "ts iifthiM'rcnvy or resentment ; an(i tearing from lliem tiioir only ifmnining comfoit. The nllem|(t to ridicule religion mnyhe .'i^reenbielosome. by relieving the'm from restraint upon llieir pleasures ; and may renu(;i others very miserable, by making t'irem doubt those truihs, in whicit they were most dcjeply inierosted ; but it can convey real good and happiness to no one individual. grkoory, SIX^TION VII. Diffidence of our ahili.'ies, a mark of ivisdom. It is a sure indicition of good sense, to be diffident of it. We then, and not till then, are growing wiso, when we begin to discern how weak and unwise we are. An ahscdute per- fection of understanding, is impossible: he makes the nearest approaches to it, who has the senIute |ier- 1(1 nearest iear more uid tulded emselves, t to value ; science, [sat is, the " tongues ." As to ;c is very leasure in ex[)loded, preserved I of them; '\se would But a firm ill support 1st, at that fipprehen- nelh fiom our other ibservient nal happi- Id. 8ESD. Chap 3. Didactic Pieces. SECTION VIII. 61 On the imporhmce rf order in /hn (lislrilurum of our timt*. Ti.MK v\c ought to consider a'^ a sacred tru.^t committed to us hy G.xJ; ol vvliicli we are nuw ilio depositaries, and are lo rentUM- an account at tlic last. That porlii.r\ of it which he hrjsrdloiied t-Mis, is intended partly ff these occupy, in the distribuliiMi of our lime, that space which properlv U'hjng'! lo it. Let not the hours of hospitality and pleasure interlere with the discharge of our necessary alFairs; atid lei not what we call necessary affairs, encroach upon the lime whi«-h is due to devotion. T') every thing there is a sea>on, and n time for every purpose under the heaven. If we delay till tomorrow whnt ought lo he done lo-uay, we -n-ercharge the morrow with a burden which belongs not to it. W(; load trie wiieelsoftime. and prevj-nl them from carrying us along smoothly, fie who every morning [>lans the transactions of the day, ar»d follows out that plan, carries on a ihreaH which will /^uide him llirough the labyrinth of the m s: busy lile. i'he orderly arrangement of his lime is like a ray ofli^^ht, which darts itself llirough all his atiairs. Hut, wiiero no plan is laid, where ihe disposal of time is surrendered merely to the chance ol incidents, nil things lie huddled together in one ch. . , vvhich atlmits neither of (Jislributiod nor review. 'ihe lirst requisite for introducing order into the manage- ment of lime, is to be impressed with a just sense of its value. Let us consider well how much depends upon il, and how fast it flies away. The bulk <^f men are in nothing more caprici- ous and in^'onsistent, than in iheir appreciation oftime. VVhen tliev think of it, as the measure ofthei continuance on earth, they highly prize it, and wiiii the greatest anxiety seek to lengthen it out. But when they view il in seperate parrels, they appear to hold it in contempt, and squander it with incon- siderate profusion. While they complain ih »t lile is short, they are often wishing its dilFerent periods at an end. Covetous 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 vvelcomu that can help them to consume it. A*nong those who are so careless of time, it is not to be expected that order should be observed in its distribu- ^% Thtr Eiiiilis/i Rt^iidcr. Part \ I tion. Hut, by ihis fatal nftglcct, l)f)w muny inati^ rials ofsevpio »n(l lasting r^^re* aro tiiPV laving up in siorc lor ihoMisirl .f>s ! 'i'he liipe which they suIHt to pas> away in the midst of c(^n- fiision. hitter rr'p^'ritrncc; .srcks .ificrwurds in vaiti to recall. What was omillefi to h-'. done ai its proj>cr nKunent, arrives to l»e the torrnetil ofsomo fulLire sj:asr>ri. Manhood is di-^raced by the conseqnenco-i ofnoglocled youth. Old a. lie is justly said to redeem the time. By jjroper manajfemertt Ijc prciiongs it. He lives much in little pj^ace ; more in n few years ihan others do in many, lie can live to !, and at the same time attend to all the lawful interests ol the; pri'sent world. He |f)oks back on the past, and proviilcs fu* the hi- ture. lie catches and arrests the hours as they Oy. Tbny nre marked down for useful purposes, and their memorv re- mains. Whereas those hours fleet bv the man of confusion like a shadow. Mis days and years are «'itber blanks, of which he has no remembranc-c, or thcv are filled up with so confus- ed and irrefTular a succession of uiillnished trrin>actions, th^it though he remembers he has been busy, yc'. he can give no ac- count of the business which has employed him. llahi. SECTION IX. 7 he (lignihj of virtue amidst corrttpt eratnplrs. The most excellent and honourable character wbii-b can n- dorn a man and u Christian, is acquired by re-^isiin*^ the tor- cnt of vice, and adherin;Li to the cause of (jlod and \ irtuc aj^ainst n corrupted multitude. It will be found to hold in ireneral, that they, who, in any of the great lines of life, havd dis!inf dis- pised popular prejudices ; and departed, in sevcjral thin<]j^, from the common ways of the world. On no occasion is this mure re- quisite for true honour, than where reli/xion and molality are concerned. In timci of prevailing licentiousncsts, to maintain ih'ip. 5. Didacllc Pieces. k» ITHC'S lO U')hlem;shcJ virluo, and uncorrupto*! int<^;Tjri(y ; in a piiLlicor a nrivat.' cuim), to slan(J ficMi by \v|)-.i is niiraiii] ju-^t, amiJst uis- r«d and man ; — this; IS what hh(»Wft; true greatness of spirit, and will force approbation even frofn the degenerate n>ulti(ude then)'!elvc.-5. '•Tiii-^ is th') mm." (tlieir conseienee will oblige them to ac- kn'»wKidge.) ♦' vvhorn W(; are unable to bemi to mf^nn CMaVles- ceinion-i. We see it it) vain either to fl uieror to fine iten liun ; he rests on a [!rineiple within, wbiclj we c»nnot shake. 'I'o this ni\ii we \u\\\ ou anv oGc.a''ion, silely rouimit ourcaiHO. lie is ill -a;. able of be'.raying \\h trust, or deseiling bis fnenu, or dep. viuii his laiih." It is, accordingly, this steady inflexi'jb? virtue, tiiis regard io p.Iueiple, suj)erior to ail custom and oj)inion, "wlriLdi peciili- nrlv n)aikr:d ihc characters of those in anv .'ice, who have *r) slH»!je with disj'ngur^.'ied lustre; aiui has (onscciatcfi iheir mcrnory to all posterity. It was ibis that obtained to ancient Knoch the most singidar tesiimony of honour, from h'-aven. He continued to *' walk with (t'uI," wlien the wor i.l aposlaliz- ed from him. He |)leased Gjd, an I was b^IoveMi of him ; so that living among soiners, he was translated to heaven tvithout seeing death; *• Yea. speedily was he taken 'away, lest wick- edness should have altered his luiderstniidini;. or deceit bejjin'led his soul." When Sotiom could not fiirei'li fen riiibteous incii lo save i I, Lot remained un-no lted\i irndsl the con'a'/ion il. lived like atJ au'jel ainonj^ spirits ofdarkeess ; and iutMlestroy- iiiLj flime was not permitted to go forth, tdl liie g.xid nim was calle(j awav, bv a heavenly messenger, from his d('V((;(;d ciiy. When *• all llesb had corrupted their uay upon the earth,'* then liveil Nnab, a righteous man, ami a preacher of rigbteous- ufss. He stood alone, and was scofrcl l)V the j.rolM tie crew. Dut thev bv th(! dehnre weresuepf awav ; wlule rm him Pro- vii] ence conlerrcd the immor!a xmour o f bein if the restorer o f n biMfor race, and the lather of a new world. Such examples ns these, and su(dj honours r(rnferrcd by (ind on them wl)i> withstood the multitude of evil diMMs, should often be present to (jur minds. Let us oppose them to the' nufubers of lov,' ^ cor- rupt examples, winch we behold aroiuid Os ;and when we are in lia'zard of bein'^ swo.ved bv such, let us fjflify our viilue, Hppaaaw 64 The English Reader. Pari 1. ;| n ■ if f ' by thinking of iliosc who, in former timee of well- doing. If we are weary of the labours orviriue, we may be nssure.l, that the world, whenever we try the e.vchange, will lay upon us a minrh heavier load, h is the outside only, of a licentious life, whieh i-»jrav and smilin*;. Within, it conceals toil, and trou!)le, and deidly sorrow. For vice poisons hu- man happine«is in the spring, by introducing disorder into the lie-irl. 'I'nose passions vvhicii it seems to indulge, it only feeds with imperfect gratificarions ; and thereby streugihens them for preying, in the end, on their unhappy victifus. It is a great mistake to imigine. that the pain of self-denial is confined to virtue. Me who follows the world, as much as he who follows Cnrist, mast ** take up his cro ;s;" and to him assuredly, it will prove a more oppressive burden. Vice al- lows all our passions to range ur»controlled ; and where each claims to be superior, it is impossible to gratify all. The pre- dominant desi'.e can only be indulged at the expense of its rival. No mortifications which virtue exacts, are ni )re severe than those, which ambition impo-< fciUuatitius, mil) which thtjir criupj-t h ivt;' hrou^hi ihom, have they exe'TJittjiJ the suduciions of vice; and. wiih bitter logiet Itn.ki'd biick lo the day on which llicy fnsl forsook the \n\\\\ of innocence. , iiL.AiR. SECTIOxN XI. On Cuntcijfmnnf. CoNTKNTMKNT produce-, ii) .sorpe measure, nli tliose effects ;Vhich the aUdiymist us'ially ascribes lo w\v\\ he cdl> ll«e |dii- li>S')pher,'!« >t'Mie ; and il" it does not bring riclies, it dt)C.s tho same ihinif. by batiishing the desire of ihem. If it cannot re- m »vo the (hsqiietndes arising from u niin's mind, body, or fortune, it m;ikes him easy nmlerihem. It has indeed a kind- ly influence on the soid of man, in respect niT (ho tnidiiic sort of pnnplo wlio keep tiieir \\ish<;s within their I'lifunfs, atid h.ivf; tune wc.il h tli.ui )\\v.y kn-»*" iiow tu ciijitv. i'crsoiH u;" i hii^lioi i uik live in ;» kind (ii' spiiMidiiJ jjdV'ilv ; iifid are pt'i in-iiiall y uaiiiiUiX. btvaw-c. i'!^! '.'iu; t>l" iiv iinu'>c:iig ii( llie ^"iiil ; Ira^ iics ui lilr, '!i«'\ <:*;)- dc'.iv')iii' Jo (dj; VI •,;,!. ^ anodrT in ,'hiu>»vv^ iwA ;i;>i»(;af m«i cs .Mini «,i st'i.Mi h ivc ;i' ;i!i liini.'s ix^hnid, n • 'i' !l !l t/ '••'»' d I'.t'ir h.'.id I) MlltJ HtMih, iUL-..s;iiv in ii'! ihd is "hp, ,i). ,,v by (!onir.>i;tin;4 iin;ir dodies, lltcv (stj iv' ali \\\:\\ .s;'fr;:l lucUon whii:li ittlic'."s ai-»* alWMvs in ([ij-.i ul". I'iio irnth is tl Hs I idi.Miloii.s fh iNf.' ;j|r(',i- lilt i|^nrii v | lit asuMrs, cnmi'ii he 'nt' liciriiils ('vnostMJ, as it is lii'! .i'j <'V lis w hic!i "OMi'ialK uni.'ii a iiuIkmi. \s"A a inni's c-ialo bn \vh il li n» iv hti H a j)»t)r n»aii. il he dofs not live vviibin it ; and inilnraily sets hini.stdroii s.ile to nny 01113 ihal can ^'ivc him Ids |iii(i'. When Piitiuais alu.-r the deuth ol" his hroih(M-, vv li » h;id hdt idni a ^'^ »d o^l lie, was oIIImciJ a ixro.it sum wf m iiev bv ihtj kiuv'di u he ihinlied him Ttf i» s kindness; bit loKI him, he nil] ai e idy m ne bv hail ii»au h: knew whit 1 1 (i» with. In aboi t, cdiHeiit is «'(j ii\ ;tl:'iiu.> wi^sdih, and ln\nrv lo |t-tverfy ; of. to 1^1 vu llje th ia.i'11 -\ met' a'^re-aiH ; I'i'ti j> isiittmal uoiiilh, ^ i\^ ^)r»e^al( to w (y niicnt bichi liiail ail !. luxury isa.iil'udal poveiiv. I >lia!liiiri('r(itc r .i:<>m neiid to the e..n>i- deraiii-ii ol l!^ ise. whit ate a^^avs aiiniu'i a. snniM lln-nis and iniairinary I'u) i\ iiient , and who w,d nii b' al th" troid)l« of (•/ •iniaeiiii;; ilieir (i.:sire-. an (^xeell'.'nt «ia\iu'' •(' I'i'Wi tbo* Tbil lit mm h IS s » ujucb oai'. , a Ujo e-s. jdiilosojthei". ti imely. who Hiiijcavi»nis tihM' !he m '>t hijipin ill the see Mil jdiee. cvjiv one c j^ i' to red 'ft how inucdi inoi'o uiilM|»|»y Ik; \iii;,'hl b", ;ha 1 he icills i^ — 'The fir.ner oonsideraii »fi to ik in all th 'Si). wli » H'C s!i!li denilv pr-vi de.l wab lb" iii'ans to mikj ibemsejvt > (ms\ ; this r.'iricds s".(dj Tl u;-o usactutllv be. under staj' (M'e«isnre or msiintia". may receive gr<.'!: Jilltrx i iii ai. I'lo.u sneb a eoaniarisui us the uiitii|i|iv |»cr-ion m ly mik.; belwoen blm-iidi' and olaer.«; or bc'iwiMMi the rni>lorinne which Ik; snlK;is, iiiitJ gicater iui?»ror- tunes whit h mi^h: hav(; beralleii Www. I like the vtory a great mercv that it was not his ijoek. To whicdi, ^illct• I mi) gilt into qaoiaiion-j. give nie leave to add the sny- iti^ ol au olil pliilu:«u^)lue', who, ut'tur having iuviied sotno uf Chap. 8. Didactic Pieces, #7 liis fiiend-j {o dine \vitli him, was ruffl'jd by n person that ciiiii iiit'i \U.'. roMii ill i\ |Mssi.i 1, jki'I ihre^v iii)%vti rhe tul)lo till t .sFi* ).l b'ji'jrc ilHNU : *• I'lvi^i y miil*," xivs he , •• has his ca- lnuiilv ; aii!l ho is a hiijtjty mm ihut has iki grrat<*r itni ttii.-j." \Vt; IiikI ail ill-*! nii'c It the sum f |)iir(ma.e, mi l\n: hit; ufdootor n.iin.ti 'iri. wim;v*ii l)v !»i-h t|i Fm.I. Av ihls nnnd iivtu was ti-uU'>li:il Wilh a (:t)mj)!ifiiiiiMi ol'disitinjers, whrt.i ho had tlio •fifn.a u^^•H\ hi!i). h> u iiu! ihu >l hid thf' xione, ihit he had n^l boih ihe-ie (.h-lo.n|Kirs iHi liiin til ihc same iime. I canii It ctHic'lnd.: this essay wnh ml ohstji'viniT. fhil there nmer wa> aiiv system he^ides ihat of Chrisiiamty* wjiich coiiid eir*ctuilly prDdiu'o in tijc mind <, very j^ravely, !ell tht; man vvlio is miserable, that it U iiHoe-Jsiry he >hi)'iM be so, tt) kee|) tij) the harm aiy (d'lheimi- verso; andlhit ih'i scheme of Providuiure would be Irouliled niiJ perverted, where he oihr?r'Vise. 'l'heN»% and tt.e hk*» CMnsideiatioii«i, raiher silence than sitisfy a man. Tney may sli w him riiit his diie eontrary. reli;iion hears a more lender regard lo bu- rn in naiiiie. It pr«rsc;it)es to every miwerahle man the means ol beiu'iin;; his eoniiiiion : nay. it sho\*!» him, that Injuring his adlKiions as ii(> «Miiriil to do, will naturally emi in the re- mival ol' ih-^iu It makes him easy here, bocau^tc it can make bill) hajipy bureHrter. auouon. sccrioN XII. li ink tind ric/irs njfitrd no ground Jnr envy. Ok nil ihe grounds of envy amoii}; men, superiority in r»ink and iorluno i« the mo«t goauial. lieucti, Hm nmligoity which 1^ ■"J » ' 1''' k m V \'JH ^ik. '•^WST" W^'^'T ■«f*.n^ 1 ™^lpeBw^«fp»^^"s«juLji^»lpp»*i^i_ niL ^^ii ■ n^. 1 1 ■ TA« English Reader. Part 1. , I I the poor commonly bcnr to the rich, as engrossing to thrm- •elves all the comtorts of 1111'. Ilcuce, ihu v.\\\ (lye wiili which per^tons of inferior station 3c;rutinizc lh\ of ih.1l nature which renders them grounds of envy. The poor mati possesses not, it is true, some of the conveniences and plea- sures of the rich ; hut, in return, he is IVfx* from many errjhar- rassmeuts to which they are suhject. Hy the simplicity and uniformity of his life, he is delivered from that va;i*'ty of cares, which perplex those who have great allairs to manage, intri- cate plans to pursue, many enemies, perhaps to encounter in the pursuit. In the iranquillttv of his small hahitation, and private family, he enjoys a peace which is (;ft<.'n uidwn at lys file ^xff•nt i peiite, . *v|io ouriu ; r, nnd rs a 10 c-f on frinsc- rich. W (ho f ap- Nnie, »''en. ikof Chap. 3. Didactic Pieces. 69 sonsntion of joy.— Let us cease, therefore, from looking up vith disconlent and envy lo thtse, whom hirlh or firfune has placed above us. Let us adjust the bnlarire of happiruvss fairly. When we think of iho onjoymenls we want, we ^ho'dd ihnik also of the troubles from which we are ^ruG. If we allow their just value lo the condiiris wr :h sscss. wo shall find reason to rest satisfied, with a very m;)deraie, thuugh not an opulent and sp'endid condition of fortune. Ofien, diil we know iho whole, we should be inclined lo j)ity the stale of those whom we now envy. bl.\ir. SECTION Xfll. PaHence under provocations our interest as well as duty, TiiK wide circi(3 of h^man society is diver-ifu;d by an end- less variety of characters. disposiiiiMis, and passions. Unifor- mity is, in no respect, ihe gnnius of the world. Every man is mirked by some peculiarity which .li-linions of irritation frequently arise. We are pro- voked sometimes, bv tijo folly and leviiv of ihoso with whom we are connected ; sometimes, by their indinerencHor negleet; by the irjcivility of a ft lend, ihe haughtiness of a superior, or the insolent behaviour of one in lower station. Hardly a day pa-j-^es, without somewliat or other occuring, which serves to rulll'i ibe man of iin[»a'icn! spirit. ()!'cMiir>e, su'^h a man lives in a continud storm, lie knows not what it is to enjoy a train of goo I humour. Sc^rvanfs, neighbours, IrifMids, spouse, nnd children, all. through the unrestrained violen«'e of bib temper, become sources of di>tiirbance and vexation to him. In vain is alHuence; in vain are health i\m\ prosperity. The least trifl') is sulTi.'ient lo di, •■compile his mind, and poison his plea- sures. Mis very amusements are mixed with turbulence and pa'ssi/^n. I Would beseech 'bis man toronsider, of what •'mall moment the provocations which ho receives, or at least imagines him* telf to recLive* ar(j rvally ia tbemsulvcs; but of wbat great m^* 'm TO 2 he Ennlish Reader. Part I. ment he makes them, by siifTorini; ll»eni to tloprivo him of the possession of himse!!'. I would beseech him, to consnior, l)ow many hours of happiness h« ihiMws away, wiich a lilt e iiimiu palienco would allow him lo ei)jov : and how inuclj he put** it in the power of the most in ignificanl persons to render li.iu miserable. "But who can expect,-' wo liear him nxclum, ** that he is to possess the inscii^i'oilily of ti stone ? How is it pbssiblo for human natiiio to onduic so many repeated provo- cations? or to boar cahr.Iy with so mireasonaljie helia\ ioar ?'' —My brother! if thou eanst bear wiih no instance (d' urnea- sonable behaviour, withdraw thyself ficii the woild. TluiU art no longer fit to live in it. Leave il>o iiitereoijise of men. Retreat to thp mountain, ant) the desert; oj slvjt tlivselfiip in « cisll. "For here, in tlie niidst of society, .nju'nccs ^ans' vomc. We mi»ht as well expect, when we l)eh»)ld a cal.o aimospher:', and a clear sky, that no elouds were ever to ri:e, and n«) winds to blow, as that our life were long lo proceed, wiflK:ut receiv- ing provocations from human fiailty. The careic s and tlic imprudent, the giddy and the fickle, the uii'j;raterid and the interested, every where met I us. 'i^hey ate the biit-rs and thorns, with wliich the paths of h'linan life are bc-set. ih.'oidy, who can hold his course among ihem with pa'.ience andeqtja- nimiiy, he who is prepared \o bear what lie must expect to happen, is worihv of the name of a man. If we preserved our^^elves composed but for a moment, we should perceive the insi;;iiineaMcy o^! mu>-t of t!ii»se provoca- tions which we magnify so highly. Wiiea a fevv sutis mure have rolled over our heads, the st.»rm will, of i»s«ii. have .aibiidr d ; the cause of our present impatience and distuibaiui' will bo utterly forgotten. Can we not tl»en, anticipaie this hour of calmness to ourselves; and begin toeiijov il>e pe lee winch it will certainly bring? If ollu^rs havi» bcdiaved impro|:>M!y, let us leave them to their «>vvn folly, without beeomini: l.,' »i.iim of their caprice, and punishing ourselves m liudr account. — Patience, in this exercise of it, cannot be to<» inutdi siiclied by all who wish their Ide to (low in a smooth stream. It is the reason of a man, in opposition to the passion ofa child. It is the enjoyment of peace, in opp<)«d.l thing |t>-t who!' to cr pos(i lid p brin As •>) proji whi( Y €hap. fl. Didactic Pieces, 71 Part 1. him of I he .siiior, how lilt e inniti I he puK- it cii(J«'r him 1 nxcl'u'm, flow is it it(;(l provo- ih;i\ i(»;jr ?■' (if u.'ucri- Id. 'I'hou »e of rrjMi. ysoh'iij) it] niosphcro, fl no winds >ut rccciv- •s and the d nnd lh(i Jii»'i"s iind fit; only, and cqtja- CAlJC'Ct to imoiif, we : provrH'.ti- nnr. h.ivo ;Mib:;i(!( d ; (' will bo ! Iiour of I! wdiicij it »|'*'rly, let ' ti.tini i'c«innf. — iiii'lK.Ml hy It is 11)0 ild. 1 1 is onluhiou. sfitisficd i/.!jiauily formed for a wider range of objoctg. for a biplinr sphere of en* ji'vmi'nts. il finds it^olf, in ev(^ry r>itijalion of fortune, s^trai tail- ed .-ind {•oriliiicd. 8t;nsihie f)rdL'fu;ienry in Ii> state, it is ever ^e!ldiniJ lorfii the fond de-ire, the a^lpirir^g wish, uflcr soin^- ihinii i)eyoiid what is cdj oyed at present, flencp, that rest* |.^>.<^s, nnd stimulate their active labours ; which warm tlic breasts f>f the youn^r. animate the industry of the juiddlo nged, and often keep alive ilic passions of the old, un- til the very close of life. Assuredly, there is nothing urdawful in our wishing to be freed from winlever is disaurcieable, nnd toolilain n fuller en- joymentoftho coitifuts oi' life. Ibjt when these wii>i.e8 are not temjieroii hy reason, ihov are in danger of precipitating us into much (•.\lravaif:in(:e and folly. Desires and wishes are the first springs of action. When they become exorbitant, the whole c 'ara-tor !•< ii!i»dy to be tainteil. If W(! snfl^>*r our fancy to create to it-cIf worlds of ideal happiness, we shall discom- pose ih" peace nndord(;r of our minds, nnd fom'^nt many hurt- ful pas*ioiii. Here, then. I»l moderalim begin its rciijn ; by brin^iu'j within rcMsonabl" hounds the wishes that we form. As soiu, a-! th^v h '('ome cvtravairint lei us check them, by t)r.)pr»r reflections on the fdla'^ioiis nature of those objects, whitdi the world h :»n«»s out to allure desire. You bavo strayed, my friend*, from ihc road which conducti t r 72 The EnaJisU Reader. Part I. to felicity; you hnve disliMnou reel the nnlive dignify of your souls, ill' :illowin<: your wi.>l»cs to tcraiinnte «.n nolliing inj^h- er ihaii worldly ideas (.r^icatiicss or liappinnss. Your ima- jrination rovos'in a huid ol .shadows. Uurenl forms deceive you. It is no more than a phantom, nn illusion of happiness, which ailracts vour fond julmirntion ; nay, an illusion of hap- piness, which often for.ccals much real misery. Do you imt^ine that all uie happy, who have attained lo those summiis nfdisiinciinn, towards whicit your ui>hf'S as* piio ? Alas ! how frequently has experience shown, that where, ro«es were suj»posed to hloom, nolhiuj^ hut hriers and thorns grew! Uepulaiitin, heauty, riches, grandeur, nay, royally it- self, would, many a ti-Tie, have been gladly exchanged by the possessors, for thai more ijuiel and humble >l.iiK)n, with which you are now dissatisii 'd. With all that is splendid and shining in the world, it is dtxtced that there shotdd mix many deep shades of wo. On the elevated situations of fijrtune, the great calamities of life chiefly fall. There, the .>torm spends its violence, and there, the thunder breaks; while, safe and unhurt, the inhabitants o,' the vale remain below ; -Ketreut, then, fiom those vain und pernicious excursions of e.xtravujjant desire, Su'i-fy yourselves wiih what is rational vSt attainable. Train your minds to moderate view-: of human life, and hu- man hajipiness. Kemember. and admire, the wisdom ''* .\- gur's petition : *'Uemove far from me vanitv and lies. Give me neither poverty nor riches. Feed ine ^' ill, food convenient forme : lest I be lull and deny thee ; and say, who is tiie liord ? or lest I be poor, and steal ; and tuke'the natnu of my God in "'-'•'- " IILAIR. vam/ SECTION XV. Omniscience and omnipresen-c of ike Deity, the source of con- solution to good men, I was? yesterday, about sun set, walking in the rpen fields, till the night insensibly fell upon me. I .tI first mrused my- self with all the richness and vprjeiy of cu .it-i, which appear- ed in the western parts of heaven. In proportion as they fad- ed away and went out, s(.'veral si'.irs and plariets app(?ared one after another, till the whole firmament was in a glow. The bluenesK of the other was exceedingly heightened and enliven- ed« by the season of the year, and the rays of all those lumin^ aries that passed through it. The gula.xy appeared in its most Part I. I Chap» 8. Didactic Pi$ces. 7S y of your our imf»- »s deceive lappinoss, on of hap- Htaincd to t* iMirs as« l)at where, lui fh»)rns royally it- ati«re(J by «Hori, Willi eiKJid and mix many liuno, the rm spends sal« and -Ketreai, ;frava«;ant nJtainable. . and hii- om oT A- es. Give t>nvenient he Lord ? y God in IILAIR. :e of con- un fields, Jsed mv- 1 appear 'hey fad- a red one ^. The enliven- 9 lumin^ its tno3t 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 wae 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 her brightness and taking her progress among the constellations, a thought arose in me, which I believe very often perplexes and disturbs men of serious and contemplative natures. David himself fell into it in that reflection ; '* When I 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 him!" 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 thns3 innumerable sets of planets or worlds, which were moving round their respective suns; when [ still enlarged the idea, and supposed another heaven of suns and worlds, rising still above this which we discovered ; and these still enlightened by a superior firmament of luminaries, which are planted at so great a distance, that they 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 that little insignificant figure which I myself bore amidst the immensity of God's works. Were the sun, which enlightens this part of the creation, with all the host of planetary worlds that move above him, ut» terly extinguished and annihilated, they would not he missed, more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The space they possess is so exceedingly little in comparison of the whole, it would scarcely make a blank in the creation. The chasm would be impeiceptible to an eye, that could take in the whole compass of nature, and pass from one end of the creation to the other; as it is possible there may be such a sense in our- selves hereafter, or in creatures which are at present more exalted than ourselves. By the help of glasses, we see many stars, which we do not discover with our naked eyes ;^and the finer our tellescopes are, the more still are our discoveries.— Huygenius carries this thought so far, that he does not think it impossible there may be stars, whose light has not yet trav- elled down to us, since their first creation. There is noquei* tion that the universe h lU ah 74 Ihe English Reader. Part 1. can our iniagiimtion:!) set any bounds to it? To return, therefore, to my first thought, 1 could not but look upon myself with secret horror, as a being that was not worth the smallest regard ofone who had so great a work under his care and superinlendency. I was afraid of being overlook- ed amidst the immensity of nature ; and lost among that infinite variety of creatures, which in all probability, swarm througji all these immeasurable regions of m^itter. In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought, I considered that it look its rise from those narrow conceptions, which we are apt to entertain of the Divine Nature. We our- selves cannot attend to many different objects at the same time. If we are careful to inspect soms things, we must of course neglect others. This imperfection which we observe in our- selves, is an imperfection that cleaves, in some degree, to creatures of the highest capicities, as they are creatures, that is, beings of finite and limited natures. The presence of every created being is confine*! 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 under- stand, is of a wider circumference to one creature, than another, according as we rise one above another in the scale of existence. But the widest of these our spheres has its circumference. — When, therefore, we reflect on the Divicie Nature, we are so used and accustomed 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 poorness of our con* ceptions is such, that it cannot forbear setting bounds to every thing it contemplates, till our reason comes again to our suc- cour, and throws down all those 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 iMaker. in the multi- plicity of his works, and the infinity of those objects among which he seems to be incessantly employed, if we consider, in the first place, that ne is omnipresent; and in the secnd, that he is omniscient. If we consider him in his omnipresence, his being passes throu8;h, actuates, and supports, the whole frame of nature. — His creation, in every part of it, is full of him. There is no- thing he has made, which is either so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, that he does not essentially reside in it. His aubitance is within the substance of every being, whether ma- Chap. 3. Didactic Pieces. 7h terial or immateriai, and as intimately present to it, as that being is to itself. It would be an imperfection in him, were he able to move out of one place into another; or to withdraw himself from any thing he has created, or from any part of tliat space v/liich ho diffused and spread abroad to infinity. — In short, to speak of him in the language of the old philosc phers, he is a being wliose centre is every wlicre, and his cir- cumference no where. In the second place, ho is omniscient as well as omnipresent. Mis omniscience, indeed, necessarily and naiurally flows from his omnipresence He cannot but be conscious of every mo- tion that arises in the whole material world, which he thus essentially pervades ; and if every thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, to every part of which he is thus inti- mately 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 infinite space, with the same activity, it would still find itself within the embrace of its Creator, and en- compassed by the immensity of the Godhead. In this consideration of the Almighty's omnipresence and omniscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. He can- not but regard every thing that has being, especially such of his creatures who fear they arc not regarded by him. He is privy to all their thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart in par- ticular, which is apt to trouble them on this occasion; for, as it is impossible he should overlook any of his creatures, so we may be confident that he regards with an eye of mercy, those who endeavour to recommend themselves to his notice; and in unfeigned humility of h(3art, think themselves unworthy that he should be mindful of thcin. adoison. CHAP. IV. argltmp:ntative pieces. SECTION I. Happiness is founded in rectitude of conduct. All nun pursue goo I, and would be happy, if they knew how : not happy for minutes, and miserable for hours ; but hippy, if possible, through every part of their existence. Ei- ther, tlu;refore, there is a good of this study, durable kind, or there is not. If not, then all good must be transient and un certain; and if so, an object of the lowest value, which car little deserve our attention or inquiry. But if there be abet- re The English Reader. Part 1 ter good, such a good as we are seeking; like every other thiog, it must be derived from some cause ; and that cause must either be external, internal or mixed ; in as much as, ex. cept these three, there is no other possible. Now a steady, durable good, cannot be derived from an external cause ; since all derived from externals must fluctuate as they fluctuate. — By the same rule, it cannot be derived from a mixture of the two; because the part which is external, will proportionably destroy its essence. What then remains but the cause inter. Dal ? the very cause which we have supposed, when we place I the sovereign good in mind, — in rectitude of conduct. Harris. SECTION 11. Virtue and piety man's highest interest, I FIND myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded every way by an immanse unknown expansion. — Where ami? — What sort of a place do I inhabit ? Is it exactly accommoda. ted in every instance to my convenience ? Is there no excess of cold, none of heat, to offjnd m:) ? Am I never annoyed by Miimals, either of my own, or a different kind ? Is every thing subservient to me, as though I had ordered all myself? No — nothing like it — the farthest from it possible. The world ap- pears not, then, originally made for the private convenience of me alone ? — It does not. But is it not possible so to accommo. date it, by my own particular industry ? If to accommodate man and beast, heaven and earth, if this be beyond me, it is not pos. sible. 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 which 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? Can I be contented with none but one separate and detached ? Is a social interest, johied with others, such an absurdity as not to be admitted ? The bee, the beaver, and the tribes of herding animals, are sufficient to convince me, that the thing is somewhere at least p'ossible. How, then, am I assured that it is not equally true of man ? Admit it ; and , what follows ? If so, then honour and justice are my interest ; then the whole train of mortal virtues are my interest ; without some portion of which, not even thieves can maintain society. But, farther still — I stop not here — I pursue this social inter- •st as far as I can trace my several relations. I pass from my Chap. 4. Argumentative Pieces. n own stock, my own n';ighbourlioo;!, my own nation, to the whole race ol' manUinJ, as disperscjd tiirunirliout the cartli. Am I not r.'late'd to thi.m all, by the muiu.il aid.s of commerce, by the gjno:al iiitci'caursc ot" arts a:i 1 letters, by that common nature of whic'ii we ;ill [urticipate ? Agai:i — I mudt have food and ciotliinu;. Without a proper gonial wa'-mlh, I instantly perish. Am I not related, in this view, to the V(.'ry earlh itself; to tho distant sun, from whose beanij 1 derive vigour / to that stupt.Midous course and order of the inlinite liost of heaven, by wiiieh the times and seasons ever unif >rmly pass on? Were this order once confounded, I could not [frobably survive a moment; so absolutly do I de- pend on thisc jui vngeiiej-al welfare. What, then, have I todo, but to enlarge virtue into piety ? Not only honour and justice, and what I owe to man, is my interest; but gratitude also, ac- quiescence, resignation, adoration, and all I owe to this great polity, and its groat Governor our common Parent. HARRIS. SECTION III. The injustice of an uncharitable spirit, A SUSPICIOUS, uncharitLd:)le spirit is not only inconsistent with all social virtue and hajipiness, but it is also, in itself, unrea- sonable and unjust. In order to form sound opinions concern- ing cliaracters and actions, two tilings arc especially requisite, intbrmation and imparliality. But such as are most forward to decide unfavourably, are commonly destitute of both. In- stead of jjossessing, or evin requiring, full information the grounds on which they proceed are frequently the most slight and frivolous. A talc, {)erhaps, which the idle have invented, the inquisitive have liste'ued to, and the credulous have pro- p'tgated ; or a real incident which rumour, in carrying it along, has exnggerated and disguised, supplies them with ma- terials of contiilent assertion, and decisive judgment. From an action they presently look into tiie heart, and infc-r the motive. This supposed motive they conclude to be the ruling prin- ciple ; and pronounce at once concerning the whole character. Notlting can be more contrary both to equity and to sound reason, than this precipitate judgm^'nt. Any man who at- tends to what passes within himself, may easily discern what a complicated system the human character is ; and what a variety of circumstances must be tcdien into the account, in order to estimate it truly. No single instance of conduct G 2 * W '■■', ■■ ffj •t : m 0. ih The Enslish Reader Part. \ '■' K Whatever, is sufficient to determine it. As from one worthy action, it were credulity, rot charity, to conclude a pc ..• : » be free from all vice ; so from one which is cjnsurahic, 'p perfectly unjust to infer that t'.ie author of it is without - ..n. Bcience, and without m.-rit. Iv wo knew all the attending cJr- cumstanccs, it nnght apficar in an ex. usable light ; nay, [;erhaj)s under a conjmendablo form. The motives of the actor may have been entirely dliT-n-ent from tho.v) which we ascribe to him ; and where we suppose iiim inipelicd by bad design, he may have been prompted by coiificience and mistaken pi'inci- ple. Admitting the action to have been in every view criminal, he may have been hurried into it tlirough inadvertency arid surprise. He may iiavc sincerclVrepented ; and the virtuous principle may have now re^^^ained its full vigour. Perhaps this was the corner of frailty ; thc^ qu-irt-u* on which ho lay open to the incursions of temptniion ; wiiile th;> other avenues of his heart were firmly guarded by conscience. It is therefore evident, that no part of the government of temper deserves attention more, thnn to keep oiu' minds pure from uncharitable prtijudices, and o'pen to candour and hu- manity in judging of others. The worst consequences, both to ourselves and to society, follow from the opposite spirit, blair SECTION IV, The misfortunes of men mostly char'gcahle on themselves. We find man placed in a world, where he has by no means the disposal of the events that happen. Calamities sometimes befall the worthiest and the best, which it is not in their power to prevent, and whore nothing is left them, but to acknowledge, and to submit to, the high hand of ir.;avon. For su(^h visita- tions of trial, many good and wise reasons can be assigned, which the present subject leads me not to discuss. But though those unavoidable calamities make a part, yet they 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 we must look to another quarter. — No sooner has any thing in the health, or in the circumstances of rnen, gone cross to their wish, than they begin to talk of the unequal distribution of the good things of this life ; they envy the condition of others ; they repine at their own lot, and fret against the Ruler of the world. Full of these sentiments, one man pines under a broken con- stittition. But let us ask him, whether he can, fairly and honestly, assign no cause for this but the unknown decree of Chap. 4, Arsumcntative Pieces. 7P :;rnmcnt of heaven? Has he fluly valiu-d the bl(?ssing of henltii, and al. WHYS ob.s-erved the rules of virtue and sobriety ? Has he been moderate iu l»is life, and temperate in all liis pleasures? If now ho is oiily payintr the priee of iiis former, perhaps his forgotten indulgences, Iihs ho ajiy title to com[)lain, as if he were suir-riiig u!;justly ? \W're wo to survey ths; chambers of sickness and distress, we should often fuid them peopled with the victims of intemj)eranco and sensuality, and with the chil- dren of vicious indolence and shjth. AniJng the thousands who languish there, wu sliould find the proportion of inno- cent sufLrers to be sinall. We should sen faded youth, pre- mature old age, and tht; prospect of an untimely grave, to be the portion of multitudes, who, in one way or other, have brought those e\ i!o on themselves ; while yet these martyrs of vice and folly Itave the assurance to arraign the hard fate of man, and to " iVcjt against the Lord." But you, j-'Ci iiaps, complain of hardsliips of another kind ; of the injusti.-o of the world ; of the poverty which you suf- fer, and the discouragements under Vvdiich you labour; of the crosses and disappointments of wiiich your life has been doomed to be full. — Before you give too much scope to your discontent, let me desire you to reflect impartially upon your past train of life. Have not sloth or pride, or ill temper, or sinful passions, misled you often fi'om the path of sound and wise conduct? Have vou not been wanting to vourselvcs in improving those opportauities which Providence otTered you, for bettering and advancing your state ? If \o\\ have cfiosen to indulge your humour, or your taste in the gratifications of indo- lence or j)leasure, can you complain because otiiers, in prefer- ence to vou, have obtained those advantages which naturally be- long to useful labours, and honourable f)ursuits ? Have not the consequences of some false steps, into which your j)assions, 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 ! — It is an old saying, that every man is the artificer of his own fortune in tlie world. It is certain, that the world seldom turns wholly against a man, unless through, his own fault. " Religion is," in general, " pro- fitable unto all things." Virtue, diligence, and industry, joined with good temper and prudence, have ever been found the surcnt road to prosperity; and where men fail of attaining it, their want of success is far oftenor owing to their having deviated from that road, than to their having encountered insuperable bars ia it.— ?■■■■'■ ' ■,•>■'! •I- i » .■♦ v: Lt 1 60 7he English Reader. Part 1. Some by being too artful, forfeit the reputation of probity. Some, by being too oj)en, arc; accounted to f.iil in prudence. Others, bv being fickle ;nid chaPigfjable, are distrusted by all. Tiic case commjniy is, tliat nn-n seek to ascribe there disippointnients to any ca'isf, rather than to their own misconduct: and when they can devise no (jther cause, tliey lay them to the charge of Providence. Their folly leads tluin into vices; their vices into misfortunes ; and in their niisforlunes they "murmur against Providence." They are d(juhly unjust towards their Creator. In their prospci-ity, they are apt to ascribe their success to their own diligence, ratiierthanto his blessing; and in their adversity, they imj)utc^ their distresses to his providiMice, not to their own misbehaviour. Whereas, tlu; truth is the very reverse of this. Every good and every perfect giit cometh from ab(3ve ;" and of evil and iniscrv, man is the author to hims( If. When, from the condition of indiviiluals, we look abroad to the puhlii-, stat" of the world, wt; miM.t with more proofs of the tiuth of this assertion. \V^i see gica.t societies of men torn in pieces by intestine dissensions, tumults, and civil com. motions. We see mighty ;irmios going lorth, in f)rmidabic array, against ea(di other, to cover the earth with hl(jud, and to fill th(.' air wiih the ciies of widows and orjihaus. Sad (^vils these are, to which tiiis miserable world is exposed. — Hut are these evils, I bese'ch you, to be imputed to (rod. Was it lie who sent forth slaughtering armies into the fidd, or who filled the peaceful city with massacres and blood ? Aic these miseries any other than the bitter fruit of nun's violent and disorderly passion^" ? A re tluy not clearly to hi' t raced to the ambition and vices of princes, to the (piarrcds of the great, and to the turbu- lence of tht; p(M)ple^ — lif't us lay them oitirdy out of the account in thiiddng of l^rovidcnee ; and let us think oidy of the " foolish- ness of man." Did man control his passions, and form his con- duct accordiiiLt to tin- (fictates of wisdom, humanitv and virtue, the earth would no ion<:;«'r be desolated bv cruelty ; and human societies would live in order, harmctny, find i)eace.. In those scenes of misehief and violence whi(dj lill the world, let man he- h(dd, with shame, the pieiure (;fhis vices, his ignorance, and folly. Let him he iiumhled by the mortifying vi( w of iiis own perverse- ness; but let not his '* heart IVtt against the Lord." blaik. SECTION V. On (lisinterciitrd friendship. . I AM informed that cerlnin dreek writer?? (philosophers, it I i Part 1. ity. Some, . Others, Tiic case poinlnients and when ! charge of r vice.-! into lur .'le.'iinst ir Cremator. CSS to their r adversity, J their own M'se of this. )0vc ; " and )ok ahroad lore proofs ties of men 1 civil com. formidable l)loud, and Sad evils I. — But are Was it lie r who lillcd 'SO miseries I (iisurderlv miiitioii and I J the turhu. the account If '* foolish, triu his con- and virtue, and human In those bt man l)e' •(\ and lolly. II perverse- liLAIK. osophers, it 'J Chajt, 1 J3rgum$ntative Piecet, n\ seems, in the opinion of iheir countrymen) have advanced some very extraordinary position relating to friendship ; as indeed, what subject is there, wliich these subtle geniuses have not tortured with their sophistry? Tlie authors to whom i refer, dissuade their disciples from entering into any strong attachments, as unavoidably creating supernumerary disquietudes to those who engage in them ; and, as every man iias more than sufficient to call forth his solici- tude, in the course of his own atiairs, it is a weakness, they contend, anxiously to involve himself in the concerns of others. They recommend it also, in all connexions of this kind, to hold the bands of union extremely loose; so as always to have it in one's power to straiten or relax them, as circumstances and situations shall render most expedient. They add, as a capi. tal article of their doctrine, that, " to live exempt from cares, is an essential ingredient, to constitute human happiness ; but an ingredient, however, which he, who voluntarily distresses himself with cares, in which he has no necessary and perconf.l interest, must never hope to possess." I have been told likewise, that there is another set of pre- tended philosophers, of the same country, who^ie tenets, con. cerning this subject, are of a still more illiberal and ungener. ous cast. The proposition they attempt to establish, is, that " friend- ship is an affair of self-interest entirely ; and that the proper motive for engaging in it, is, not in ord r to gratify the kind and benevolent atfections, but for the benefit of that assistance and support which are to be derived from the connexion." — Accordingly they assert, that those persons are most disposed to iiavc recourse to auxiliary alliances of this kind, who are least qualifi(!d by nature, or fortune, to depend upon their own strength and p()W(;rs ; the weaker sex, for instance, being gen- erally mon^ inclimal to engage in friendships, than the male part of our species ; and those who are depressed by indigence, or labouring under misfortunes, than the wealthy and the pros, pcrous. ICxcellentand obliging sages, these, undoubtedly ! To strike out the tVicndiy alK'ctions from the' moral world, would he like extinguishing the sun in the natural ; each of them being the source of the best and most grateful satislactions, that Heaven liQs conferred on the sons of men. But I should Ix; glad to know, what ihf real value of this boasted exemption from care, which they promise their disciples, justly amounts to? an ex. 4 '.V 'J ' 'iii:d m The English Header. Part. I. i em[>lioii flattering to self-l(jve, 1 conl'css ; but which, upon many occurrences in human life, should be reject(3d with th(j utmost disdain. For nothing surely, can be more inconsistent witii a well poised and manly spirit, than to decline engaging in any laudable action, or to be discouraged from persevering in it, by an apprehension of the trouble and solicitude, with which it may probably be attended. Virtue herself, indeed ought to be totally renounced, if it be right to avoid every possible means that may be productive of uneasiness : for who, that is actua- ted by her principles, can observe the conduct of an opposite character, witiiout being atfected with some degree of secret dissatisi'action ? Are not the just, the brave, and tlic good ne- cessarily exposed to the disagreeable emotions of dislike and aversion, when they respectively meet with instances of fraud of cowardice, or of villany? It is an essential property of every well-constituted mind, to bo alfected with pain, or plea- sure, according to the nature of those moral appearances that present themselves to observation. If sensibility, tlu^refore, be not incompatible with true wis- dom, (and it surely is not, unless we suppose that philosophy .deadens every finer libeling of our nature,) what just reason can be assigned, why the sympathetic sufferings which may result from friendship, should be a sufficient inducement for banishing that generous affection from the human breast? — Extinguish all emotions of the hearc, and what difference will remain, I do not say between man and brute, but between man and a mere inanimate clod ? Away then with those austere philosophers, who represent virtue as hardening the soul against all the softer impressions of humanity ! The fact, certainly, is much otherwise. A tiuly good man is, upon many occasions, extremely susceptible of tender sentiments; and his heart ex- pands with joy, or shrinks with sorrow, as good or ill fortune accompanies his fiiend. Upon the whole, then, it may fairly be concluded, that, as in the case of virtue, so in that of friend- ship, those painful sensations, which may somt limes be pr»>. ducefl by the one, as well as by- the otluu', are eipially insuffi- cicnt grounds for excluding either of tluan from taking posses, sion of our bosoms. They who insist that ''utility is the first and previdling mo. live, which induces mankind to enter into particular friend- ships," appear to me to divest the association of its most amia- ble and engaging principl*. For to a mind rightly disposed, it is nut sy mucli the benefits received) us tlie affectionate zeal ' Iw and lo: my mi which hopes^ able ci Firs immat< eternit demon: Sccc from it h()j)rs ( finds in upon tl Pan I. Oil inaliv i utmost lit with a g in any ing in it, til which ought to Ic means is actua- opposite ji secret good ne- slike and 1 of fraud operty of , or plea- nces that true wis- hilosophy st reason ^)ich may ment for east? — ncc will v'een man austere I against tainly, is casions, loart ex- 1 iortune ay fairly t' friend, be |)r>). y insulli- j posses. iling mo. friend- )st ainia- lispused. ate zeal Chap, 4. Argumentative Pieces. 83 ■e ol from which they flow, that gives them their best and most val- uable recommendation. It is so f-ir indeed from being verified by fact, that a sense of our wants is the original cause of forming these amicable allianc(\s ; that, on the contrary, it is observable, that none liave been more dislinguisli'3'1 in their friendships than those, whose powei and opulence, but, above all, whose supe- rior virtue, (a much firmer support,) have raised th(^m above every necessity of having recourse to the assistance of others. The true distinction then, in this question, is, that ''although friendship is certainly productive of utility, yrt utility is not the primary motive; of friendship." Those selfish sensualists, therefore, who 1uI1(mJ in tin; lap of luxury, {)resume to maintain the reverses have surely no claim to ntti'utioii ; as they are neither qualified by reflection, nor experience, to be Cf)mpetent judges of the subject. Is ther(3 a man upon the face of the earth, who would delib- orately accept of all the wealth, and all th*- affluence this world cm bestow, if offrn'd to hiiTi tipon the severe terms of his be. ing uncompleted with a singh^ mortal whom ho could love, or by wh )m he sh.iuld be beloved? Thi-. w.)uld be to l(-ad the \vretehe(l life of a detc^sted tyrant, who, amidst perpetual sus- picions and alarms, passes his miseraj)ie days a stranger to every tendcu* sentiment ; and uttei ly precluded from tlu; heart- felt satisfactions ol' friendship. Mclmotfi's tranftlation of Cicero's LcbUus, SECTION VI. On the immnrtn/itjf of the souf. I WA3 yesterday walking alone in one of my friend's woods ; and lost myself in it veiy agreeably, as I wiis running ovc;r, iu my mind, the several arguments that establish this great point ; which is the basis of mortality, and th( source of all thejdeasing hopes, and secret joys, that can arise in the heart of u reason- able creature. I considered those several proofs drawn, First, from the nature of the soul it.i? If, ami particularly its immateriality ; which, though not {d)solut( ly necessary to the eternity of its. duration, has, I think, boen evinced to ulnK^st a demonstration. Secondly, from its passions and sentiments ; as, particularly, from its love of existence; its horror of annihilation ; and its hopes of immortality ; with that secret satisfaction which it finds in the practice of virtue; and that uneasiness which follows upon the commission of vice. '^; 1 84 Th$ English Reader. Part 1. Thirdly, from the nature of the Supreme Being, whose justice goodness, wisdom, and veracity, are all concerned in this point. But among these, and other excellent arguments for the im. mortality of the soul, there is one drawn from the perpetual pro. gross of the soul to its perfection, without a possibility 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 immense perfections, and of receiv- ing new improvements to all eternity, shall fail away into no- thing, almost as soon as it is created ? Are such abilities made for no purpose ? A brute arrives at a point of perfection, that he can never pass : in a few years he has all the endowments he is capable of; and were he to live ten thousand more, would be the same thing he is at present. Were a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplishments ; were her facul- ties to be full blown, and incapable of farther enlargements ; I could imagine she might fall away insensibly, and drop at once into a state of annihilation. But can we believe a think, ing being 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 discoveries of his infirjite 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 to deliver it down to others. This is not surprising to consider in animals, which arcj formed for our use, and which can finish their business in a short life. The silk worm, after having spun her task, lays her eggs and dies. But a man cannot take m his full measure of knowledge, has not time to subdue his passions, establish his soul iti virtue, and come up to the per- fection of his nature, before he is hurried off the stage. Would AD infinitely wise Being make such glorious creatures for so mean a purpose ? Cun he delight in the production of such abortive intelligences, such short-lived reasonable beings ?— Would he give us talents that are not !-> be exerted ? capaci- ties that are never to b" gratified ? How can we find th^^ wisdom which shines through all his works, in the formation of ph' lur^ rl,. spi I losG justice 1 this point, for the im- 'pctual pro. lityofever ^■ ber to have Iteii on this •eat weight an, that the d of receiv. ^ay into no- lillties made lection, that endowments isund more, •e a human e licr facuU •gements ; I md drop at ieve a think, vement, and having just made a few ower, must •eginning of IS sent into 'ides himself )st to make life, but to consider in |h can finish lifter having 1 cannot take f subdue his to the per je. Would Lturcs for so Lion of such beings '?— led ? capaci re find th?»i Iformation of Chap. 4. Argumentalioe Pieces. 35 man, witliout looking on this world as only a nursery for the next; and without U hevi.ig tli"it the several generations of rational creatures, wiiieh rise up and tii.sappr'ar''in siieh quick successions, arc only to receive their lirst rudiments of exis- tcnce here, and allerwards to be ti ansj)Iauted into a more friend- ly climite, where they may spread and ticirish to all eternity ] Tiiere is not, in my opinion, a nv.n\' pleasing and trium- phint consider;;tion in religion, th,'in this of the perpetual pro. grcs.s, which the soul m ikes towards the perfection of its na. lure, witliout ever arri\-ing at a poriofl in it. To look upon tlio soul as g )ing on from strengMi to strt.'ugtlj ; to consider that she is to shine for evi^r with mnv accessions of glory, and hiififhten to all eternitv : that sh(} will be; still addinj: virtue to virtui', nvn\ kni>wledg(' to knowledge; c:uTi(\s in it something wonderfully agreeable to that anib.Jon, whieli is natural to the mind of man. Nay, it nijst !)'> -o prospect pleasing to God himself, to see his creation t'.jr ever h.'jiutifvinjr in his eves ; and drawing nearer to him, by greater degrees of resemhlancc. Methinks this single consideration, of the progress of a finito spirit to j)erf(jction, will b>; sulfn'-ieni to extinguish .'dl enivv in inferior natures, and all contenijrt in supei'ior. That cherub which now appears as a god to a human sr»ui, knows very well that the period will come about in eleriiity, wlien the human soul shall l)e as perfect as he himself now is: nay, when she shall look down upon that di-gree of perfec'ion ns much as r.he new falls short of It. It is true, ^he highc r oatiire still advances, .'uid by that mcnns preserves ins distances and s^uperioj-ity in the scale (jf being; but !>• knows that, how higls soever the sta- tion is of which he ouuh.ls posscosed at present, tlio interior nature will, at lengtlj, mount up to it; and shine torih in the same degree of glory. With what astonishmrnt and ••"neration, mav wc look into our own souls, where there an such hidden stores of vi'-tuo and knowh dge, such ine\haust(;d sources of [)erfection ! We know not yet what we saall I)e ; nor will it ever (;n1er into the iuiart of man, to conceive thi^ gh)ry that will be always in re- serve for iiim. The son', consiiK-red with its (Creator, is like oncofthosi^ m ithematieal lim s, that may dj'aw nearer toanother for all eternity, witliout a pos-^ibility of t-mching it : and can there! be a thought so trans[)orting, as lo consider ourselvc^s in these perpetual approacdies to him, whe js fju} stjmdard not only f perfection, but f)f happiness ? adpison. W ^t'l -■4 i;/j ! t i ¥ Si 86 The English Reader. Pari i . CHAPTPm V. DESCRIPTIVF. PIFXES. SECTION I. I'/ie Scaso7is, Among the grfjat bicssinrrs and wonders of 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, summer and winter, day and night, should coniiniio to the very end of all tilings. Accord- ingly, in obedience to tliat |)romise, the rotation is constantly preseruing us with some useful and agreeable alteration ; and ail the pleasint; novelty of life arises from these natural changes: nor are W'-' le^s indebted to them for many of its solid comforts. It ha^' . een frequently the ta^k of the moralist and poet, to miiK» '/. polished periods, the particular chaniH and conve- iijunces ;f every change ; and, indncd, such discriminate obscr- •x'&Uwn-t I {»on natural variijty. cannot be undeiighlful ; since the jlt«>..^jnj^ \v'-;ch evory moDih brings al. ol natur(\ and smiles at her influence: while the man ol' onlemplation wilks f)rtb with the evening, amidst the frajr ance of fl )vvers, and promises of plenty ; nor returns to his cotiage till darkness clo.ies the scene upon his eye. Then connith the !m v vst, wljen the large wish is satis- fied, and th(j g! anaries of nat ire are Iwu^'d with the means ot life, even to a luxury of abunianre. The powers of language are unequal to the description of this happy season, it is llie carni^ il of nature: sun and shade, coolness and quietude, cheerfulness and melodv, love and gratitude, unite to rendt^r every scene of summer di'Iightfiil. The division of liijht aiid darkness is one of the kuid-jsi ellorts of Omnipotent Wisdom. Da) ai.td night \ add us contrary blessings; and nt the same tim^s assist each oiIk.m-, by giving fresh lustre to the delighis of both. Amidst the glare of day, and bustle of life, how could we sleup? Amidst tho gloom ot darkness, how could wo labour^ I ', ^e. cvpning. at th(' saiiifi Chap. 5. Descriptive Pieces. 87 How wise, how ben ignant, then, is the j)roper division ! The hours of light are arJapied to activity ; and those of darkness, to rest. Ere the (lay is passed, exercise and nauire prepare us fur the pillow ; and by the lime that l\w morrn'ng returns, we are again abii^ lo tne(;t it wiih a su,ili' Tl lus, every season has a charm peculiar lo itself; and every moment a(r>rds soiiio interesting innovation. MKLMOTH. SECTION II, The cnriract of yidi^ara, in CiiinKhi, Norfh America. This amizi ig; tall of water is mido by the river St. Law- rmce, in its p.is^age from lake Eric into tin lake Ontario. The St. Lavvi'ence is one (jf the largest, rivers in the world; and yet the whole of its waters is discharg'd in this place, by a fail of a liuntlred and lit'iy f^vt j)rrp;'iKlicnlar. It is not easy to bring th i imagination to correspond lo the greatness of the scene. A river exirenu'ly deep tmd i-apid, and that serves to drain the waters of aim jsi all North America into the At- lantic Ocean, is here poured precipitately i\^)\\n a ledge of rocks, that risi.'s, like a wait, acrvjss the whole bed of its stream. The river, a little ab.jve, is near ihnie (]u irters of a mile broad ; and the rocks, where it grows narrower, are four hun- dred yards over. Tluir directions is not straight across, but hoUov/ing inwards li.;e u horse-shoe : so that the cataract, which bends to the shape of the ohstaclf, ronndiiig inwards, presBnts a kind of theatre the most tremendous in nature. Just in the middle of this circular wall of wat(;rs, a little island, that has braved the fury of the current, presents one t)f its points, and divid(;s the stream at top into two parts; but they unite again long before they reach the bott«»in. 'I'hc noise of the lall is heard at the distance of several leagues; and Ike fury of the waters, at the termination of their full, is incon- ceivable. The dci^hing ])roduces a njist that i ises to the very clouds; and which lorms a most beauiilul rainbow, when the sun shines. It will b(; readily supposed, that such a cataract entirely deslrf)ys the navigation oi' tii(! vtieam ; and yet some indians in iheir canot;s, as it is said, have ventured down it wiiii safety. ooi.uj.mith. SECTION III. 'Ihc groflo of Jinlipiiroit, Of all the subterraneous caverns now known, the j^rotto of Antiparos ib tlie »noat lemaikablo, a^ well fi)r its extent, ns for f'-'v'r-^ *' ' ' 's ' \ '■V 'i ' ' ' ■;' i I :''if i' \'% ^ H ■'j 'M -V t:. 1 ' W \i:\ 1 « .'•' t' t . I 68 The English Reader. Part 1. the beauty of its sparry incrustations. This celebrated cav crn was first explored by one Magni, an Ifahan traveller, about one hundred yenrs ago, at Ai^iifKiros, an inconsiderable island ot'the Archipclngo. *' Having been intbrmed," says he, ** by the natives otpari:^, that, in the little island ofAntiparos, which lies about two miles from the former, a gigantic statue was to be seen at the mouth of a cavern in that place, it was resolved that ue (the French consul and himself ) should pay it a visit. In pursuance of this resolution, after we had landed on the island, and walked about four miles through the midst of beautiful plains, and sloping woodlands, we at length came to a little hill, on the side of which ya'vned a most horrid cav- ern, that, by its gloom, at lirst struck us with terror, and al- most repres-icd curiosity. Recovering the first sui prise, Ijow- ever, we entered boldiv; and had not proceeded above twenty paces, when the suppo*ured us contained nothing more than a reser- voir of water. Upon this inloruiiilion, we made an experi- ment, bv throwinij down some stones, which rumbling alonff the sides ot' the descent lor some liuie, the sound seemed at last quashed in a bed of water. In ordcir, however, to be more certain, we sent in a f-evantine mariner, who, by the promise of a good rewarrl, ventured, with a flambeau in his hand, into this narrow aperture. Afier continuing within it for about a quarter of an hour, he returned, bearing in his hand, some- Part 1. rated cav traveller, insiderablo " says he, Antiparos, ntic statue ce, it was jhould pay had landed the midst ngth came horrid cav- )r, and al- prise, how- love twenty ented itself ie ignorant r more than T from the a figure, ited by this roceed still lean abode. ; the spars, of petrified in due per^ ent. as we o, hitherto the scene, lers of the ico of this i Mated re- feet wide, wiiich one an a reser- \\n experi- >ling along seemed at to he more |ho promise hand, into Ifor about a and, some Chap. 5. Descriptive Pieces. S9 beautiful pieces of white spar, which art could neither equal nor imitate. Upon beinjr informed by him that the place was full of these beautiful incrustations, I ventured in once more with him, about fifty paces, anxiously and cautiously descend- ing, by a steep and dangerous way. Finding, however, that we came to a precipice wliich led into a spacious amphi- theatre, (if I may so call it,) siill deeper than any '^iher part, we returned, and being provided with a ladder, flambeau, and other thinnrs to expediate our descent, our whole company, man by man, ventured into the same? opening ;and descending one after another, we at last saw oursflves all together in the most magnificent part of the cavern." SECTION IV. Tke grotto of Jinlip irosy continued. ** Our candles being now ail liglited up, and the whole place completely illuminated, never could the eye be present- ed with a more glittering, or a more mugnificenl scene. The whole roof hung with solid icicles, transparent as glass, yet solid as marble. The eye could scarcely reach the lofty and noble ceiling; the siiies were regularly formed with spars; and the whole presented the idea of a magnificent theatre, illuminated with an immense profusion of lights. The floor consisted of solid marble; and, in several places, magnificent columns, thrones, allt.rs, au.l other objects, appeared, as if na- ture 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 rever- beration were almost deafening. In the midst of this grand amphitheatre rose a concretion of about fifteen feet hiixh, that, in some measure, resembled an altar ; from which, taking the hint, we caused mass to be celebrated there. 'J'he beautiful columns that shot up round the altar, appeared like candlesticks ; and m.\ny other natural objects represented the customary ornaments of this rite." " Below even this spat^Ous grotto, there seemed another cavern ; down which I ventured with niv iormer mariner, and descended about til'iy paces by means of a rope. 1 at last anived at a small spot of level ground, where the bottom ap- peared diiKMent (Vom that of the amphitheatre, being com- posed of soft clay, yielding to the pressure, and in which I thrust n stick to the depth of six feet. In this however, us above, numbers of the most beautiful crystals were formed ; II 2 i(l'"'^4l ._i4.. ^ y^ 00 The English Reader. Pm-t 1. one of which, particularlvs resembled a table. Upon our egress from this amazing cavern, we perceived a Groek in- scription upon a rock at the mouth, but so obliterated by time, that we could not read it distinctly. It seemed to im- port that one Anlipater, in the time of Alexander, had como hither; but whether he penetrated into the depths o( the cav- ern, he does not think fit to inform us." — This account of so beautiful and striking a scene, may serve to give us some idea of the subterraneous wonders of nature. goldsmith. Sl^CTION V. Earthquake at Cafanea. One of the earthquakes most particularly described in his- tory, is that which happened in the year 1693; the damages of which were chiefly fell in Sicily, but its motion was percei- ved in Germany, France, and Knglarjd. It extended to a circumference of two thousand six hundred leagues; chiefly affecting the sea costs, and great rivers; more perceivable also upon the mountains than in the valleys. Its motions were so rapid, that persons who lay at their length, were tossed from side to side, as upon a rolling billow. The walls were dashed from their foundations; and no fewer than fifty four cities, with an incredible number of villages, were either de- stroyed or greatly damnged. The city of fyatanea, in partic- ular, was utterly overthrown. A traveller who was on his way ihiiher, per^seived, at the distance of some miles, a black cloud, like night, hanging over the place. The .sea, all of a sudden, began to roar; mount iE na to send forth great spires of flame; and j^oon after a shock ensued, with a noise as if all iha artillery in the world had been at once discharged. Our traveller being obliged to alight instantly, folt himself raised a foot from the ground ; and tinning his eyes to the city, he ■viih amazement saw nothing but a thick (loud 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, yr-t near ninetet n thou- sand of the inhabitants of Sicily perished in the ruins. Ca- tanea, to which city the describcr 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 re- maining. GOLDSMITH. SECTION VI. Creat ion. u In the progress of the Divine work* and government, there Fart 1. Upon our Groek in- 3 rated by ed to im- had come 1 the cav- Dunl of so some idea OLDSMITH. bed in his- i damages ras percei- nded to a !s; chiefly lerceivable lions were ere tossed vails were 1 fifty four either de- in partic- ^vas on his s, a black a, all of a rcat spires ise as if all ged. Our self raised le city, he iust in the darkened; the shock tec n thou- jins. Ca- eetned the jund; and seen re- OLDSMITH. lent, there Chap. 6. Descriptive Pieces. •1 arrived a period, in which this earth was to be called into ex- istence. When the signal moment, predestined from all eter- nity, was come, the Deity arose in his mi'^hf, and with a word created the world. — Whatan illu-lrious moment was that, when from non existence, there sprang at once into being, this mighty- globe, on which so many tnillions of creatures now dwell ! — No preparatory measures were roqiiircJ. No long circuit of means was employed. "Me spake; and it was done; ho 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 surveyed the dark abyss; and fixed bounds to the several divisions of nature. lie said, ** Let there be light; and there was light." Then appeared the sea, and the dry land. The mountains rose ; and the rivers flow '. The sun and monn began their course in the skies, tl and plants clothed the ground. 'I'he air, the earth, and the waters, were stored with their respective inhabitants. At last, man 'as made after the image of God. He appeared, walking with countenance erect; and receivod his Creator's benediction, as the lord of this new world. The Almighty beheld his work when it was finished; and pronounced it good. Superior beings saw with wonder this nevv accession to existence. **The morning stars sang together ; and all the sons of God shouted for joy." BLAIR. SECTION VII. Charity. Charity is the same with benevolence or love; and is the term uniformly employed in the New Testament, to denote all the good aflTeclions which we ought to bear toward-^ one another. It consists not in speculative ideas of general bene- volence, floating in the head, and leaving the heart, as specula tions too ofien do, untouched and cold. Neither is it confined to that indolent good nature, which makes us rest satisfied with bein^ free from inveterate malice, or ill-will to our fel- low-creatures, without prompting us to ho of service to any. True charity is an active principle. It is not properly a single virtue; but a disposition residing in the heart, as a fountain whence all the virtues of benignity, candour, forbearance, ge- nerosity, cotnpassion, and liberality, flow, as so many native streams. From general good-will to all, it extends its influ- ence particularly to those with whom we stand in nearest con- nexion, and who are directly within the sphere of our good offiqef. ProiT) the coijntry or confjmunity to which we b9lop|[, »\ ■ '.* ioS^ '^^a> IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // 1.0 I.I ■ 50 ■^~ ■■■ ^ 1^ 12.2 US Ui u IU& 11.25 1 U, Jj6 « 6" ^ Photographic Sciences Corporation 4^ m \ S V \ \ o^ 33 WIST MAIN STRUT WUSTM.N.Y. MSIO (71*) •73-4503 '^ 02 The English Reader. Part 1, it descends to the smaller associations of neighbourhood, rela- tions, and frieiKis; and spreads iiself over the whole circle of social and domestic life. I rno;in not that it im|)orts a promis- cuous undistinguished affection, which gives every man an equal title to our love. Chanty, if we should endeavour lo carry it so far, wouhl be rendered an impracticable virtue; and would resolve itself into mere words, without affecting the heart. True; charity attempts not to shut our eyes to the dis- tinction between good anfl had men ; nor to warm our hearts equally to tho«ie w ho befriend, and those who injure us. It reserves our esteem for good men, and on r complacency for our friends. Towardsourenemies iiinspire-* forgiveness, humanity, and a solicitude for their welOire. It breathes universal can- dour, and liberality of senlimeiU. It forms gentleness of tem- per, and dif'tates ailability of maimers. It prompts correspon- ding t»ympali»ics with them who rej oicfN and them who weep. It teaches us to .slight and des|>ise no man. Charily is the comlbrter of the afllicted, the protector of the oppressed, the reconciler of diirerenees, the intercessor for offenders. It is faithfulness in the friend, public spirit in the magistrate, equity and patience in the judge, moderation in the sovereign, and loyalty in the subject. In parents, it is care and attention ; in cliildren, it is reverence and submission. In a word, it is the Moul of social life. It is the sun that enlivens and cheers the abodes of men. It is **like lh>^ dew of Hermon," says the Psalmist, *' and the dew that descended on the mountains of Zion, where the Lord conimanded the blessing, even life for evermore." bl.\ir. SECTION Vlll. Prosperity is rcdnifded to a good man. None but the temperate, the regular, and the virtuous, know how to enjoy prosperity. They biingto its comforts the manly rebshofa sound uncorrupted mind. They stop at the proper point, before enjoyment degenerates into disgust, and pleasure is converted into pain. They are strangers lo those complaints which (low from spleen, caprice, and all the fan- tastical distresses of a vitiated mind. While riotous indulgence enervates both the body and the mind, purity and virtue height- en all the powers of human fruition. Feeble are all pleasures in which the heart has no share. The selfiuh gratifications of the bad, ara both narrow in their circle, and short in their duration. But prosperity is redoubled to a good man, in his generous use of if. It is reflected back Chap. 5. Descriptive Pieces. upon him from every one whom he makes happy. In the in- tercourse of domestic! affection, in the attachment of friends, the gratitude of dependants, the esteem and good will of all who know him, he sees blessings muliipliod round him, on every side. " When the oar heard mc?, then it blessed me; and when the eye saw mo, it gave witness to me; because I delivered the poor that cried, the fatherless, and him that had none to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to per- ish came upon me, and 1 caused the widow's heart to sing with joy. I was eyes to the blind, and feot was 1 to the lame: I way a father to the poor; and the cause which I knew not I searched out.' — Thus, while the righteous man flourishes like a tree planted by the rivers of water, he brings forth also his fruit in its season : and that fruit he brings forth, not for himself alone. He flourishes, not like a tree in some solitary desert, which scatters its blossoms to the wind, and commu- nicates neither fruit nor shade to anv livin;r thing : hut like a tree in the midst of an inhabited country, which to some affords friendly shelter, to others fruit: which is not only ad- mired by all for its beauty : but blessed by the traveller for the shade, aud by the hungry for the sustenance, it hath given. BLAIR. SECTION IX. On the beauties of the Psalms. Greatness confers no exemption from the cares and sor- rows of life: its shcire of them frequently bears a melancholy proportion to its exaltation. This the monarch of Israel ex- perienced. He sought in piety, that peace which he could not find in empire; and alleviated the disquiettides of state, with the exercises of devotion. His invaluable Psalmsconvey those comforts toothers, which they alforded to himself. Com- posed upon particular occasions, yet designed lor general use; delivered out as services for Israelites under the Law, yet no less adapted to the circumstances of Uliristiims under the Gos- pel; they present religion to us in tho moit engaging dress; communicating truths which philosophy could never investi- gate, in a style which poetry c;in never eqial ; while history is made the vehicle of prophecy, and creation lends all it;i charms to paint tho glories of redemption. Calculated alike to profit and t ) please, thev inform the understanding, elevate tho affections, and entertain the iiii igination. Indited under the influence of hi.m, to whom all hearts are known, ond all events furoknowu, they suit mankind in all situations ; grateful ■'W^^ mmmmmm I A* 04 TJie English Reader. Part 1. as the maiina wliich descended from above, and conformed it- self to every palate. The fairost productions ofhurnan wit, after a few perusals, like nHthered fl )werr!?. with^'r in our hands, and I »se their fra- grancy : but th(;s»,' uafa-iin^ plants of [)ir;idise bncome, as we are accustomed to th^^io. siill more and in ore beautiiul ; their bloorn appears to ho dully hei^htonod ; fresh odours are emit- ed, and new sweets extra<'ted tVoiri them. He who has once tasted their excellences, will desire to taste them again; and he who tastes them oftoije>;t, will relish them best. And now, coiild the nuihor flatter himself, that any one would take half the ploijsure 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 disquietude canie not near his dwelling. He arose, fresji 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 infin:»e|y 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 s{)ent iu these meditations on the .songs of Sion, he never expects to see in this world. Very pleasantly did they pass ; they m')ved smoothly and swiftly along : for when thus engaged, he counted no time. They are gone, but they have left a relish and a fragrance upon the mind ; and the re- membrance of them is sweet. hornc. SI':CTION X. Char.icler of Alfred, king of England. Thb merit of this prince, l)olh in private and publiclife, may, with advantage, be set in opposition to that of any monarch or citizen, which the annah of any age, or any nation, can pre- sent to us. He seems, intlced, to be the complete model of that perfect character, which, under the denomination of a sago or wise man, the philosophers have been fond of delineating, rather as a fiction of their imaginition, than in hopes of ever teeing it reduced to practice : so happily were all his virtues tempered tog(Hher ; so justly were ih«;y blended ; and so pow- erfully did each prevent the other from exceeding itd proper bounds. Ho knew how to conciliate the most enterprising spirit with the coolest moderation ; the most obstinate perseverance, with Part 1. n formed it- r perusals, i their fra- >mH, as we iiul ; their s are emit- ') has once gain ; and t any one which he his labour, id hurry of Vanity and etuition. She ginrdtid not lier>elf, with «i(|iial '.-are, orcfpjal suoccs, from less lulirmiiies; t;»e rivalship of beauty, lb" desire of admira- tion, th'\jealou:^y of lovi?, and ihe silli'-s ofaiii^rr. Her singular talonts f)r govermnfiit, were I'.tunded equally on hor temper and her capacity. Endowed with a great com- mand ofor herself, she soon obtained an uncontrolled ascend- t^iv?| ' f I dd The English Reader. Part 1. ]'\ cncy over the people. Few sovereigns of England succeeded lo the throne in more ditticiilt circumstances ; and none ever conducted the government with so uniform success and felicity. — Tho'igh unacquainted with the practice of toleration, the true secret for managing religious factions, she preserved her people, hy her superior prudence, from those confusions in which theol )gical controversy hid involved all the nrMgh- bouring nations; and though her enemies were the most pow- orful princes of Europe, the most active, the most enterprisinj?, the least scrupulous, she wa< ahic, by her vigour, to make deep impressions on their state; iierown greatness meanwhile remaining untouched and unim[);»ited. The wise ministers and brave men who flourished during her reign, share the praise of her success ; but, instead of les- sening tiie applause due to her, ihey make great addition to it. They owed, all of them, their advancement to her choice ; they were supported by her constancy ; and witli all their ability, they were never able to acquire an undue ascendancy over her. hi her family, in hercourt, iti lier kingdom, she remain- ed equally mistress. The force of the tender passions was great over her, but the force of hor mind was still superior : and the combat which her victory visibly cost her, serves only to display the firmness of her resolulion, and the loftiness of her ambitious sentiments. The fame of this princess, though it has surmounted the pre- judices both of faction and of bigotry, *yet lies still exposed lo nnothcr prejudice, which is more durable, because more natu- ral ; and which, according to the dilFerent views in which we survey her, is capable eit'.ier of exalting beyond measure, or diminishing, the lustre of hercharacter. This prejudice is foun- ded on the consideration of her v;ex. When we contemplate her as a woman, we are apt to be struck with the highest admira- tion of her qualities and expensive capacity ; but we are also apt to require some more sofmess of disposition, some greater lenity of temper, some of those amiable weaknesses by which her sex is distinguished. Hut the true method of estimating her merit, is, to lay aside all these considerations, and to con- sider hor merely as a rational being, placed in authority, and intrusted with the government of mankind. mume. SECTION XII. The slavery of vice. The slavery produced by vice appears in the dependence un- der which It brings the sinner, to circumstances of externsl for- Chap, 5. Descriptive Pieces. n tune. One of the favourite characters of liberty, js the inde- pendence it bestows. He who is truly a freeman is above all servile compliances, and abject subjection. He is able to rest upon himself; and while he regartls his superiors with proper deference, neither debases himself by cringing to them, nor is tempted to purchase their favour by dishonourable means. But the sinner has forfeited every privilege of this nature. His passions and habits render him an absolute dependent on the world, and the world's favour; on the uncertain good of for- tune, and the fickle humours of men. For it is by these he subsists and among these his happiness is sought ; according as his passions determine him to pursue pleasures, riches, or preferments. Having no {awd within himself whence to draw enjoyment, his only lesource is in things without. His hopes and fears all hang upon the world. He partakes in all its vi- cissitudes ; and is moved and shaken bv every wind of fortune. This is to be, in the strictest sense, a slave to the world. Religion and virtue, on the oth.er hand, confer on the mind principles of noble independence. ** The upright man is satis- fied from himself IJe despises not the advanlajjes of for- tune, but he centres not his Ijajjpiness in them. With a mo- derate share of them he can be contented ; and contentment is felicity. Happy in his own integrity, conscious of the esteem of good men, reposing firm trust in the providence, and the promises of God, he is exempted from servile dependence on other things. He can wrap himself up in a good conscience, and look forward, without terror, to the charge of the world. Let all things shift around him as they please, he believes that, by the Divine ordination, they shall be made to work together in the issue for his good; and therefore, having much to hope from God, and little to fear from the world, he can be easy in every state. One who possesses within himself such an establishment of mind, is truly free. But shall I call that man free, who has nothing that is his own, no property assured ; whose very heart is not his own, but ren- dered the appendage of external things, and the sport of for- tune? Is that man free, let his outward condition be ever so splendid, whom his imperious passions detain at their call, whom they send forth at their pleasure, to drudge and toil, and to beg his only enjoyment iVom the casualties of the world ? Is he free, who must flatter and lie to compass his ends ; who must bear with this man's caprice, and that man's scorn ; must profess friendship where he hates, and re»pocl '11 08 The English Reader. Pari 1. Ch where he contemns ; who is not at liberty to appear in his own colours, nor to speak his own sentiments ; who dares not be honest, lest he should be poor ! — Believe it, no chains bind so hard, no fetters are so heavy, as those which fasten the cor- rupted heart to this treacherous world ; no dependenceis more contemptible ihan that under which the voIumptuou^^, the covet- ous, or the ambitious man, lies to the means of pleasure, gain, or power. Yet this is the boasted liberty, which vice promises, as the recompense of setting us free from the salutary re- straints of virtue. BLAIR. SECTION XTII. The man of integrUy. It will not take much time to delineate the character of the man of integrity, as by its nature it is a plain one, and easily understood. He is one, who makes it his constant rule to fol- low the road of duty, according as the word of God, and the voice of his conscience, point it out to him. He is not guided merely by affections, which may sometimes give the colour of virtue to a loose and unstable character. The upright man is guided by a fixed principle of mind, which determines him to esteem nothing but what is honourable; and to abhor what- ever is base or unworthy, in moral conduct. Hence we find him ever the same ; at all times, the trusty friend, the af- fectionate relation, the conscientious man of business, the pious worshipper, the public spirited citizen. He assumes no borrowed appearance. He seeks no mask to cover him; for he acts no studied part ; but he is indeed what he appears to be, full of truth, candour, and humanity. In all his pursuits, he knows no path, but the fair and direct onn ; and would much rather fail of success, than attain it by reproachful means. He never shows us a smiling countenance, while he meditates evil against us in his heart. He never praises us among our friends; and then joins in traducing us among our enemies. We shall never find one part of his character at variance with another. In his manners, he is simple and unaffected ; in all his proceedings, open and consistent, blair. SECTION XIV. Gentleness. I BEGIN with distinguishing true gentleness from passive lameness of spirit, and from unlimited compliance with the manners of others, '^hat passive tamonoss, which submitSi Part 1, I Chaf. 5. Descriptive Pieces. 09 ar in his own dares not be hains bind so istnn the cor* lent'eis more us, I he covet- ensure, gain, ice promises, salutary re- BLAIR. racter of the e, and easily rit rule lo fol- Grod, and the is liot guided the colour of )right man is mines him to abhor what- jnce we find nd, the af- siness, the assumes no ^cr him ; for e appears to lis pursuits, and would reproachful ce, while he praises us us among is character simple and ent. BLAIR. om passive ■ce with the ch submits, without opposition, to every encroachment of the violent and assuming, forms no part of Christian duty; but, on the con- trary, is destructive of general happiness and order. That unlimited complaisance, which, on every occasion, fulls in with the opinions ind mnnnersoi'Mlhers, is so far from being a vir- tue, that it is ilself a vice, and tho parent of many vices. It overthrows '\\\ steadiness of principle; and produces that sin- ful conformity with tlie world, which taints the whole charac- ter. In the present corrupted slate of human manners, al- ways to assent and lo comply, is the very worst maxim we can adopt. It is impossible to support the purity and dignity ofChristian morals, without opposing the world on various occasions, even though we should stand alone. That gentle- ness therefore which belongs to virtue, is to be carefully dis- tinguished from the mean spirit of cowards, and the fawning assent of sycophants. It renounces no just right from fear. It gives up no important truth from flattery. It is indeed not only consistent wiih a firm mind, but it necessarily requires a manly spirit, and a fixed principle, in order to give it any real value. Upon this solid ground only, the polish of gentleness can with advantage be superinduced. It stands opposed, not to the most determined regard for virtue and truth, but to harshness and severity, to pride and arrogance, to violence and oppression. It is properly that part of the great virtue of charily, which makes unwilling lo give pain to any of our bretbi ^»i. Compassion prompts us to relievo their wants. Forbeara* ce prevents us from retalia- ting their injuries. Meekness restrains our angry passions ; candour, our severe judgments. Gentleness corrects what- ever is offensive in our manners ; and, by a constant train of humane attentions, studies to alleviate ihe burden of common misery. Its office, therefore, is extensive. It is not, like some other virtues called forth only on peculiar emergencies ; but it is continually in action, when we are engaged in inter- course wiih men. It ought to form our address, to regulate our speech, and to diffuse ilself over our whole behaviour. We must not, however, confound this gentle " wisdom which is from above," with that artificial courtesy, that sludied smoothness of manners, which is learned in the school of the world. Such accomplishments, the most frivolous and empty may possess. Too often they are employed by the artful, as a snare; too offen affected by the hard and unfeeling, as a cover to the baseness of their minds. We cannot, at the same time, avoid, observing the homage, which, even in such in- ■'\<> n I too The English Reader. Pari \ Ihosc stCMices, the world is constrained to pay to virtue, in order to render society agreeable, it is found necessary to assume! somewhat, that may at least carry its appearance. V^irtue is[ftood| the universal charm. Even its shadow is courted, when the^us substance is wanting. The imitation of its form has been re- duced into an art; and, in the commerce of life, the first study of all who would either gain the esteem, or win the hearts of others, is to lenrn the speech, and to adopt the man- ners, of candour, gentleness, and humanity. But that gen- tleness which is the characteristic of a good man has, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart; and let me add, no- thing except what flows from the heart, can render even ex- ternal manners truly pleasing. For no assumed behaviour can at all times hide the real character. In that unaffected civility which springs from a gentle mind, there is a charm infinitely more powerful, than in all the studied manners of the most finished courtier. True gentleness is founded on a sense of what we owe to HiH who made us, and to the common nature of which we al! share. It arises from reflection on our own failings and wants ; and from just views of the condition, and the duty of man. It is native feeling, heightened and improved by prin* ciple. It is the heart which easily relents; which feels for every thing that is human; and is backward ; and slow to in- flict the least wound. It is affable .in its address, and mild in its demeanour; ever ready to oblige, and willing to be obliged by others; breathing habitual kindness towards friends, cour- tesy to strangers, long suffering to enemies. It exorcises au- thority with moderation; administers reproof with tender- ness; confers favours with ease and modesty. It is unassum- ing in opinion, and temperate in zeal. It contends not eagerly about trifles; slow to contradict, and still slower to blame; but prompt to allay dissension, and restore peace, it nei- ther intermeddles unnecessarily with the affairs, nor pries in- quisitively into the secrets of others. It delights above all liiings to alleviate distress; and, if it cannot dry up the falling tear, to sooth at least the grieving heart. Where it has not the power of being useful, it is never burdensome. It seeks to please, rather than to shine and dazzle ; and conceals with Q%re that superiority, either of talents or of rank, which is op- pressive to those who are beneath it. In a word, it is that spirit and that tenour of manners, which the gospel of Christ eiijoinSf when it commands us, **to boar one another's bur- c)«n9; to rejoice with those who rejoice, and to weep with ['Imp. 6. Pathetic Pieces. 101 hose who weep; lo please every one his neighbour for hiii ood ; to be kind and tender-hearted; to be pitiful and courts- to support the weak, and to be patient towards all men." BLAIR. )US CHAP. VI. PATHETIC PIECKS. SECTION 1. Trial and cxeciUion of the Earl of Strafford, lo ho fell a sacrifice to the violence of the times, in the reign q/ Charles I the First. I The earl ot" Strafford dofended himself against the accusa- I tions of the house of Commons, with all the presence of mind, judgment, and sagacity, that could be expected from innocence and ability. His children were placed beside him, as he was thus defending his life, and the cause of his royal master. — After he had, in a long and eloquent speech, delivered without premeditation, confuted all the accusations of his enemies, he thus drew to a conclusion, *' But, my lords, I have troubled you too long : longer than I should have done, but for the sake ijf ihese dear pledges, which a saint in heaven has left me." — Upon this he paused; dropped a tear; looked upon his chil- dren ; and proceeded. — '* What I forfeit for myself is a trifle : that mv indiscretions should reach my posterity, wounds me to the heart. Pardon my infirmity. — Something I should have added, but 1 am not able; and therefore I let it pass. And now, my lords, for myself. 1 have long been taught, that the afflictions of this life are overpaid by that eternal weight of glory, which awaits the innocent. And so, my lords, even so, with the utmost tranquillity, I submit myself to your judg- ment, whether that judgment be life or death : not my will, but thine, O God, be done!" His eloquence and innocence induced those judges to pity, who were the most zealous to condemn him. The king him- self went to the house of lords, and spoke for some time in his defence; but ihe spirit of vengeance, which had been chained for eleven years, was now roused; and nothing but his blood could give the people satisfaction. He was condem- ned by both houses of parliament; and nothing remained but tor the king to give his consent to the bill of attainder. But in the present commotions, the consent of the king would very I *1 ifiij '^^ .-.'"> r ^1^ ..jSiA^ 102 The Emlisfi Reader. Part ''■ easily be dispensed with; and iinininont d;\ii<((:r might aitenj his refusal. Charles, however, who loved JSlraff)rd tenderly, hesitated, and seemed reluctant; trying evcM-y expedient to put off so dreadful an office, as that of signing tiie warrant for his execution. While he continued in this a;;italiun of mind, aiKi state of suspense, his doubts were at last silenccj bv an act of irreat mai;naniniity in the condemned lord. Ih? received a letter from that unlortunate iiohloman, desirin:f that his life mijxht he made a sacrit'ice to obtain reconciliation between the king and his people : adding, that he was prepa- red to die; and that to a willing mind there could be no in- jury. This instance of noble generosity was but ill repaid by his master, who complied with his reque-t. Me consented to sign the fatal bill by commission; and SirafTord vvas be* headed on Tower-hill ; behaving with all that composed dig- nity of resolution, which was expected from his character. GOLDSMITH. SECTION II. An cmincnl Instance of true fortitude. All who have been distmguished as servants of God, or benefactors of men; all who, in perilous situations, have act- ed their part with such honour as to render their names illus- trious through succeeding ages, have been eminent for f«)rli- tude of mind. Of this we have one .conspicuous example in the apostle Paul, whom it will be instructive for us to view in a remarkable occurrence of his life. After having lonij acted as the apostle of the Gentiles, his mission called him to go to Jerusalem, where he knew that he was to encounter th^ utmost violence of his enemies. Just before he set sail, ho called together the elders of his favorite church at F^phesus, and, in a pathetic speech, which does great honour to his character, gave them his last farewell. Deeply affected by their knowledge of the certain dangers to which he was ex- posing himself, all the assembly were filled with distress, and melted into tears. The circumstances were such, as might have conveyed dejection even into a lesolute mind ; and would have totally overwhelmed the feeble. *' They all wept sore, and fell on Paul's neck, and kissed him ; sorrowing most of all for the words which he spoke, that they should see his face no more." — What were then the sentiments, what was the language, of this great and good man? Hear the words which spoke his firm and undaunted mind. ** Behold, ] go bound in the spirit, to Jerusalem not knowing the thing that Pathetic Pieces. 109 Chap 0. bIj.iU befall me there; save that the Holy Spirit witnesseth in every city, saying, that bonds and affliclions abide me. But none of these things move me ; neither count I my life dear to mys'-ir, so that 1 might finish my court-e with joy, and the ministry which I have received of the Lord .Je>us, to testify the g()sj)el of the grace of God." There was uttered the voice, there breathed the spirit, of a brave and a virtuous man. Such a man knows not what it is to shrink from dan- ger, when conscience points out his path. In that path he is dctermiiied to walk, let the consequences be what they may. 'I'his was the mngnanimous berhaviour of that great apostle, when he had persecution and distress full in view. Attend now to the sentiments of the same excellent man, when the time of his last suffering approached; and remark the ma- jesty, and the ease, with which he looked on death. ** I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have f()ught the good fight. I have finished my course. I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for nie a crown of righteousness." How many years of life does such a dying moment fuerbalance. VVho would not choose, in this manner, to go ofl^the stage, with such a song of triumph in his mouth, rather than prolong his existance through a wretched old age, stained with sin and shame? blair. SECTION HI. V TliP.good marl's comfort in njjliction. The religion of Christ not only arms us with fortitu'^e against the approach of evil; but, supposing evils to fall upon us wiih t'leir heaviest pns-ure, it lightens the !oid by many c« nsola* lions tD which others are strangers. V\ hile bad men tiote, in the calamities with which they are visited, the hand of an of- fended sovereign. Christians are taught to view them a.s the well-intended chastisements of a merciful Father. 'J'hey hear amidst them, that still voice which a good conscience brings to their ear; ** Fear not, for I am with thee : be not dismayed, for I urn thy G mI." They apply to themselves the comfortable promises with which the gospel abounds. They discover in these the happy issue decreed to their troubles; and wait with patience till Providence shall have accomplished its great and good designs. In the mean time, Devotion opens to them its blessed and holy^anctuary : that sanctuary in which the wound- ed heart is healed, and the weary mind is at rest ; where the cares of the world are forgotten, where its tumults are hushed, and its miseries disappear ; where greater objects open to our , h 104 'Vhe English Reader. Part I. view ihau any wliicli the world presents ; where a more serene aky shines, and a sweeter and calmer light beams on the af- flicted heart. In thoso moments of devotion, a pious man, pour- ing out his wants and sorrows to an Almighty Supporter, feels that he is not loft solitary and forsaken in a vale of wo. God is with him; Christ and the holy Spirit ore with him; and though he should be bereaved of every friend on earth, he can look up in heaven to a Friend that will never desert him. BLAin. SECTION IV. 7.V close of life. Wh^n vvc contemplate the close of life; the tenrjination of man's designs and liopes; the silence that now reigns among ihoaie who, a little while ago, were so busy, or so gay; who can avoid bemg touched with sensations ut once awful and ten- derl What heart but then warms with the glow of humanity 1 In whose eye does not ihc tear gather, on revolving the fate of passing and shortlived man? Behold the poor man who lays down at last the burden of Ills wearisome lift?. No more shall be groan under the load of poverty and toil. No more shall he hear the insolent calls ol the 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 pro- paring, and a few poor and decayed neighbours are carrying him thither, it is good for us to think, that this man too was our brother; that for him the aged and destitute wife, and the needy children, now weep ; 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 Abra- ham's bosom. — At no great distance from him, the grave is opened to receive the rich and proud man. For, as it is. said with emphasis ni the parable, '* the rich man also died, and was buried." He also died. Mis riches prevented not his sharing the same fate with the poor man , perhaps, through luxury, they accelerated his doom. Then, indeed, "the •out the streets;" and go hili the pomp and magnificence of wo, his funeral is preparing, his heirs, im patient to examine nis will, are looking on one anoth'^r with jealous eyes, and already beginning to dispute about the divi- ?*ion of hifl substance. —One day, we see carried along the f'offin of the smiling infnnt; the tlnwor jusf n.'ppcd is it l)?gaii Chap. 0. Pathetic Pieces. X^ lu blossom ill Ihe parent's view : and the n«xt day, we behpld the young man, or young wonnan, of blooming form and pro- mising hopes, laid in an untimely grave. While the funeral is attended by a numerous unconcerned company, who ar^ discoursing to one another about the news of the day, or the ordinary alTairs ofiife, let our thoughts rather follow to th^ house of mourning, and represent to themselves what is pass- ing there. There we should see a disconsolate family, sittiug in silent grief, thinking of the sad breach that is made in their little society; and with tears in their eyes, looking to thq chamber that is now left vacant, and to every memorial that presents itselt of thfjir departed friend. By such attention to the woes of others, the seltlsh hardness of our hearts will be gradually softened, and melted down into humanity. Another day, we follow to the grave, one who, in old ag^, and after a long career of life, has in full maturity 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 ohangr es which such a person has seen during the course of his IiIq. He has passed, it is likely, through varieties of fortune. H9 has experienced prosperity, and adversity. Me has seen fti* milies 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. A(\er ail he has beheld, his eyes are now closed 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 passe.« the world away. Throughout all ranks and conditions, ''one genpratioa passeth, and another generation cometh ;" and this great inn i« by turns evacuated and replenished, by troops of succeeding pilgrims. O vain and inconstant world! O fleeting and tran- sient life! When will the sons of men learn to think of thea as they ought? VVhen will they learn humanity from the af- flictions of their brethren; or moderation and wisdom, from the sense of their own fugitive state ? BLAift. SECTION V. Exalted society^ and the renewal of virtuous connexionAt e agonizing moments, how relieving the thought, that the separation is only temporary, not eternal ; that there is u time to come of reu- nion with those with whom our happiest days we spent; whose joys and sorrows once were ours; whose piety and virtue cheered and encouraged us; and from whom after we shall have landed on the peaceful shore where they dwell, no revolu- tions of nature shall ever be able to part us more ! Such is the society of the blessed above. Of such are the multitude com- posed, who *' stand before the throne.'' blair. SECTION VI. 7he clemency and amiable character of the patriarch Joseph. No human character exhibited in the records of Scripture, is more remarkable and instructive than that of the patriarch Joseph. He is one whom wo behold tried in all the vicissi- tudes of fortune; from the condition of a slave, rising to be Chap. 6. Pathetic Pieces. IJ7 ruler of the land ol L^gyp: ; and in every station acquiring, by his virtue and wisdom, favour with God and man. Wheti overseer of Potiphar's house, his fidelity was proved by strong temptfitions, which he honourably resisted. When thrown into prison by the ariilices of a false woman, his 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 firmed for saving the king- dom frj)m the miseries of impending famine, justly raised him to a high station, wherein his abilities were eminently di«splay- ed in the public service. 13ut in his whole history,' there is no circumstance so striking and interesting as his behavour to his brethren who had sold him into slavery. The moment in which he m:ide himself known to them, was the most cri- ticil one of his iile. and the most decisive of his character. 1: is such as rarely occurs in the course of human events ; and is calculated to draw the highest attention of all who are en- dowed with any degree of sen«.ibilily of heart. From the whole tenour of the narration it appears, that though Joseph, upon the arrival of his brethren in Egypt, made himselfstrange to them, .yet from the beginning he in- tended to discover himself; and studied so to conduct the dis- covery, as might render the surprise of joy complete. For this end, by alfecied severity, he took measures for bringing down into Kjjypt all his father's children. They were now arrived there ; and Benj-tmin among the rest, who was his youn<4er brother by the same mother, and was particularly be- loved by Joseph. Him he threatened to detain; and seemed willing to allow the rest to depart. This incident renewed their distress. They all knew their father's extreme an.\iety about the safety of Benjamin, and with what diiliculty he had yielded to his undertaking this journey. Should he bo pre- vented from returning, they dreaded that grief would over- power the old man's spirits, and prove fatal to his life. Ju- dah, 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, up- on 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 dis- course of Judah. Little knowing to whom bespoke, hepainti in all the colours of simple and natural eloquence, the distress* ed situation of the aged patriarch, hastening to the dote of life ; long afflicted for the loss of a favourite son whom he sup- mi r-i'Vj M ^s,.! i> : IS^ r\*^ i'JA ■*0il •"•'""" ""'" 16§ The English Reader. Part I V i I » pined to have been torn in pieces by a beast of prey ; labouring tow under anxious concern about his yongest son, the child of his old age, who alone was left alive of his mother and whom Aothing but the 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, wo •hall bring down the gray hairs of thy servant, our father, wiih sorrow to the grave. I pray thee therefore let thy servant abide, instead of the young man, a bondman to our lord. For how shall I go up to my father, and Benjfimin not with me? lest 1 see the evil that shall come on my father." Upon this relation Joseph could no longer restrain himself. iThe tender ideas of his father, and his falhers'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 up- on his mind to beir 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, 'i hey ^eriB the burst of affection. They were the effusions of a heart overflowing with all the lender sensibilities of nature. Formerly he had been moved in the same manner, when he first saw his brethren before him. ** His bowels yearned upon thetn, 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 how, when there was no farther occasion lor constraining hiihBelf, be gave free vent to the strong emotions of his heart. Th(! first minister to the king of Kgypt was not ashamed to fthow, that he felt as a man, and a brother. *' 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 situation that were ever uttered; — '* I am Joseph; doth my father yet livel" — What could he, what ought he, in that impassioned Moment, to have said more? This is the voice of nature her- self, speaking her own language; and it penetrates the heart: no pomp of expression ; no parade of kindness; but strong lifTection hastening to utter what it strongly felt. ** His bre- thren could not answer him ; for they were troubled at his presence." Their silence is as expressive of those emulioiis of repentance and shame, which, on this amazing discovery, filled their breasts, and stopped their utterance, as the few Wo^s which Joseph speaks, are expressive of the generous dgitations which struggled for vont within him. No painter Chap 6. Pathetic Pieces. 109 could seize a more st-king moment for displaying thecharac- teristical features of the human heart, than what is here prc- sRiited. Never was there a situation of more tender and vir- tuous joy, on the one hand ; nor, on the other, of more over- whelming confusion and conscious guilt. !n the simple nar- ration 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, blaih. SECTION VII. ALT A MONT. The foUoit'ivg account of an affecting, mournful exit, is related by Dr. Young, who was present at the melancholy scene. The sad evening before the death of the noble youth, whose last hours suggested the most solemn and awful reflections, I was with him. No one was present, but his physician, and an intinriate whom he loved, and whom he had ruined. At my coming in, he said, »» You and the physician are come too late, i have neither life nor hope. You both aim at mira- cles. You would raise the dead I" Heaven, I said, was mer- ciful—" Or," exclaimed he, — *' I could not have been thus guilty. What has it not done to bless and to save me ! — I have been too strong for Omnipotence ! I have plucked down ruin." 1 said, the blessed Redeemer, — *' Hold ! hold ! you wound me ! — That is the rock on which I split :— I denied his name !" Refusing to hear any thing from me, or take any thing from the physician, he lay silent, as far as sudden darts of pain would permit, till the clock struck : Then with vehemence he exclaimed ; *' Oh ! time! time! it is fit thou shouid«t thua strike thy murderer to the heart ! — How art thou fled for ever! — A month!- Oh, for a single week! I ask not for years! though an age were too little for the much I have to do." On my saying, we could not do loo much : that heaven was a blessed place " So much the worse. — 'Tis lost! 'lis lost ! — Heaven is to me the severest part of hell !" Soon after, I proposed prayer, — " Pray you that can, f never prayed. I cannot pray — nor need 1. Is not Heaven on my side already 1 It closes with my conscience. Its 8«« verest strokes but second my own." Observing thst bis friend was much touched at this, even to tears — (who could forbear 1 I could not) --with a most aifectionate look h# sttd, K i>i.,: : ^ t 'i no The Ennlish Header. Pari 1 ♦• Keep those tears for thyself. I have undone tliee.— Dosf ihou weep for me ? that is cruel. What can pain nne more ?" Here his friend, too much affected, would have left him.— *» No, stay— thou still mayst hope ; therefore hear me. How madly have I talked. How madly hast thou listened and he- lieved but look on my present state, as a full answer to thee, and to myself. This body is all weakqess and pain ; but my soul, as if slung up by torment to greater strength and spirit, is full powerful to reason ; full mighty to suffe-. And that, which thus triumphs within the jaws of immortality, is, doubt- less, immortal— And, as for a Ueity, nothing less than an Al- mighty could inflict what I feel." I was about to congratulate this passive, involuntary con- fessor, on his asserting the two prime articles of his creed» ex- torted by the rack of nature, when he thus, very passionately exclaimed : — ** No, no ! let me speak on. I have not long to speak. — .My much injured friend ! my soul, as my body, lies in ruins; in scattered fragments of broken thought — Remorue for the past, throws my thought on the future. Worse dread ofthe future, strikes it back on the past. I turn, and turn, and find no ray. Didst thou feel half the mountain that is on me, thou wouldst struggle with the martyr for his stake ; and bless Heaven for the flames — that is not an everlasting flame ; that is not an unquenchable Are." How were we struck ! yet, soon after, still more. With what an eye of distraction, what a face of despair, he cried out ! *^ My principles have poisoned my friend ; my extrava* gance has beggared my boy ! my unkindne&s has murdered my wife ! — And is there another hell ? Oh ! thou blasphemed, yet indulgent LORD GOD ! Hell itself is a refuge, if it hide me from thy frown !" Soon after his understanding failed. His terrified imagination uttered horrors not to be repeated, or ever forgotten. And ere the sun (which, I hope, has seen few like him) arose, the gay, young, noble, inzenious, accom- plished, and most wretched Altamont, expired! If this is a man of pleasure, what is a man of pain 1 How quick, how total, is the transit '>f such persons ! In what a dis- mal gloom they set for ever ! How short, alas ! the day of their rejoicing I—For a moment they glitter — they dazzle ! In a moment, where are they ? Oblivion covers their mem- ories. Ah ! would it did ! Infamy snatches them from obliv- ion. In the long living annals of infamy their triumphs are Chap. I. Dialogues. Ill Vnri 1 liee. — Dos! Tie more 1" left him.— me. How ned and be ver to thee, in ; but my 1 and spirit, And that, ^. is, doubt- than an Al- untary con- ,3 creed, ex- passionately ; not long to \y body, lies I — Remorse k^Vorse dread md turn, and lat is on me, e ; and bless flame ; that here. With ir, he cried my extravn- s murdered lasphemed, e, if it hide ding failed. e repeated, e, has seen us, accom- lin 1 How II what a dis- the day of )y dazzle! Itheir mem* I from obliv' liumphs are recorded. Thy sufferings, poor Altamont ! still bled in the bosom of the heart-stricken friend — for Altamont had a friend. He might have had many. His transient morning might have been the dawn of an immortal day. His name might have been gloriously enrolled in the records of eternity. His mem- ory might have left u sweet fragrance behind, grateful to the surviving friend, salutary to the succeeding generation. Wijh what capacity was he endowed! with what advantages, for being greatly good ! But with the talents of an angel, a man may be^ a fool. If he judges amiss in the supreme point, judg- ing right in all else, but aggravates his folly ; as it shows him wrong, though blessed with the best capacity of being right. DR. YOUNO. CHAPTER VH. DIALOGUES. SECTION I. UEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITU8. The vices and follies oj men should excite compassion rather than ridicule. Democrilus. I find it impossible to reconcile myself to a melancholy philosophy. Herachtus. And I am equally unable to approve of that vain philosophy, which teaches men to despise and ridicule one an- other. To a wise and feeling mind, the world appears in a wretched and painful light. Dem. Thou art too much affected with the state of things; and this is a source of misery to thee. Her. And I think thou art too little moved bv it. Thy mirth and ridicule bespeak the buffoon, rather than the philosopher. Does it not excite thy compassion, to see mankind so frail, so jbiind, so far departed from the rules of virtue? Dem I am excited to laughter, when I see so much imper- |iinence and folly. Her. And yet. after all, they, who are the objects of thy rid- licule, include, not only mr.nkind in general, but the persona with whom tl.viu I i vest, thy friends, thy family, nay even thy- iself. • DeinocrituH and Horaclitus were two ancient philosophers, the tor. Imor of whom laughed, and the latter wept, at the errors and follicn of I'mnkind. ^5.V:ft, if ill "I ■>l If ' i 112 The English Reader Part 1. 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 ain* weak and foolish, it mnrks neither wisdom nor humanity, to liisult rather than pity them. But is it cer- tain, that thou art not as extravafrunt as they arc ? Dem. I presume that I am not ; since, in every point, my sentiments are the very reverse of theirs. Her. There are follies of different kinds. By constantly amusing thyself with the errors and misconduct of others, thou mayst render thyself equally ridiculous and culpable. Dem. Thou art at liberty to indulge such sentiments ; and to weep over me too, if thou hast any tears to spare. For my pari, 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? Her. Alas! there 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 conduct themselves according to reasonable and just principles : but I, who do not ■ufier myself to act as they do, must yet regard the dictates of my understanding and feelings, which c«)mpel 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, my brethren, persons born in the same condition of life, and destined to the same hopes and privileges ? If thuu shouldst enter an hospital, where sick and wounded per- sons reside. Mould their wounds and.distresses excite thy mirthi And yet, the evils of the body bear no comparison with those of ihe mind. Thou wouldst certainly blush at thy barbarity, if thou hadst been so unfeeling as to laugh at or despise a poor I miserable being, who had lost one of his legs: and yet thou art so destitute of humanity, as to ridicule those, who appeor 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 lossl is not to he imputed to himself: but he who rejects the dictates of reason and conscience, voluntarily deprives himself of theirj aid. The loss originates in his own folly. Her. Ah ! so much the more is he to be pitied I A furiousl maniac, who should pluck out his own eyes, would deserve] more compassion than an ordinary blind man. Dem. ComO) let us accommodate this business. There is I Iji lii Part 1. meet with; their folly. hor wisdom It is it ccr- Chap. L Dialogues. lis point, mv constantly others, thuu ble. ents; and tu ^or my pari, /ities and ill foolibh, or elieve, they iir condition. t themselves , who do not the dictates ;1 me to love leir mistakes pitying my me condition s? If thou lounded per- te thy mirthi In with those y barbarity, spise a poor I nd yel thouj who appeorl ding, by the luse the lossl the dictates iselfof their 'I A furious )uld deserve 5. There i^ something to be said on each side of the question. There is every where reason for laughing, and reason for weepin^.^ 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 unquet- tionable, that mankind are preposterous : 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 un- happily abandoned. Fenelon^ Archbishop of Cambray. SECTION II. DIONySIUS, PYTHIAS, AND DAMON. Genuine virtue commands respect^ even from the bad. Dionysivs. Amazing! What do I see"? It is Pythias juit arrived. — It is indeed Pythias. I did not think it possible. He is come to die, and I to redeem his friend ! Pythias. Yes, it is Pythias. I left the place of my confine- ment, with no other views, than to pay to heaven the vows I had made ; to settle my family concerns according to the rules of justice; and to bid adieu to my children, that I might die tranquiland satisfied. Dio. Bulwhy dost thou return? Hast thou no fear of death? Is it not the character of a madman, to seek it thus voluntarily ? Py. I return to suffer, though 1 have not deserved death.— Every principle of honour and goodness, forbids me to allow my friend to die for me. Dio. Dost thou, then, love him better than thyself? Py. No ; I love him as myself. But I am persuaded that I ought to suffer death, rather than my friend ; since it was Pythias whom thou hadst decreed to die. It were not just that Damon should suffer, to deliver me from the death which waa designed, not for him, but for me only. Dio. But thou supposest, that it is as unjust to inflict death upon thee, as upon thy friend. . . Py. Very true; we are both perfectly innocent; and it is equally unjust to make either of us suffer. K 2 4m^ m : lU The English Reader. Part I, !i:| Dio. Why dost ihou then assert, that it were injustice to put him to death, instead oflhee? Py. It is unjust, in the same degree to inflict death either on Damon or on myself; but PylhJns were highly culpable to let Damon sulTor liiut death, which the tyrant had prepared for Pythias only. Dio. Dost thou then return hither, on the day appointed, with no other view, than lo save the lifeofa friend, by losing thy own? Py. I return, in rej»ard to thee, to suffer an act of injustice which it ia (common for tyrants to inflict; and, with resj)ect to Damon, to perform my duly, by rescuing him from the clanger he incurred by his generosity to me. Dio. And now, Damon, let me address myself to thee.— Didst thou not really fear, that Pythias would never return; and that thou would^it be put to death on his account? Da. I was but too well assured, that Pylhiaa would punc- tually return; and that he would be more solicitous to keep his promise than to preserve his life. Would to heaven, that ihis relations end friends had forcibly detained him ! He would then have lived for the comfort and benefit of good men; and I should have the satisf\ction of dying for him! Dio. What! Does life displease thee ? Da. Yes; it displeases me when I see and feel the power of A tyrant. Dio. It is well I Thou shalt see him no more. I will ordfir thee to be put to death immediately.- Py. Pardon the feelings of a man who sympathizes with his dying friend. But remember it was Pythias who was de- voted by thee to deslruclinn. 1 come to submit to it, that I fnay redeem my friend. Do not refuse me this consolation in my last hour. Dio. 1 cannot endure men, who despise death, and set my power at defiance. Da. Thou canst not, then, endure virtue. Dio. No: I cannot endure that proud disdainful virtue, which contemns life ; which dreads no punishment ; and which is insensible to the charms of riches and pleasure. Da. Thou seest, however, that it is a virtue, which is not insensible to the dictates of honour, justice, and friendship. Dio. Guards, take Pythias to execution. We shall see whether Damon will continue to despise my authority. Da. Pythias, by returning to submit himself to thy pleasure, Part I, I Chap. 7. T)ialogufs 115 has merited hia life, nnd deserved thy favoiar; but I liave ex- cited thy indignation, by resijjnini^ myself to thy power, in or- der to save him; be satisfied, t'.ien, with this sacrifice, and put me to death. Py. Hoid, Dionysiiis! remember, it was Pythias alone who offended thee : Damon could not Dio. Alas! what do I see and hear! where am II How mis^erable; nnd how worthy to be so! I have hitherto known nothing of true virtue. I have spent my life in darkness and error. All my power and honours are insufTicient to produce love. I cannot boast of having acquired a single friend, in the course of a reign of thirty years. And yet these two per- sons, in a private condition, love one another tenderly, unre- servedly confide in each other, are mutually happy, and ready to die for each other's preservation. Py. How couldst thou, who hast never loved any person, expect to have friends? If thou hadst loved and respected men, thou wouldst have secured their love and respect. Thou hast feared mankind; and they fear thee; they detest thee. Dio. Damtm, Pythias, condescend to admit me as a third friend, in a connexion so perfect. I give you your lives; and I wdl load you with riches. Da. We have no desire to be enriched by thee; and, in regard to thy friendship, we cannot except or enjoy it, till thou become good and just. Without these qualities, thou canst be connected with none but trembling slaves, and base flatterers. To be loved and esteemed by men of free and generous mmds, thou must be virtuous, affectionate, disinterested, beneficient; and know how to live in a sort of equality with those who share and deserve thy friendship. Fenelon^ Archbishop of Camhray, SECTION III. LOCKE AND BAYLE. Christianity defended against the cavils of scepticism. Bayle. Yks, we both were philosophers ; but my philosophy was the deepest. You dogmatized; I doubted. Lo:ke, Do you make doubting a proof of depth in philoso- phyl It may be a good beginning of it; but it is a had end. Bayle. No : — the more profound our searches are into the nature of things, the more uncertainty we shall find; and the most subtle mind see objections and difficulties in every syB- 116 The English Reader. Part I Ch I I tern, which are overlooked or undiscoverable by ordinary un- derstandings. 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 knows something. I find that the eyes which nature has given me, see many things very clearly, though some are out of their reach, or discerned but dimly. '*/hat opinions ought 1 to have of a physician, who should offer me an eye-water, the use of which would at first so sharpen my sight, as to carry it farther than ordinary vi- sion ; but would in the end put them out? 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 excellent understanding, which was by nature quick-sight ed, and rendered more so by art and a subiilty of logic pecu- liar to yourself — it brought, I say your very acute understan- ding, to see nothing clearly ; and enveloped all the great truths of reason and religion in mists of doubt. Bayle. I own it did; — hut your comparison is not just. 1 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 mankind. The blindness was real, the perceptions were imaginaiy. I cured myself first of those false imagina- tions, and then I laudably endeavoured to cure other men. Locke. A great cure indeed ! — and do not you think that, in return for the service you did them, 'they ought to erect you a statue ? Biyle. Yes; it is good for human nature to know its own weakness. When we arrogantly presume on a strength 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 agree 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 discover the real powers of the mind, to see what it could do, and what it could not ; to restrain it from ef- forts 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 line and the plummet al- ways in my hands. Many of its depths I found myself unable to fathom; but, by caution in soundmg, and the careful obser* / (^/lap. DialogUt. 117 vations I inide in the course of my voyage, I found out some truths of so much use to mankind, that they acknowledge ma to have been their Um efactor. Bayle. Their ipnoruiicc makes them think rso. Some other philosophrr will corno hereafter, .ind show those truths to bo falsehoods. Ho will pretend to discover other truths of equal importance. A latersage will arise, perhaps among men now barb'iriousaiid unlearned, whose sagacious discoveries will dis- credit the opinions of bis admired predecessor, in philoso- phy, as in nature, all changes its form, and one thing exists by the destruction of another. Locke. Opinions taken up wihout a patient investagation, depending on terms not accurately defined, and principles begged without proof, like theories to explain the phaenomena of nature, built on suppositions instead of experiments, must perpetually change and destroy one another. But some opin- ions there are, even in matters not obvious to the common sense of mankind, which the mind has received on such ra- tional grounds of assent, that they are as immoveable as the pillars of heaven; or (to speak philosophically) as the great laws of Nature, by which, under God, the universe is sus- tained. Can you seriously think, that because the hypothesis of your countrymen Descartes, which was nothing but an m- genious, well-imagined romance, has been lately exploded, the system of Newton, which is built on experiments and geome- try, the two most certain methods of discovering truth, will ever fail ; or that, because the whims of fanatics and the divinity of the schoolmen, cannot now be supported, the doc- trines of that religion, which I, the declared enemy of all enthu- siasm and false reasoning, firmly believed and maintained 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 con- futed 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 yourself know the difference be- tween the foundations on which the credit of those systems, and that of Newton is placed. Your scepticism is more affect ed 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, than to set up. And your talents were admirable for that kind of work. Then your huddling together in a Critical Dictionary, a pleasent tale, or obscene jest, and a grave^argu- >! '* r. : ff'.i . 118 The English Reader. Chap, 1. ment againsi the Christian religion, a witty confutation of some absurd author, and an artful sophism to impeach some respectable truth, was particular commodious to all our young smarts and smatterers in free thinking. But what mischief have you not done to human society ? You have endeavoured, and with some degree of success, to shake those foundations, on" which the whole moral world, and the, great fabric of social happiness, entirely rest. How could you, as a philosopher, in the sober hours of reflection, answer for this to your consci- ence, even supposing you had doubts of the trulh of a sysletn, which gives to virtue its sweetest hopes, to impenitent vice its greatest fears, and to true penitence its best consolations ; which restrains even the least approaches to guilt, and yet makes those allowances for the infirmities of our nature, which the Stoic pride denied to it, but which its real imperfection, and the goodness of its infinitely benevolent Creator, so evident- ly require ? Bayle. The mind is free ; and it loves to exert its freedom. Any restraint upon it is a violence done to its nature, and a ty- ranny, against which it has a right to rebel. Locke The mind, though free, has a governor within it- self, which may and ought to limit the exercise of its freedom. That governor is reason. Bayle. Yes :— but reason, like other governors, has ft policy more dependent upon uncertain caprice, than upon any fixed laws. And if that reason, which rules my mind or yours, has happened to set up a favourite notion, it not only submits im* plicitly to it, but desires that the same respect should be paid to it by all the rest of mankind. Now I hold that an> man may lawfully oppose this desire in another ; and that if he is wise, he will use his utmost endeavours to check it in himself. Locke. Is there not also a weakness of a contrary nature to this you are now ridiculing 1 Do we often take a pleasuni in showing our own power, and gratifying our own pride, by degrading the notions set up by other men, and generally re- spected ? Bayle, 1 believe we do; and by this means it often happens that, if one man builds and consecrates a temple to fully, another pulls it down. Locke Do vou thtnk it beneficial to humans to you all temples pulled down. lety, the Bayle I cannot say that I do. f/ocki. Vet I find not in your writings any mark ufdist JIIO- f)iaioifue't. llf) lion, to sliovv us wluch you mean to suv»;. Baxjle. A true philosopher, like an impartial historian, must be of no sect. Locke. Is there no mc.liiim between the blind zeal ofa ser- lary, and u total inditrerence to nil religion 1 Bayle. With regard to morality, I was not inditHirent. Locke. How could you then be indJlFerent with regard to the sanctions religion gives to morality 1 How could you pub- lish what tends so directly and apparently to weaken in man- kind the belief of those sanctions'? Was not this sacrificing ihe great interests of virtue to the little motives of vanity ? Bayle. A niun may act iuJiscruetly, but he cannot do w rong, by declaring that, which, on a full discussion of the question, he sincerely thinks to be trui». Locke. An enthusiast, who advances doctrines preiudiciiil to society, or opposes any that are useful to it, has the strength of opinion, and the heat of a disturbed imagination, to plead in alleviation of his fault. But vour cool head and sound iuds:* ment, can have no such excuse. I know very well there arc passages in all your works, and those not 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 scep- ticism, to set themselves loose from all obligations of virtue! What a misfortune is it to have made such a use of such tal- ents ! It would have been better for you and for mankind, if you had been one of the dullest of Dutch theologicians, or the most credulous monk in a Portuguese convent. The riches of the mind, like those of fortune, may be employed so perverse- ly, as to become a nuisance and pest, instead of an ornament and support, to society. Bayle. You arc very severe upon mr. — But do you count it no merit, no service to mankind, to deliver them from the frauds and fetters of priestcraft, from the deliriums of fanati- cism, and from the terrors and follies of superstition? Con- sider how much mischief those have done to the world : Even in the last age, what massacres, what civil wars, what convni- sians of government, what confusion in society, did they pro- duce ! Nay, in that we both lived in, though much more en- *» « 1 1 '*\ -•■}. '^^i^ 1 'mi ■> * •^W '-*,' "•f.- >".' fl in 120 The English Reader. Part 1. lightened than the former, did I not see ihem occasion a violent persecution in my own country ? and can you blame me for striking at the root of tliesci evils? Locke. The root of these evils, you well know, was false religion : but you struck at the true. Heaven and hell are not more different, than the system of faith I defended, and that which produced the horrors of which you speak. Why would you so fallaciously confound them together in some of your writings, that it requires much more judgment, and a more dil- ligent attention, than ordinary readers have, to separate them again, and to make the pn)per distinctions? This, indeed, is the great art of the most celebrated free-thinkers. They recom- mend themselves to warm and ingenious minds, by lively strokes of wit, and by arguments really strong, against superstition, dition in which he found them : for it is notorious, that, dus ring 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 com* ing 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 unheard-of impositions, extorted from the industrious poor, are not to be computed. The most faithful allies of the commonwealth have been treated as ene- mies. Romancilizeufi have, like .slaves, been put to death with tortures. The most attrocious criminals, for money, have been exempted from the deserved punishments ; and men ofthe most unexceptionable characters, condemned and banished un- lieard. The harbours, though sufllciently fortified, and the gates of strong towns, have been opened to pirates und rava- gers. The soldiery and sailors, belonging to a province un- der the protection of the commonwealth, have been starved to death ; whole flee's, to the great detriment of the province, sul- fered to perish. The ancient monuments of either Sicilian or Roman greatness, the statues of heroes and princes, have been carried otF; and the temples stripped ofthe images. — Having, by his iniquitous sentences, filled the prisons with the most industrious and deserving ofthe people, he then proceeded to order numbers of Roman citizens to be strangled in the gaols : so that the exclamation, *'l am a citizen of Rome!" which has often, in tho most distant regions, and among the most barbar- ous people, been a protection, was of no service to them; but, on tlie contrary, brought a speedier and a more severe punish- ment upon them. I ask now, Vcrres, what thou hast to advance against thi« charge? Wilt thou pretend to deny it? Wilt thou protend, that any thing false, that even any thing aggravated, is alleged a- gainst thee ? Had any prince, or any state, committed the same outrage against the privilege of Roman citizens, should we not think we had sufficient ground for demanding satisfaction? What putushment ought, then, to bo inflicted upon a tyranni- Part 1. >ting mon- );it unhap- litnitiistra- t and best ) the con> that, duN r enjoyed egulations heir com^ nor of the as decided s decisions le sums he s, fxtorled The most ed as ene- death with inev* have ! men of the inished un- d, and the and rava- ovince un- starved to vince, sut- Sicilian or have been —Having, the most ceeded to he gaols : which has St barbar- Ihem ; but, |re punish- fainst thi« [tend, that illeged a- the same ltd we not Isfaction ? ivranni' Chap. 8. Fublic Speeches. 123 w^mm cal and wicked pra?tur, who dared, at no greater distance that, Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast, to put to the infamous death of crucifixion, that unfortunate and innocent citizen, Pub- lius Gavius Cosanus, only for his having asserted his privilege of citizenship, and declared his intention of appealing to the juctice of his country, against the crnol oppressor, who had unjustly confined him in prison at Syracus^e whence he had just made his escape? The unhappy man, arrested as he was going to embark for his native country, is brought before the wicked prielor. VVith eyes darting fury, arid a couutenance distorted with cruelty, he orders the helpless victim uf his rage to be stripped, and rods to be brought : a('cu>ing him, but with- out the least shadow of evidence, or even of suspicion, of hav- ing come to Sicily as a spy. It was in vain that the unhappy man cried out, *'l am a Roman citizen : i li.vve served under Lucius Pretius, who is now at Panormus, and will attest my in- nocence." The blood-thirsty prietor, deaf to all he could urge in his own defence, ordered the infamous punishment to be in- flicted. Thus, fathers, was inni>cent Roman citizen publicly mangled with scourging ; whilst the only words he uttered, a- midst his cruel sufferings, were, '* 1 am a Roman citizen!" With these he hoped to defend himself from violence and in- famy. But of so little service was this privilege to him, that, while he was thus asserting his citizenship, the order was gi- ven for his execution, — for his execution upon the cross! liberty! — O sound once delightful to every Roman ear ! — sacred privilege of Roman citizenship ! — once sacred! — now trampled upon ! But what then ! is it come to this? Shall an inferior magistrate, a gov(!rnor, who holds his whole power of the Roman people, in a Roman piovince, within sight oflialy, bind, scourge, torture with lire and red hot plates otiron, and at last put to the infamous deiUh ol'thc cross, a Roman citizen ! Shall neither the cries of innoceaco ex\)iring in agony, nor the tears of pitying spectators, nor the majesty of the Roman com- niunweallh, nor th(^ fear of the justice of his country, restrain the licentious and waton cruelly of a monster, who, in confi- dence of his riches, strikes at the root of liberty, and sets man* kind at defiancj; ? 1 conclude with expressing m\ hopes, that your wisdom and justice, Kalliers, will not, by suiK'ring the atrocious and unex- uinplcil insolence of Caius Verres to escape due punishment, loavo room to apprehend the danger of a total suhvnrsion of iiuthority, and the introduclio.i of general anarchy and confu- ^ioU. CKKRo's OR ^TI0N^' :i ^] M lU 7%c English Reader. Part 1. I! SECTION 11. Speech of Adherbal to the Roman Senate^ imploring their protection against Jugurtha. FATHERS ! It is known to you, that king Micipsa, my father, on his death-bed, left in charge to Jugurtha* his adopted son, con<> junctly with my unfortunate brother Hiernpsaland myself, the children of his own body, the administration of the kingdom of Numidia, directing us to consider the senate and people of Rome as proprietors of it. He charged us to use our best endeavours to be serviceable to the Roman commonwealth ; assuring us, that your protection would prove a defence against all enemies; and would be instead of armies, fortifications, and treasures. While my brother and 1 were thinking of nothing but how to regulate ourselves according to the directions of our deceased father — Jugurtha — the most infamous of mankind !— breaking through all ties of gratitude and of common humanity, and trampling on the authority of the Roman commonwealth, pro- cured the murder of my unfortunate brother; and has driven me from my throne atid native country, though he knows I inherit, from my grandfather Massinissa, and my father Mi- cipsa, the friendship and alliance of the Romans. For a prince to be reduced, by villany, to my distressful cir- cumstances, is calamity enough; but my misfortunes are height- ened by the consideration-that I find myself obliged to solicit your assistance, fathers, for the services done you by my an^' cestors, not for any 1 have been able to render you in my own person. Jugurtha has put it out of my power to deserve any thing at your hands; and has forced me to be burdensome, before I could be useful to you. And yet, if I had no plea, but my undeserved misery — a once powerful prince, the descen- dant of a race of illustrious monarchs, now, without any fault of my own, destitute of every support, and reduced to the ne- cessity of begging foreign assistance, against an enemv who has seized my throne and my kingdom— if my unequalled dis- tresses were all I had to plead--)! '.yould itecome the greatness of the Roman commonwealth, to protect the injured, and to check the triumph of daring wickedness over helpless inno- cence. But, to provoke your resentment to the utmost, Jugur- tha has driven me from the very dominions, which the senate and people of Rome gave to my ancestors; and, from which. my grandfather, and my father, under your umbrage, expelleii Chap. 8. Public Speeches- 125 Syphax and the Carthaginians. Thus, fathers, your kindness to our family is defeated ; ond Jugurtha, in injuring me, throws contempt upon you. O wretched prince! Oh cruel reverse of fortune ! Oh fa- ther Micipsa! is this the consequence of thy generosity; that he, whom thy goodness raised to an equality with thy own children, should be the murderer of thy children ? Must, then, the royal house of Numidia always be a scene of havoc and blood 1 While Carthage remained, we suffered, as was to be expected, all sorts of hardships from their hostile attacks ; our enemy near; our only powerful ally, the Roman common- wealth, at a distance. When that scourge of Africa was no more we congratulated ourselves on the prospect of establish^ ed peace. But, instead of peace, behold the kingdom of Nu- midia drenched with royal blood ! and the only surviving son of its late king, flying from an adopted murderer, and seeking that safety in foreign parts, which he cannot command in his own kingdom. Whither— Oh ! whither shall I fly 1 If I return to the royal palace of my ancestors, my father^s throne is seized by the murderer of my brother. What can I there expect, but that Jugurtha should hasten to imbrue, in my blood, those hands which are now reeking with my brother's 1 If I were to fly for refuge, or for assistance to any other court, from what prince can I hope for protection, if the Roman commonwealth give me up 1 From my own family or friends 1 have no ex- pectations. My royal father is no more. He is beyond the reach of violence, and out of hearing of the complaints of his unhappy son. Were my brother alive, our mutual sympathy would be some alleviation. But he is hurried out of life, in his early youth, by the very hand which should have been the last to injure any of the royal family of Numidia. The bloody Jugurtha has butchered all whom he suspected to be in my in- terest. Some have been destroyed by the lingering torment of the cross. Others have been given a prey to wild beasts ; and their anguish made the sport of men more cruel than wild beasts. If there be any yet alive, they are shut up in dun- geons, there to drag out a life more intolerable than death itself. Look down, illustrious senators of Rome ! from that height of power to which you are raised, on the unexampled distres- ses of a prince, who is, by the cruelty of a wicked intruder, hocomo an outcast from alt mankind. Let not the crafty in- I. 2 t MM ■ )j- . - I '■ ■■m ■'■■'ku. ■■■ri:f A: ;•< ■ i' : H "Sh **.< I? 1*26 IVic English Reader. Part ]. sinuations of him who returns murder for adoption, prejudice your judgment. Do not listen to the wretch who has butcher- ed the son and relations of a king, who gave him power to sit on the same throne with his own sons. — I have been informed, that he labours by his emissaries to prevent your determining any thing against him in his absence ; pretending that I mag- nify my distress, and might, for him, have staid in peace in my own kingdom. But, if ever the time comes, when the due vengeance from above shall overtake him, he will then dissem- ble as 1 do. Then he, who now, hardened in wickedness, triumphs over those whom his violence has laid low, will, in his turn, feel distress, and suffer for his impious ingratituda to my father, and his blood-thirsty cruelty to my brother. Oh murdered, butchered brother ! Oh dearest to my heart- now gene for ever from my sight! — but why should I lament his death? He is, indeed, deprived of the blessed light of heaven, of life, and kingdom, at once, by the very person who ought to have been the first to hazard his own life, in defence of any one of Micipsa's family. But, as things are, my bro- ther is not so much deprived of these comforts, as delivered from terror, from flight, from exile, and the endless train of miseries which render life to me a burden. He lies full low, gored with wounds, and festering in his own blood. But he lies in peace. He feels none of the miseries which rend my soul with agony and distraction, while I am set up a spectacle to all mankind, of the uncertainty of human affairs. So far from having it in my power to punish his murderer, I am not master of the means o( securing my own life. So far from being in a condition to defend my kingdom from the violence of the usurper, I am obliged to apply for foreign protection for my own person. Fathers ! Senators of Rome ! the arbiters of nations ! to you I fly for refuge from the murderous fury of Jugurtha. — By your aflfection for your children; by your love for your coun- try ; by your own virtues; by the mnjesty of the Roman com- monwealth ; by all that is sacred, and all that is dear to you-^- deliver a wretched prince from undeservf .{, unprovoked injury; and save the kingdom of Numidia, whicli is your own proper- ty, from being the prey of violence, usurpation, and cruelty. 8ALLU8T. SECTION III. The Apostle Paul's noi/e dejence bejore Festus and Aorippa. AoRippA said unto Paul, thou art permitted to speak for thy- ■ f? '^ Part 1. , prejudice as butcher- )ower to sit n informed, letermining hat I mag- in peace in hen the due len dissem- k'ickedness, w, will, in gratituda to ther. ny heart- Id I lament ed light of person who in defence e, my bro- ^ delivered ss train of s full low, But he rend my a spectacle So far , I am not ) far from violence tection for to you rtha.—By [our coun- [man corn- to you-w |ed injury; 'n proper- cruelty. SALLU8T. IAorippa. for thy- Chap. 8. Puhiir Speeches. 127 self.— Then Paul stretched forth his hand, and answered for himself. I think myself happv, king Agrippa, because I shall answer for myself this day belbre thee, concerning all the things wherefore 1 am accused by the Jows: especially, as I know thee to be expert in all customs and questions which are among the Jews. Wherefore I beseech thee to hear me pa- tiently. My manner of life from my youth, which was at the first among my own nation at Jerusalem, know all the Jews; who knew me from the beginning, (if they would testify,) that after the straitest sect of our religion, I lived a Pharisee. And now I stand and am judged for the hope of the promise made by God to our fathers; to which promise, 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 myself, that I ought to do many things contrary to the name of Jesus of Nazareth: and this I did in Jerusalem. Many of the saints T shut up in prison, having received authority from the chief priests: and when they were put to dea.h, I gave my voice aginst 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. But as I went to Damascus, with authority and commission from the chief priests, at mid-day. O king ! 1 saw in the way a light from heaven, above the brightness of the sun, shining round about me, and them who journeyed with me. And when we were all fallen to the earth, 1 heard a voice speaking to me and saying, in the Hebrew tongue, Saul, Saul, why persecutes! thou me? It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks. And 1 said, who art thou. Lord? And he replied, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest. But rise, and stand upon thy feet : for 1 have appeared to thee for this purpose, to muke thee a min- ister, and a witness both of these things, which thou hastse^^n, and of those things in which I will appear to theo; delivering thee from the people, and from the Gentiles, to whom I now send thee, to open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God ; that they may receive forgiveness of sins, and inheritance amongst them who arft sanctified by faith that is in me. >' y i* • v.; i,'. ii '■^im 128 The English Reader. Part \. If Whereupon, O king Agrippa! I was not disobedient to tlie heavenly vision ; but showed first to them of Damascus, and at Jerusalem, and through all the coasts of Judea, and then to the Gentiles, that they should repent, and turn to God, and do works meet for repentance. For these causes, the Jews caught me in the temple ; and went about to kill me. Having, how- ever, obtained help from God, I continue to this day, witness- ing both to small and great, saying no other things than those which the prophets and Moses declared should come; that Christ should suffer ; that ho would be the first who should rise from the dead ; and that he would show light to the people, and to the Gentiles. And as he thus spoke for himself, Festus said, with a loud voice, "Paul, thou art beside thyself; much learning hath made thee mad." But he replied, I am not mad, most noble Festus ; but speak the words of truth and soberness. For the king knoweth these things, before whom I also speak freely. I am persuaded that none of these things are hidden from him; for this thing was not done in a corner. King Agrippa, be- lievest thou the prophets? I know that thou believest. Then Agrippa said to Paul, ** Almost thou persuadest me to be a I Christian." And Paul replied, ** I would to God, that not onlj thou, but also all that hear me this day, were both almost, aod altogether such as I i'ti, except these bonds."* SECTION IV. Lord Mansfield's speech in the House of Peer^^ 1770, on tk hill for 'preventing the delays ofjustice^ by claiming the Pri- vilege of Parliament. MY LORDS, When I consider the importance of this bill to your Lord- ships, 1 am not surprised it has taken up so much of your con- sidenition. It is a bill, indeed, oi no common magnitude; ill is no less than to take away from two thirds of the legislative body of this great kingdom, certain privileges and immunities of which they have been long possessed. Perhaps there is no situation the human mind can be placed in, that is so difficultj and so trying, as when it is made a judge in its own cause. * How hnppy was this great Apostle, even in the most perilous circura- stances! Though under bonds and oppression, his mind was free, and| raised above every fear of man. With what dignity and composure does he defend himself, and the noble cause he had espoused ; whilst he display I the most compassionate and generous feelings, for those who were stran^c^^ | to the fjublime rr'ligion by which he was animated I ACTS XXVI. Part I. ledient to the mascus, and , and then to God, and do Jews caught laving, how- day, witness- gs than those come ; that 10 should rise e people, and , with a loud earning hath 1, most noble ess. For the speak freely, len from him; Agrippa, be- Bvest. Then ^st me to be a that not onlj h almost, aod ACTS XXVI. 1770, on the ming the Pri' your Lord- ofyourcoD- nagnitude; ii he legislative d immunities )s there is no is so difficult }wn cause. leriloua circutn- 1 I was free, and] composure doe? lilst ho display I were su-anpf r* Chap. 8. Public S2^''ech<:s. 120 Thero is something implanted in the breast of n^in so a' tached to self, so tenacious of privileges once obta>» J, that * such a situation, either to discuss with impariialit\ or decK;^ with justice, has ever been held the summit of all hurrian virtue. The bill now in question puts your lordships in this very pre- dicament; and I have no doubt the wisdom of your decision will convince the world, that where self-interest and justice are 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 should be free m their persons, in cases of civil suits: tor there miy come a time when the safety and welfare of this whole empire, may depend upon their at- tendance in parliament, i am far from advising any measure that would in future endanger ihe state : but the bill before your lordships has, [ am confident, no such tendency ; for it ex- pressly 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 facil- itate the recovery o( just and legal debts, [ am astonished and amazed. They, I doubt not, oppose the bill upon public princi- ples : 1 would not wish to insinuate, that private interest had the least weight in their determination. The bill has been frequently proposed, and as frequently has miscarried : but it was always lost in the lower house. Lit- tle did I think, when it had passed the commons, that it possi- bly 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, endeavoi-rto evade, by privilege, those very laws which you enforce on yt)ur fel- low-subjects? Forbid it justice! — I am sure, were the noble lords as well acquainted as I am, with but half the difficulties and delays occasioned in the courts of justice, under pretence of privilege, they would not, nay, they could nut, oppose this bill. 1 have waited with patience to hear what arir^uments might be urged against the hill ; but I have waited in vain : the truth is, there is no argument that can weigh against it. The justice and expediency of the bill aro such as render it self-evident. It is a proposition of that nature, which can neither be weak- >uii 130 VVic English Rt cider Part I ened by argutnent, nor eDtanglod with sophistry. Much, in- deed, has been ii^aid by some noble lords, on the wisdom of our ancestors, and how ditlerently they thought from us. They not only decreed, that privilege should prevent all civil suits from proceeding during the silting of parii >ment, but likewise granted protection to the very servants of members. 1 shall say nothing on the wisdom of our ancestors ; it might perhaps appear invidious : that is not necessary in the present case.— I shall only say, that the noble lords who Hatter themselves with the weight of that reflection, should remember, that as cir- cumstances alter, thiiijcs themselves should alter. Formerly, it was not so fashionable either tor masters or servants to run in debt, as it is at present. Form(;rly, wo were not that great commercial nation we are at present ; nor formerly were mer- chants iSc manufacturers members of parliament as at present. The case is now very different : both merchants and manufactu- rers are, with great propriety, elected members of the lower house. Commerce having tlius got into the legislative body of the kingdom, privilege must be done away. We all know, that the very suul and essenceof trade are regular payments; and sad experience tejfches us, that there arc men, who will not make their regular payments without the compulsive power of the laws. The law then ought to be equally open to all. Any ex- emption to particular 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 arguments for that, which is sufficiently evident without, any. 1 shall only say a few words to some noble lords, who foresee much inconve- nience, from tlje perso»js of their servants being liable to be ar- rested. One noi)le lord observes, That the coachman of a peer may be arrested, while he is driving his master to the House, and that, consequet)lly, 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 isserious in his objection. Another noble peer said, 'i'hat, by this bill, one might lose his most valuable and honest servants. This I hold to be a con- tradiction in terms: for he can neither be a valuable servant, nor an honest man, whogets into debt which he is neither able nor willing to pay, till compelled by the law. If my servant, by unforeseen accidents, has (jot itil.i debt, and I still wish to retaiti him, I certainly would pay the demand. But upon no principle of liberal legislation svliatever. can mv servant havu Puldic Speeches. 131 a title to «et his crediiors at defiance, wlijle for forty shillings- only, the honest trauo>ni in may be torn from his family and locked u}) in a gaol. Ii is monstrous iiijiisiico! J flatter my- self, however, the determination (jf this dav will entirely put nn enri to all these partial proceedings I'or the future, by pass- ing into a law tiie hill now under your lordship's consideration. I come now to speak, upon what, indeed, i would have glad- ly avoided, had 1 not been particularly pointed at, for the part I have taken in this hill. It has been said, by a noble lord on my left hand, that I likewise am running? the race of popular- ity. If the noble lord means by popularity, that applause be- stowed by after-ages on goi)d and viiluousarti(jns, I have lonuntry allow of no place, nor any enjoyment, to be a sanctuary for crines; and whero I have the honor to sit as judj^e, neither royal favour, nor pop- ular applause, shall protect the guilty. 1 have now only to beg pardon for ha\ iiig em|)loyed so much of your lordship^s time; and ? am sorry a bill, fraught with so many good consequences, lias not met with an abler advo- cate: but I doubt not your lordships' determination will con- vince the world, that a bill, calculated to contribute so much to the equal distribution of justice as the present, requires with your lordships but very little support. SECTION V. Jin address to young persons. I INTEND, in this address, to show you the importance of be- ginning early to give seiious attention to your conduct. Asl soon as you are capable ot reflection, you must perceive thai there is a right and a wrong in huihin actions. You «ce, thai those who are born with the same advantages 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 world, and pass their days with comfort and honour; others, of the same rank, by mean and vicious behaviour, forfeit the advaniMges of their birth ; involve themselves in much misery;! and end in being a disgrace to their friends and a burden on society. Fiarly, then may you learn, that it is not on the external condition in which you find yourselves placed, bull on the part wiiich you are to act, that your welfare or ud-[ happiness, your honour or infamy, depends. Now, whcr beginning to act that part, what can be of greater moment.1 than to regulate your plan of conduct with the most serious attention, before you Imve yet committed any fatal or irrel trievable errors? If instead of exerting reflection for lhi» valuable purpose, yon deliver yourselves up, at so critical il j> .*a% Chaf. 8. Public Speeches f ''I' 133 lime, to sloth and pleasures ; if you refuse to listen to any cnurjselior but humour, or to attend to any pursuit except that of amusement ; if you allow yourselves to float loose and care- less 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 heginuings ? While so many firound you are undcrgomg the sad consequences of a like in- disoietion, for what reason shnll not those con'^equences extend to you ? Shall you attain success without that preparation, and escape dangers without that precaution, which are re- quired of others ? Shrill happiness grow up to you, of its own accord, and solicit your acceptance, when, to the rest of man- kind, it is the fruit of long cultivation, and the acquisition of labour and care ? Deceive not yourselves with those arro- gant hopes. Whatever be your rank, Providence w ill not, lor 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." lie hath decreed, that they only "who seek after wisdom, shall find it; that fools shall bo af- flicted, because of their transgressions; and that whoever re- fuselh instruction, shall 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 cheer- fulness for the rest of life; but by delivering yourselves up at present to giddiness and levity, you lay the fouudcilion of lasting heaviness of heart. When you look forward to those [)lans of life, which cither your circumstances have suggested, or your friends have pro^ posed, you will not hesitate to acknowledge, that in order to pursue them with advantage, some previous discipline is re- quisite. He assured, that whatever is to be your profession, no education is more necessary to your success, than the ac- quirement of virtuous dispositions and habits. This is the universal preparation lor every character, and every station in life. Bad as the world is, respect is always paid to virtue. In the usual course of human nllairs, it will be found, that a plain understanding, joined with acknowledged worth, contri- butes more to prosperity, than the brightest part without pro- bity or honour. Whether science, or business, orpubliclife, be your aim, virtue still enters, for a principal share, into all those great departmonts of socielv. It is connected with onr.i- I :.-,.;} < ' '"Iji 134 The English Reader. Part 1. nence, in every liberal art ; with reputation in every branch oi" fair and useful business; with distinction in every public sta- tion. The vigour which it gives the mind, and the weight which it adds to character; the generous sentiments which it breathes; the unhaunted spirit which it inspires; the ardour of diligence which itquickens; the freedom which it procures from pernici- ous and dishonourable avocations; are the foundations of all that is highly honourable, or greatly successful among 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 corresponds to the pleasing apearance without. Short are ths 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 dis- positions, and the accomplishments of the mind. These are the qualities whose influence will last, when the lustre of aJl that once sparkled and dazzled has passed away. Let not then the season of youth be barren of improvements, 80 essential to your future felicity and honour. Now is tlie seed-time of life ; and accordingly to ** what you sow, you shall reap." Your character is now, under Divine Assistance, of your own forming; your fate is, in some measure, put into your own hands. Your nature is as yet pliant and soft. Habits have not established their dominion. • Prejudices have not pre- occupied your understanding. The world has not had lime to contract and debase your affections. All your powers are more vigorous, disembarrassed, and free, than they will be at any future period. Whatever impulse you now give to your de sires and passions, the direction is likely to continue. It will form the channel in which your lile is to run ; nay, it may de- termine its everlasting issue. Consider then the employment of this important period, as the highest trust which shull ever be committed to you ; as in a great measure, decisive of your happiness, in time, and in eternity. As in the succession of the seasons, each, by the invariable laws of nature, affects the productions of what is next in course ; so, in human life, ev- ery period of our age, according as it is well or ill spent, influ- ences the happiness of that which is to follow. Virtuous youth gradually brings forward accomplished and flourishing man- hood ; and such manhood passes of itself, without uneasiness, with •'.■;■ ill Par/ 1. branch of public sta- ght which breathes; fdiligence m pernici- ions of all ig men. you now ;ir shining the fairest )nds to the )hs of wit, r whatever in hold the miable dis- These are c of all that Chap. S. Public Speeches. 135 loto respectable and tranquil old age. But when nature is 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 without 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 finish this address, with calling your attention to that dependence on the blessing of Heaven, 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 confidenct^ in themselves. Trusting to their own abilities for carrying them successfully through life, they are careless of applying to God, or of deriving any assistance from what they are apt to reckon the gloomy discipline of re- ligion. Alas ! how Utile do they know the dangers which a- waitthem? Neither human wisdom, nor human virtue, un- supported by religion, is equal to the trying situations which often occur in life. By the shock of temptation, how frequent- ly have the most virtuous intentions been overthrown ? Under the pressure of disaster, how often has the greatest constancy sunk ? '* Every good, and every perfect gi.t, is from above.*' Wisdom and virtue, as well as ** riches and honour, come from God." Destitute of his favour, you are in no better situation, with all your boasted abilities, than orphans \e(i tu wander in a trackless desert, without any guide to conduct them, or any shelter to cover them from the gathering storm. Correct, then, this ill-founded arrogance. Expect not, that your happiness can be independant of Him who made you. By faith and re- pentance, apply to the Redeemer of the world. By piety and prayer, seek the protection of the God of heaven. I conclude with the solemn words, in which a great prince delivered his dying charge to his pon : words, whicii every young person ought to consider as addressed to himself, and to engrave deep- ly on his heart: "Solomon, my son, know thou the God of thy fathers; and serve him with a perfect heart, and with a willing mind. For the Lord searcheth all hearts, and under- standoth all the imaginations of the thoughts. I f thou seek him, he will bo found of thee; but if thou forsake him, he will cast thee off for ever." blair. ^^^^;tl I ld« The English Reader. Part 1. n CHAPTER IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. SECTION I. Earthquake at Calahria, in the year 1638. An account of this dreadful earthquake', is given by the cele- brated father Kircher. It happened whilst he was on his journey to visit Mount iE'na, and the rest of the wonders that lie towards the South of Italy. Kircher is considered, by scho- lars, as one of the greatest prodigies of learning. ** Having hired a boat, in conripany with four more, (two friars of the order of St. Francis, and two seculars,) we launch- ed from the harbour of Messina, in Sicily; and arrived, the same day, at the promontory of Pelorus. Our destination was for the city of Euphromia, in Calabria; where we had some business to transact; and where we des'gnedto tarry for some time. However, Providence seemed willing to cross our de- sign ; for we were obliged to continue three days at Pelorus, on account of the weather; and though we often put out to sea, yet we were as often driven back. At length wearied with the delay, we resolved to prosecute our voyage; and although the sea seemed more than usually agitated, we ventured forward The gulf of Chary bdis, which we a(>proached, seemed whirled round in such a manner, as to f«)rm a vast hollow, verging to a point in the centre. Proceeding onward, and turning my eyes to iEtna, I saw it cast forth large volumes of smoke. of mountamous sizes, which entirely covered the Island, and blotted out the very shores from my view. This together wiih the dreadful noise, and the sul|)tiurous stench which was strong- ly perceived, filk'd me with apprehensions, that some more dreadful calanjity was impending. The sea itself seemed to wear a very unusual appearance : they who have seen a lake in a violent shower of rain, covered all over with bubbles, will conceive some idea of its agitations. My surprise was still in- creased, by the calmness and serenity of the weather; not a cloud, which might be supposed to put all nature thus into mo- tion. I therefore warned my companions, that an earthquake was approaching; and after some time, making for the shore] with all possible diligence, we landed at 'IVopa'a, happy and thankful for having escaped the threatening dangersof the sea." **fiut our triumphs at land were of short duration; for we 9. Tl romiscuous Pieces. 137 ', 4 had scarcely arrived at the Jesuit's College, in that city, when our ears were stunned with a liorrid sound, resembling that of an infinite number ofcluiriots, driven fiercely forward ; the wheels ratlling, and llie thongs cracking. Soon after this, a most dreadful earthquake ensued ; so that the whole tract upon which we stood seemed to vibtato, as if we were in the scale of a balance that continued wavering, 'i'his motion, however, soon grew more violent; and being no longer able to keep my legs, 1 was thrown prostrate upon the ground. In the mean time, the universal ruin round mo redoubled my amazemerjt. The crash of falling liouses, tottering of towers, and the groans of the dying, all contributed to raise my terror and despair. On every side of me, I saw nolbiiig but a scene of ruin ; and dan- ger, threatening wherever 1 should fly. I recommended my- self to God, as my last great refuge. At that hour, O how vain was every sublunary happiness! Wealth, Ixjnour, empire, wisdom, all mere useless sounds, and as empty as the bubbles of the deep! Just standing on the threshold of eiernity, nojhing but God was my pleasure ; and the nearer I approached, 1 only loved him the more. After some time, however, finding that 1 remained unhuit, amidst the general concussion, I resolved to venture for safety ; and running as fast as I could, I reachi^d 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 his own happy esca|)e : it was all silence, and a gloomy dread of impending terrors." "Leaving this seat of desolation, we prosecuted our voyage along the coast; and the next day came to Uochetta, where we landed, although the earth still continued in violent 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, and the inn at which we had set up, dashed to the ground, and burying the inhabitants be- neath the ruins." *' In this maimer, proceeding onward in our little vessel, find- ing no safety at lanil, and yet, from the smallness of our boat having but a very dangerous continuance at s«a, we at length landed at Lopizium, a castle midway between Tropua and Euphamia, the city to wliicli, as I said before, we were bound. M 2 -* ♦ * „ 'art 1. Here wherever 1 turned m> eyes, tiolhing but scenes of ruin and horror appeared ; towns and castles levelled to the grouml : Stromboli, though at sixty miles di-tance. belching f)rth flames in an unusjal manner, and wiih -i noise which 1 could distinct- ly hear. Hut my altonUun was quickly turned from mere re- mote, to contiguous dauner. The rumbling sound of an ap- proaching? earthquake, which we by this time were grown ac- quainted with, alarmed us for the consequences; it every mo- ment seemefi 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 caughl hold of whatever shrub grew next to us, and supported our- selves in that marmer.'' *♦ After some time, this violent paroxysm ceasing, we again stood up, in order to prosecute our voyage to Kuphajnnia, which lay within sight. In the mean time, while we were prepar- ing for this purpose, I turned my ey«s towards the city, but could see only a frightful dark cloud, that seemed to rest upon the place. 'I'his the more surprised us. as the weather was so very serene. We waited therefore, till the cloud had pass- ed 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 stood. We looked about to find some one that could tell us of its sad catastrophe, but could see no person. All was become a melancholy solitude ; a scene of hideous de- solation. Thus proceeding pensively along, in quest of some human being that could give us a little information, we at length sawa boy sitting by the shore, and appearing stupified with ter- ror. Oi' him, theref(»re, we inquired concerning 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 wrapt up in the con- templation of the danger he had e cuped. We ofTered him some victuals, but he seemed to loath the ^ight. We stdl persisted in our offices of kmdness : 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. Such was the fate of the city of Euphujmia. As we continued our melancholy course along the sht)re, the wholo coast, for the space of two hun- dred miles, pre.-'ented nothing hut the remains ol' cities; ntd men scattered, without a habitation, over the fields. Proteed- ing thus along, we at length (Midcd our distressful voyage by arriving at Naples, after having escaped a thousand dangers both at sea and land.'' goldsmith. 'iirt 1. I Chap. ft. fromiacuoui Pieets. 180 SECTION II. Letter from Pliny to Geminius. Do we not sometimes observe a sort of people, who though they are themselves under the abject dominion of every vice, show a kind of malicious resentment against the errors of others; and are most severe upon those whom they most re- semhie? yet surely a lenity of disposition, even in persons who have the least occasion for clemency themselves, is of all virtues the most becoming. The highe.st of all characters, in my estimation, is his, who is as ready to pardo»j the errors of mankind, as if he were every day guilty of some himself; and, at the same time, as cautious of committing a fault, as if he never forgave one. It is a rule then which we should, upon all occasions, both private and public, most religiously observe ; 'Mo be inexorable to our own failings, while we treat those of the rest of the world with tenderness, not excepting even such as forgive none but themselves." I shall, perhaps, be asked, who it is that ha'^ given occasion lo these reflections. Know then that a certain per>«on lately — but of that when we meet — though, upon second thoughts, not even then; lest, whilst I condemn and expose his conduct, I shall act counter to that maxim I particularly recomm(?nd.— Whoever therefore, and whatever he is, shall remain in si- lence: f»r though there may be some u>e, perhaps, in setting a mark upon the man, for the sake of example, there will be more, however, in sparing huii, for the sake of humanity. — Farewell. melmoth^s pliny. SECTION III. Letter Jrom Puny to Marckllinus, on the death of an amidbU young wnman, I WRITE this under the utmost oppression of sorrow : thd youngest daughter of my friend Pundanus is dead! Never surely was there a more agreeable, and more amiable young ferson ; or one who better deserved to have enjoyed a long, had almost said, an immorlfil life! She had all the wisdom of agi^, and discretion of a miUron, joined with yi»uthful sweet- ness and viigin modesty. Wiih what an engaging fondness did she behave to her father! llow kindly and respectlully receive his friends! Ilo ir afreJfmm^mtl.-}t»:t.'l: -"^?, "*■. 140 The English RpAider. Part 1. few diversions, and those with much caution. With what for- bearance, with what patience, with what courage, did she en- dure her last illness ! She complied with all the directions of her physicians; 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. 7'hat, indeed, con- tinued, even to 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 severe ! and more severe by the particular conjuncture in which it happened! She was con- tracted 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 1 express the wound that pierced my heart, when 1 heard Fundanus himself, (as grief is ever findmg out circumstances to aggravate its aUliction,) ordering the money he had designed to lay out upon clothes and jewels for her marriage, to be employed in myrrh and spi- ces for her funeral ! He is a man of great learning and good sense* who has applied himself from his earliest youth, to the noblest and most elevated studies : but all the maxims of forti- tude which he has received from books, or advanced himself, he now absolutely rejects; and every other virtue ol his heart gives place to all a parent's tenderness. We shall excuse, we shall even approve his sorrow, when we consider what he has lost. He has lost a daughter who resembled him in his manners, as well as his person ; and exactly copred out all her father. If his friend Marcellinus shall think proper to write to him, upon the subject of so reasonable a grief, let me remind him not to use the rougher urguments of consolation, and such as seem to carry a sortof reproof with them ; but those of kind and sym- pathizing humanity. Time will render him more open to the dictates of reason : for as a fresh wound shrmks back from the hand of the surgeon, but by degrees submits to, and even re- quires the means of its cure ; so a mind under the first impres- sions of a misfortune, shuns and rejects all arguments of conso- lation ; but at length, if applied with tenderness, calmly and willingly acquiesces in them. Farewell. melmotm's pliny. SECTION IV. On discretion. 1 HAVE often thought, if the minds of men were laid open, we should see but little diHerenrc between that of n wise man, Chap. 9. Promiscuous Pieces. 141 ■ * r. ■ :■ rM'«5 PLINY. and that of a fool. There are infinite reveries, numberless extravagances, and a succession of vanities, which pass through both. The great difTerenco is, that the first knows how to pick and cull his ihouglits for conversation, by suppressing some, and commu* nicatiiig others; whereas the other lets them all indifferently tiy cut in words. This sort of discretion, however, has no place in private conveisation between iniimnte friends. On such occasions, the wisest men very often talk like the weak- est; for indeed talking with a friend is nothing else than thinks ing ahmd. Tully has therefore very justly exposed a precept, deliver- ed by some ancient writers, That a man should live with his enemy in such a manner, as might leave him room to become his friend ; and with his friend, in such a maner, that, if he became his enemy, it should not be in his power to hurt him. The first part of this rule, which regards our behaviour to- wards an enemy, is indeed very reasonable, as well as very prudential; but the latter part of it, which regards our beha- viour towards a friend, savours more of cunning than of dis- cretion: and would cut a man oflTfrom the greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of conversation with a bosom friend. Besides that, when a friend is turned into an enemy, the world is justenough to accuse the perfidiousness of the friend, rather than the indiscretion of the person who confided in him. Discretion does not only show itself \\\ words, but in all the circumstances ofaction ; and is likeun under agent of Provi- dence, to guide and direct us in the ordinary concerns of life. There are many more shining qualities in the mind of man, but there is none so useful as discretion. It is this, indeed which gives a value to all the rest; which sets them at work in their proper times and places; and turns them to the ad- vantage of the person who is possessed of them. VVitliout it, learning is pedantry, and wit impertinence ; virtue itself looks like weakness; the best parts only qualify a man to be more sprightly in errors, and active to his own prejudice. Discretion does not only make a man the master of his own parts, but of other men's. The discreet man finds out the ta- lents of those he converses with; and knows how to apply them to proper uses. Accordmgly, if we look into particular communities nnd divisions of men, we mav observe, that it is the discreet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor the brave, who guides the conversation, and gives measures to societ)^ .'■* » t fll ■::■ ^'i u /U rii] { 142 TliA English Reader. Part 1. X\ A man with great talents, but void of discretion, is like Poly. phcmus in the fable, strong and blind : endued with an irresis- tible force, which for want of sight, is of no use to him. Though a man has all other perfections, yet if he wants dis- cretion, he will be of no great consequence in the world; on the contrary, if he has (his single talent in perfection, and but a common share of others, he may do what he pleases in his particular station of life. At the same time that I think discretion the most useful ta- lent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discre- tion points out the noblest ends to us; and pursues the most proper and laudable methods of attaining them: cunning has only private selfish aims; and sticks at nothing which may make them succeed. Discretion has large and extended views ; and, like a well-formed eye, commands a whole horizon : cun- ning is a kind of short sightedness, that discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, but is notable todisicern things at a distance. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the person who possesses it : cunning, when it is once detected, loses its force, & makes a man inca- pable of bringing about even those events which he might have done, had he passed only for a plain man. Discretion is the perfection of reason; and a guide to us in all the duties of life; cunning is a kind of instinct, that only looks out after our im- mediate interest and welfare. Discretion ts only found in men of strong sense and good understandings : cunning is often to be met with in brutes themselves ; and m persons who are but the fewest removes from them. In short, cunning is only the mimic of discretion; and it mtiy pass upon weak men, in the came manner as vivacity is often mistaken for wit, and gravity, for wisdom. The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet man, makes him look forward into futurity, and consider what will be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at pre- sent. He knows that the misery or happiness which is xf-.- served for him in another world, loses nothing of its reality by being placed at so great a distance from him. The objects do not appear little to him because they are remote. He consid- ers, that those pleasures and pains which lie hid in eternity, approach nearer to him every moment ; and will be present with him in their full weight and measure, as much as those. pains and pleasures which he feels at this very instant. For Fromiscuous Pieces, I4ft this reason, he is careful to secure to himself that which is the proper happiness of his nature, and the ultimate design of his being. He carries his thoughts to the end of every action; and considers the most distant, as well as the most immediate eftects of it. He supersedes every litile prospect of gain and advantage which offers itself here» if he does not find it consist- ent with his views of an hereafter. In a word, his hopes are full of immortality ; his schemes are large and glorious; and his conduct suitable to one who knows his true interest, and how to pursue it by proper methods. adoibon* SECTION V. On the government of our thoughts. A MULTITUDE of cases occur, in which we are no less accouD' [table for what we think, than for what we do. As, ^rst, when the introduction of any train of thought de- fends upon ourselves, and is our voluntary act, by turning our attention towards such objects, awakening such passions, or engaging in such employments, as we know must give a pecu- liar determination to our thoughts. Next, when thoughts, by whatever accident they may have been originally suggested, are [indulged with deliberation and complacency. Though the mind has been passive in their reception, and, therefore, free from blame; yet, ifit be active in their continuance, the guilt becomes lits own. They may have intruded at first, like unbidden guests ; but if when entered, they are made welcome, , to acquire a firm and stead- fast mind, which the infatuation of passion shall not seduce, nor its violence shake ; which, resting on fixed principles, shall, in the midst of contending emotions, remain free, and master of itself; able to listen calmly to the voice of conscience, and pre^ pared to obey its dictates without hesitation. To obtain, if possible, such command of passion, is one of the highest attainments of the rational nature. Arguments to shoW its importance crowd upon us from every quarter. If there be any fertile source of mischief to human life, it is, beyoitd doubt, the misrule of passion. It is this which poisons, the en« joyment of individuals, overturns the order of society, and strewi the path of life with so many miseries, as to render it indeed the vale of tears. All those great scenes of public calamity, which we behold with astonishment and horror, have origina* led from the source of violent passions. These have overspread the earth with bloodshed. These have pointed the assassin's dagger, and filled the poisoned bowl. These in every age, have furnished too copious materials forthe orator's pathetic dedt* mation, and for the poet's tra|[ical song. N 146 The English Reader. Part I. When from public life we descend to private conduct, though passion operates not there in so wide and destructive a sphere, we shall find its influence to be no less baneful. I need not mention the black and fierce passions, such as envy, jealousy, and revenge, whoso effects are obviously noxious, and whose agitations are in mediate misery. But take any of the licenli. ous and sensual kind. Suppose it to have unlimited scope; trace it throughout its course ; and we shall find that gradually, as it rises, it taints the soundness, and troubles the peace, of his mind over whom it reigns ; that, in its progress, it e^igages him in pursuits which are marked either with danger or with shame ; that, in the end, it wastes his fortune, destroys his health, or debases his character ; and aggravates all the niiscries in which it has involved him, with the concluding pangs of bitter rcmor.sc. Through all the stages of this fatal course, how many have heretofore run ? What multitudes do we daily behold pursuing it, with blind and headlong steps ? BLAIR. SECTION vn. On the proj^r state of our temper^ with respect to one another. It is evident, in the general, that if we consult either public welfare or private happiness, Christian charity ought to regu- late our disposition in mutual intercourse. But as this great principle admits of several diversified appearances, let us con- sider some of the chief forms under, which it ought to show it- self in the usual tenor of life. What, first, presents itself to be recommended, is a peaceable temper; a disposition averse to give offence, and desirous of cultivating harmony, and amicable intercourse in society. This supposes yielding and condescending manners, unwillingness to contend with others about trifles, and, in contests that are unavoidable, proper moderation of spirit. Such a temper is the first principle of self-enjoyment. It is the basis of all order and happiness among mankind. The positive and contentious, the rude and quarrelsome, are the bane of society. They seem destined to blast the small share of comfort which nature has here alloted to man. But they cannot disturb the peace of c thers, more than they break their own. The hurricane rages first in their own bosom, before it is let forth opon the world. In the tempests which they raise, they arc always tost; and freauently it is their lot to perish. A peaceable temper must be supported by a candid one, or Part 1. I Chap. 9. Promiscuous Pieces. 147 a disposition to view the conduct of others with fairness and impartiality. This stands opposed to a jealous and suspicious temper, which ascribes every action to the worst motive, and throws a black shade over every character. If we would be happy in ourselves, or in our connexions with others, let us guard against this malignant spirit. Let us study that charity "which thinketh no evil ;" that temper which, without dege? - crating into credulity, will dispose us to be just : and which can allow us to observe an error, without imputing it as a crime. Thus we shall be kept free from that continual irritation, which imaginary injuries raise in a suspicious breast ; and shall walk among men as our brethren, not as our enemies. But to be peaceable, and to be candid, is not all that is required of a good man. He must cultivate a kind, generous and sym- pathizing temper, which feels for distress, wherever it is be- held ; which enters into the concerns of his friends with ardour ; and to all with whom he has intercourse, is gentle, obliging, and humane. How amiable appears such a disposition, when contrasted with a malicious or envious temper, which wraps itself up in its own narrow interest, looks with an evil eye on the success of others, and, with an unnatural satisfaction, feeds on their disappointments or miseries ! How little does he know of the true happiness of life, who is a stranger to that intercourse of good offices and kind affections, which^ by a pleasing charm, attaches men to one another, and circulates joy from heart to heart ! We are not to imagine, that u benevolent temper finds no exercise, unless when opportunities oifer of performing actions of high generosity, or of extensive utility. These may seldom occur. The condition of the great(;r part of mankind in a good measure, prccludcB th( m. But, in the ordinary round of human affairs, many occasions daily |)resent themselves, of mitigating the vexations which others sutler; of soothing their minds; of aiding their interest ; of promoting their cheerfulness, or ease. Such occasions nmy reflate to the smaller incidents of life. But let MS renjembcT, that of small Incidents tlw^ system of human lite is chiefly composed. The attentions which respect thesCi when suggested by rcjil benignity of temper, are often more material to the happiness of those around us, than actions which curry the appearance of greater dignity and spk ndour. No wise or good man ought to account any rules of behaviour us l)c»low his regard, which tend to cement the greater brother- hood of mankind In comfortable union. i v.- I « .> .,, ' 14S The English Reader. Part 1. ipdi Pvticularly midst that familiar intercourse which belongs to domestic life, all the virtues of temper find an ample range. It is very unfortunate, that within that circle, men too often think themselves at liberty, to give unrestrained vent to the caprice of passion and humour. Whereas there, on the con. trary, more than any where else, it concerns them to attend to' the government of their heart; to check what is violent in their tempera, and to soften what is harsh in their manners. For there the temper is formed. There, the real character displays itself. The forms of the world disguise men when abroad.— But within his own family, every man is known to be what he truly is. — In all our intercourse then with others, particularly ia that which is closest and most intimate, let us cultivate a peaceable, a candid, a gentle, and friendly temper. This is the temper to which, by repeated injunctions, our holy religion seeks to form us. This was the temper of Christ. This is the temper of Heaven. SECTION VIII. Excellence of the holy Scriptures, Is it bigotry to believe the sublime truths of the Gospel, with iUll assurance of faith ? I glory in such bigotry. I would not part with it for a thousand worlds. I congratulate the man who is possessed of it : for, amidst all the vicissitudes and cal. amities of the present state, that man enjoys an inexhaustible fUnd of consolation, of which it is not in the power of fortune to deprive him. There is not a book on earth, so favourable to all the kind, and all the sublime affections ; or so unfriendly to hatred and persecution, to tyranny, to injustice, and every sort of malevo- lence, as the Gospel. It breathes nothing throughout, but mercy, benevolence, and peace. Pbetry is sublime, when it awakens in the mind any great and good affection, as piety, or patriotism. This is one of the noblest effects of the art. The Psalms arc remarkable, beyond all other writings, for their powor of inspiring devout emotions. But it is not in this respect only, that thoy are sublime. Ot' the divine nature, they contain the most magnificent descrip- tions, that the soul of man can comprehend. The hundred and fourth Psalm, in particular, displays the power and goodness of Providence, In creating and preserving the world, and the various tribes of animals in it, with such majestic brevity and beauty, as it is vain to look for in any human composition. capl soui won totlc duty] are withl Rejli Part 1. I Chap. 9. Promiscuous Pieces. UO Such ol" ih'j doctrines of the Gospel as are level to liuman capacity, appear to be agreeable to the purest truth, and the soundest morality. All the genius and learning of the heathen world; all the penetration of Pythagoras, Socrates, and Aris- totle, had never been able to produce such a system of moral duty, and so rational an account of Providence and of man, as are to be found in the New Testament. Compared, indeed, with this, all other moral and theological wisdom Loses, discountenanc'd, and like folly shows. BBATTU. SECTION IX. Reflections occasioned hy a rcvieio of the blessings pronounced by Christ on his disciples, in his sermon on the mount. What abundant reason have we to thank God, that this lar^e and instructive discourse of our blessed Redeemer, is so 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 we may " receive the law from his mouth." He opened it with blessings, repeated and most important blessings. But on whom are they pronounced ? and whom are we taught to think the happiest of mankind ? The meek and the humble ; the penitent and the merciful ; the peaceful and the pure ; those that hunger and thirst after righteousness ; those that labour, but faint not, under persecution ! Lord ! how different arc thy maxims from those of the children of this 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 souls share in that happiness, which the Son of God came to recommend and to procure ! May we ob- tain mercy of the Lord ; may we be owned as his children ; enjoy his presence ; and inherit his kingdom ! With these en* joyments, and these hopes, we will cheerfully welcome the low. est, or the most painful circumstances. Let us be animated to cultivate those amiable virtiiet* which &re here recommended to us ; this humility and meekness ; thii penitant sense of sin ; this ardent desire after rlghtcouaneit ; this compassion and purity ; this peaceful ness and fortitude 9K 20ul ; and, in a worn, this nni^^rsal froodneap which jr 2 " 1 ■<» i. ■ .( ■ I * ■•' IM Tha Ritf;lisk Reader. Part I l<1 ^t^ am we auilain the character pf " the salt of the earth," and •• t|ie light of the world. " lu there not reason to lament, that we answer the character fjO better ? Is there not reason to exclaim with a good man in fprflfier times. " Blessed Lord ! either these are not thy words, or we are not Christians !" Oh, season our hearts more eftec- twjilly with thy grace ! Pour forth that divine oil on our lamps ! Then shall the flame brighten ; then shall the ancient honours of thy religion be revived; and multitudes be awakened and animated, by the lustre of it, " to glorify our Father in hca- yen. SECTION X. DODDRIDGE. Schemes of Hfe often illusory. QHA%f the son of Hassan, had passed seventy rive years ii hgUQXir ^jod prosperity. The favour of three successive califs btui filled his house with gold and silver ; and whenever he ap. pOfiredy the benedictions of the people prochiimed his passage. Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. The bright. msfi of the flame is wasting its fuel ; the fragrant flower is passing away in its own odours. The vigour of Omar began \q ^il ; the curls of beauty fell from his head ; strength depart- q4 from his hands ; and ngility from his feet. He gave back Ip his califf* the keys of trust, and the seals of secrecy : and O^Ught no other pleasures for the remains of life than the con- y^fse of tlie wise, and the gratitude of the good. The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. His chani' Ijer was filled by visitants, eager to catch the dictates of cxpt'^ yjftncQ, and officious to pay the tribute of admiration. Caled. |||9 spQ of the viceroy of Egypt, entered every day early, and rfiilired late. He was beautiful and oloqvient: Omar admired ^i« Witt an(i loved his docility. " Tell me," said Calod, ♦< thou to wh09e voicQ nations have listened, and whose wisdom is )cnQwn to the extremities of Asia, tell me how I may resemble Q||)%r tho prudent. The arts by which thou hast gained pow. ejF ^nd preserved it, are to thee no longer necessary or useful ; impart to me the secret of thy conduct, ami teach mo the plan HfiQa which thy wisdom has built thy fortune." *♦ YouM man," said Omar, " it is of little use to form plani of lifis. When I took my first survey of the world, in my tWMifKh year, having considered the various conditions of y w lrind y in the hours of solitude I said thus to myself, lean. ing against a cedar which spread its branches over my haad. Part 1. I Chap. 9. Promi3cuou9 Pitcei. 151 earth," and he character L good man in ot thy words, s more eftec- m our lamps ! sient honours vakened and ather in hta. DODDRIDGE. H*e years \^ jccssive califfi mever he ap. I his passage. The bright, ant flower is r Omar began ength depart. le gave back ccrccy : and than the coii' His chani' atcs of oxpc ion, Caled. ly early, and ar admired alod, *< thou e wisdom is ay resemble gained pow. ry or useful ; mo the plan |o form plans ^orld, in my ionditions of lytelf, lean- my head. ♦ Seventy years ore allowcil to man ; I have yet fifty remain- ing. Ten years I will allot to the attainment 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 arri- val, and every student will solicit my friendship. Twenty years thus passed, will store my mind with imiges, which I shall bo busy, through the rest of my life, in combining and comparing. 1 shall revel in inexhaustible accumulations of intellectual rich- es ; I shall find new pleasures for every moment j and shall never more be weary of myself. I will not, however deviate too far from 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 Zobeid«i : with her I will live twenty years within the suburbs of Bagdat, in every pleasure that wealth can purchase, and fancy can invent. I will then retire to a rural dwelling; pass my days in obscurity, and contemplation ; and lie silently down on the bed of death. Through my life it shall be my settled lesolution, that I will never depend upon the smile of princes ; that I will never stand exposed to the artifi- ces of courts ; I will never pant for public honours, nor disturb my quiet with the atlUiis of state.* Sucli was my scheme of life, which 1 impressed indelibly upon my memory." " The first part of my ensuing time was to be spent in search of Itnowledge, and I know not how I was diverted from my de- sign. I had no visible impediments without, nor any ungov- ernable passions within. I regarded knowledge as the highest honour, and the most engaging pleasure ; yet day 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 goabnmd, while so much remained to be learned at home? I immured mvself for fourvears, and studied the laws of the em- pire. The fame of my skill reached the judges ; I was found able to speak upon doubtful questions ; and was commanded to stand at the footstool of the calif. I was heard with attention ; I was consulted with confidence ; and the love of praise fasten, od on my heart." "I still wished to see distant countries; listened with rap- ture to the relations of travellers ; and resolved some time to ask my dismission, that I might feast my soul with novelty ; but my presence was always necessary; and tht. stream of business hurried mo along. SowK^imes I was afraid lest I abouW be charged with ingratitude : bwt I still proposed to ^ i 'S^ I5d The English Reader. Part 1 * travel, and therefore would not confine myself by marriage." " In my fiftieth year, 1 began to suspect that the time of tra- veiling was past ; and thought it best to lay hold on the felicity yet in my power, and indulge myself in domestic pleasures. — But at fifty no man easily finds a woman beautiful as the Hou- ries, and wise as Zobcide. I inquired and rejected, consulted and deliberated, till the sixty second year made me ashamed of wishing to marry. I had nothing left but retirement ; and for retirement I never found a time, till disease forced me from public employment." '* Such was my scheme, and such had been its consequence. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge, I trifled away the years of improvement ; with a restless desire of seeing different coun. tries, I have always resided in the same city ; with the highest expectation of connubial felicity, I have lived unmarried ; and with unalterable resolutions of contemplative retirement, I am going to die within the walls of Bagdat." , dr. johnson. SECTION X[. The pleai.ures of virtuous sensibility. The good effects of true sensibility on general virtue and happiness, admit of no dispute. Let us consider its effect on the happiness of him who possesses it, and the various pleasures to which it gives him access. If he is master of riches or in. fluence, it affords him the means of increasing his own enjoy, rnent, by relieving the wants, or incr'easing the comforts of oth. ers. If he commands not these advantages, yet all the comforts, which he sees in the possession of the deserving, become Id some sort his, by his rejoicing in the good which they enjoy. Even the face of nature yields a satisfaction to him, which the insensible can never know. The profusion of goodness, which ho beholds poured forth on the universe, dilates his heart with the thought, that innumerable multitudes around him are blest and happy. When he sees the labours of men appearing to prosper, and views a country flourishing in wealth and industry; when he beholds the spring coming forth in its beauty, and re. viving the decayed face of nature ; or in autumn beholds the fields loaded with plenty, and the year crowned with all its fruits; he lifts his affections with gratitude to the great Father of all, and rejoices in the general felicity and joy. It may indeed be objected, that the same sensibility^ lays open the heart to be pierced with many wounds, from the distressei which abound in the world ; exposes \is to frequent suffering Chap. 9. Promescuou« Pieces. 153 from the participation which it communicates of the sorrows, as well as of the joys of friendship. But let it be considered, that the tender melancholy of sympathy, is accompanied with a sensation, which they who feel it would not exchange for the gratifications of the selfish. When the heart is strongly moved by any of the kind affections, even when it pours itself forth in virtuous sorrow, a secret attractive charm mingles with the painful emotion ; there is a joy in the midst of grief. Let it be farther considered, that the griefs which sensibility introduces, are counterbalanced by pleasures whi ^ flow from the same source. Sensibility heightens in general the human powers, and is connected with acuteness in all our feeling. If it makes us more alive to some painful sensations, in return, it renders the pleasing ones more vivid and animated. The selfish man languishes in his narrow circle of pleasures. They are con- fined to what affects his own interest. He is obliged to repeal the same gratifications, till they become insipid. But the man of virtuous sensibility moves in a wider sphere of felicity. His powers are much more frequently called forth into occupations of pleasing activity. Numberless occasions open to him of in- dulging his favourite taste, by conveying satisfaction to others. Often it is in his power, in one way or other, to sooth the af- flicted heart, to carry some consolation into the house of wo. In the scenes of ordinary life, in the domestic and social inter- courses of men, the cordiality of his affections cheers and glad- dens him. Every appearance, every description of innocent happiness, is enjoyed by him. Every native expression of kindness and aflfection among others, is felt by him, even though he be not the object of it. In a circle of friends enjoying one another, he is as happy as the happiest. In a word, he lives in a diflerent sort of world, from what the selfish man inhabits. — He possesses a new sense that enables him to behold objects whfch the selfish cannot aec. At the same time, his enjoy- ments arc of that kind which remain merely on the surface of the mind. Thry penetrate the heart. They enlarge and el- evate, they refine and ennoble it. To all the pleasing emo- tions of affection, they add the dignified consciousness of virtue, —Children of men ! men formed by nature to live and to feel as brethren ! how long will ye continue to estrange yourselves from one another by compt^titions and jealousies, when in cor- dial union ye might bo so much more blest? How long will ye seek your happiness in selfish gratifications alono. nrgitt.'*.- 154 The English Reader. Part I ing those purer and better sources of joy, which flow from the affections and the heart ? blair. SECTION XII. On the true honour of man. The proper honour of man arises not from some of those splendid actions and abilities, which excite high admiration.-. Courage and prowess, military renown, signal victories and con. quests, may render the name of a man famous, without render, ing his character truly honourable. To many brave men, to many heroes renowned in story, we look up with wonder.— Their exploits are recorded. Their praises are sung. They stand as on an eminence above the rest of mankind. Their em. inence, nevertheless, may not be of that sort, before which we bow with inward esteem and respect. Something more is wan. ted for that purpose, than the conquering arm, and the intrepid mind. The laurels of the warrior must at all times be dyed in blood, and bedewed with the tears of the widow and the orphan. But if they have been stained by rapine and inhumanity ; if sordid avariance has marked his character; or low and gross sensuality has degraded his life ; the great hero sinks into a little man. What, at a distance, or on a superficial view, we admired, becomes mean, perhaps odious, when we examine it mo" closely. It is like the Colossal statue, whose immense size struck the spectator afar off with astonishment ; but when nearly viewed, it appears disproportioned, unshapely, and rude. Observations of the same kind may be applied to all the re- putation derived from civil accomplishments ; from the refined politics of the statesman ; or the literary efforts of genius and erudition. These bestow, and within certain bounds, ought to bestow eminence and distinction on men. They discover tal- ents which in themselves are shining ; and which become highly valuable, when employed iu advancing the good of mankind.— Hence, they frequently give rise to fame. But a distinction is to be made between fame and true honour. The statesman, the orator, or the poet, may be famous ; while yet the man him- self is far from being honoured. We envy his abilities. We wish to rival them. But we would not choose to be classed with him who possesses them. Instances of this sort arc too often found in every record of ancient or modern history. From all this it follows, that in order to discern where man's true honour lies, wc must look, not to anv adventitious circum- Part I I Chap, 9. Promiscuous Pieces. ■I .'}■ : 155 stance of fortune ; not to any single sparkling quality ; but to the whole of what forms a man ; what entitles him, as such, to rank high among that class of beings to which he belongs ; in a word, we must look to the mind and the soul. A mind supe- rior to fear, to selfish interest and corruption ; a mind govern- ed by the principles of uniform rectitude and integrity ; the same in prosperity and adversity ; which no bribe can seduce, nor terror overawe ; neither by pleasures incited into effemina- cy, nor by distress sunk into dejection : such is the mind which forms the distinction and eminence of man. — One, who in no situation of life, is either ashamed or afraid of discharging his duty, ard acting his proper part with firmness and constancy ; true to the God whom he worships, and true to the faith in which he professes to believe ; full of affection to his brethren of man- kind ; faithful to his friends, generous to his enemies, warm with compassion to the unfortunate ; self-denying to little private interests and pleasures, but zealous for public interest and hap- piness : magnanimous, without being proud ; humble, without being mean ; just, without being harsh ; simple in his manners, but manly in his feelings ; on whose words we can entirely rely; whose countenance never deceives us ; whose professions of kindness are the effusions of his heart : one, in fine, whom, in- dependant of any views of advantage, we woulu choose for a superior, could trust in as a friend, and could love as a brother —this is the man, whom in our heart, above all others, we do, we must honour. blair. SECTION Xlll. ' The influence of devotion on the happiness of life. Whatever promotes and strengthens virtue, whatever calms and regulates the temper, is a source of happiness. Devotion produces these effects in a remarkable degree. It inspires composure of spirit, mildness, and benignity ; weakens the painful, cherishes the pleasing emotions ; 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 vicious are entire strangers ; enjoyments the more valuable, as they peculiarly belong to retirement, when the world leaves us ; and to adver- sity, when it becomes our foe. These are the two seasons, for which every wise man would most wish to provide some hidden store of comfort. For let him be placed in th« most favourable 156 The Efifflish Reader. Part 1. situation which the human state udniits, the world can neither always amuse him, nor always shield him from distress. Thero will be many hours of vacuity, and many of dejection, in liis life. If he be a stranger to God, and to devotion, how dreary will the gloom of solitude often prove ! With what oppressive weight will sickness, disappointment, or old age, fall upon his spirits. But for those pensive periods, the pious man has a re- lief prepared. 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 sur. rounds 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 has been empty and delusive, it glad- dens him with the prospect of a higher and better order of things, about to rise. If men have been ungratetul and base, it dis- plays 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, tiro exercise of love directed towards tt descrying object, and the exercise of hope terminating on some high and assured happiness. Both these arc supplied by devo- tion ; and therefore we have no reason to be surprised, if, on some occasions, it fills the hearts of good men with a satisfaction not to be expressed. The refined pleasures of a pious mind are, in many respects, superior to the coarse gratifications^ of sense. They are plea, sures which belong to the highest powers and best affections of the soul ; whereas the gratifications of sense reside in the low- est region of our nature. To the latter, the soul stoops below its native dignity. The former, raise it above itself. The lat- ter, leave always a comfortless, often a mortifying, remembrance behind them. The former, are reviewed with applause and de- light. The pleasures of sense resemble a foaming torrent, which, after a disorderly course, speedil)^ runs out, and leaves an empty and offensive channel. But the pleasures of devotion resemble the equable current of a pure river, which enlivens the fields through which it passes, and diffuses verdure and fer- tility along its banks. To thee, O Devotion ! we owe the high- est improvement of our nature, and much of the enjoyment of our life. Thou art the support of our virtue, and the rest of our souls, in this turbulent world. Thou composest the thoughts. Thou calmest the passions. Thou exaltest the heart. Thy communications, and thine only, are imparted to the low, no less Chap. 9. Promiscwms Pieces, 167 than to th(5 high ; to tlie poor, as well as to the rich. In thy prcscnco, wordly tlisti notions cease : and under thy influence, worldly sorrows firij forgotten. Tiiou art the balm of the wounded mind. Thy sanctuary is ever open to the miserable ; inaccessible only to the unrighteous and impure. Thou l)egin- nest on earth the temper of heaven. In thee, hosts of angels and blessed spirits eternally rejoice. blair. SECTION XIV. The planetary arid terrestrial worldiS comparatively considered. To us, who dwell on its surface, the "nrth is by far the most extensive orb than ovir eyes can any where behold : it is also - clothed with verdure, distinguished by trees, and adorned with a variety of beautiful decorations ; whereas, to a spectator placed on one of the planets, it wears a uniform aspect ; looks all luminous ; and no larger than a spot. To beings who dwell at still greater distances, it entirely disappears. That which we call alternately the morning and the evening star, (as in one part of the orbit she rides foremost in the procession of night in the other ushers in and anticipates the dawn,) is a planetary world. This planet, and the four others that so wonderfully vary their mystic dance, are in themselves dark bodies, and shine only by reflection ; have fields, and seas, and skies, of their own ; are furnished with all accommodations for animal subsistence, and are supposed to be the abodes of intellectual life ; all which, together with our earthly habitation, are depen- dant on that grand dispenser of Divine munificence, the sun ; r ocive their light from the distribution of his rays, and derive their comfort from his benign agency. The sun, which seems to perform its daily stages through the sky, is in this respect fixed and immoveable : it is the great axle of heaven, about which the globe we inhabit, and other more spacious orbs, wheel their stated courses. The sun, though seemingly smaller than the dial it illuminates, is abun- dantly larger than this whole earth, on which so many lofty mountains rise, and such vast oceans roll. A line extending from side to side through the centre of that resplendent orb, would measure more than eight hundred thousand miles : a girdle formed to go round its circumference, would require a length of millions. Were its solid contents to be estimated, the account would overwhelm our understanding, and be almost beyond the power of language to express. Are we startledl O ''■^^^^ 168 'the English Reader. Part 1 at the reports of philosophy ! Arc we ready to cry out in a transport of surprise, " How mighty is the Being who kindled so prodigious a fire ; and keeps alive, from age to age, so en. ormous a mass of flame !" let us attend our philosophical guides and we shall be brought acquainted with speculations more en- larged and more inflaming. This sun with all its attendant planets, is but a very little part of the grand machine of the universe : every star, though in appearance no bigger than the diamond that glitters upon a lady's ring, is really a vast globe, like the sun in size & in glory; no less spacious, no less luminous, than the radiant source of day. So that every star, is not barely a world but the centre of a magnificent system ; has a retinue of worlds, irradiated by its beams, and revolving round its attractive influence, all which are lost to our sight in immeasurable wilds of either. That the stars appear like so many diminutive, and scarcely distinguish- able points, is owing to their immense and inconceivable dis. tance. Immense and inconceivable indeed it is, since a ball, shot from thfc loaded cannon, and flying with unabated rapidity, must travel, at this impetuous rate, almost seven hundred thou. sand years, before it could reach the nearest of these twinkling luminaries. While, beholding this vast expanse, I learn my own extreme meanness, I would also discover the abject littleness of all ter- restrial things. What is the eart^h, with all her ostentatious scenes, compared with this astonishing grand furniture of the skies ? What, but a dim speck, hardly perceivable in the map of the universe ? It is observed by a very judicious writer, that if the sun himself, which enlightens this part of the creation, were extinguished, and all the host of planetary worlds, which move about him, were annihilated, they would not be missed by an eye that can take in the whole compass of nature, any more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The bulk of which they consist, and the space which they occupy, are so exceedingly little in comparison of the whole, that their loss would scarcely leave a blank in the immensity of God's works. If then, not our globe only, but this whole system, be so very diminutive, what is a kingdom or a country? What are a few lordships, or the so much admired patrimonies of those who are styled wealthy ? When I measure them with my own lit- tle pittance, they swell into proud and bloated dimensions; but when I take the universe for my standard, how scanty is their Part I I ^^^P' ® Promiscuous Pieces. 159 jry out in n who kindled > ago, so en. )iiical guides )ns more en. a very little star, though litters upon a D & in glory; int source of ut the centre irradiated by ice, all which r. That the Y distinguish, iceivable dis- since a ball, ated rapidity, lundred thou. Bse twinkling own extreme less of all ter. ostentatious niture of the le in the map is writer, that he creation, orlds, which ot be missed nature, any The bulk of 3upy, are so at their loss od's works. 1, be so very lat are a few if those who 1 my own lit- ensions; but janty is their size! how contemptible their figure! They shrink into pom- pous nothings. addison. SECTION XV. On the power ofcusiom^ and the uses to which it may he applied. There is not a common saying, which has a better turn of sense in it, than what we often hear in the mouths of the vulgar, that *' Custom is a second nature." It is indeed able to form the man anew; and give inclinatiuns and capacities altogether ditferent from those he was born with. A person who is ad- dicted to play or gaming, though he took but little delight in it at fif'st, by degrees contracv^ so strong an inclination towards I, and gives himself up so entirety to it, that it seems the only lend of his being. The love of a .eiirod or busy life will grow upon a man insensibly, as hu is coc/ersan' in tita one or the other, till utterly unqualified for relishing th . to which he has been for sometime disused. Nay, a man n ay smoke, or drink, or lake snuff, tilt he is unable to pr:b uway his tii « without it; not to mention how our delight in ^.ny i^articular study, art, or science, rises and improves, in proportion to the appliCviUJa which we bestow upon it. Thus, wnat was at first an exercise, becomes ut length an entertainment. Our employments are panged into diversions. The mird grows fond of those ac- llions it is accustomed to; and is drawn with reluctancy from jthose paths in which it has been used to walk. If we attentively consider this property of h.. nan nature, it ny instruct us in very fine moralities. In the first place, I ':)u!d have no man disco'i raged with that kind of life, or series )f action, in which the ch >;• ,t of others, or his own necessities, Imay have engaged him. It may perhaps be very disagrce- ihle to him, at first; but use and application will certainly rfen- ^er it not only less n 'iiiful, but pleasing and satisfactory. In the second place, I would recommend to every one, the idmirabb precept, which Pythagoras is said to have given to lis disciples, and which that philosopher must have drawn from ihe observation I have enlarged upon : *' Pitch upon that course pf life which is the most excellent, and custom will render it the lost delightful." Men, whose circumstances will permit them |lo choose their own way of life, are inexcusable if they do not pursue that which their judgment tells them is the most laud- lable. The voice of reason is more to be regarded, than the twnl of any present inclination: since, by the rule above men- if^^^*! • ;v . t . :l^ ' 1; M i"-m > }k .>5si...«SaU»;-l««a^*Uli.»4K^.,. 100 The English Reader. Part 1. tioned, inclination will at length come over to reason, though we can never force reason to comply with inclination. In the third place, this observation may teach the most sen- sual and irreligious man, to overlook those hardships and dif- ficulties, which are apt to discourage him from the prosecution of a virtuous life. "The gods," said Hesiod, "have placed labour before virtue ; the way to her is at first rough and diffi- cult, but grows more smooth and easy the farther we advance in it." The man who proceeds in it with steadiness and resolution, will, in a little time, find that ** her ways are ways of pleasant- oeif, and that all her paths are peace." To enforce this consideration, we may further observe, that the practice of religion will not only be attended with that plea- sure which naturally accompanies those actions to which we are habituated, but with those supernumerary joys of heart, that rise from the consciousness of such a pleasure; from the sat- isfaction of acting up to the dictates of reason ; and from the prospect of a happy immortality. In the fourth place, we may learn from this observation which we have made on the mind of man, to take particular care, when we are once settled in a regular course of life, how we too frequently indulge ourselves in even the most innocent di- versions and entertainments ; since the mind may insensibly fall off* from the relish of virtuous actions, and by degrees, ex- change that pleasure of which it takes in the performance of its duty, for delightsof a much inferior and an unprofitable nature. The last use which I shall make of this remarkable property in human nature of being delighted with those actions to which it is accustomed, is, to show how absolutely necessary it is for us to gain habits of virtue in this life, if wo would enjoy the pleasures of the next. The state of bliss we call heaven, will not be capable of affecting those minds which are not thus qual* ified for it ; we must, in this world, gain a relish for truth and virtue, if we would be able to to ias.te the knowledge and per- fection, which are to make us happy in the next. The seeds of I those spiritual joys and raptures, which are to rise up and flour- ish in the soul to all eternity, must be planted in it during this iu present state of probation. In short, heaven is not to bo lookcl upon only as the reward, but as the natural effoctof a religious life. SECTION XVI. The pleatures resulting from a proper use of ourfaculiies- Hafpy that man, who, unembarrassed by vulgar carus, miu- Part 1. I Chap. U. romtactious Pier. es. im son, though ition. he most sen- tiips and dif- ! prosecution have placed igh and difli- 'e advance in id resolution, 8 of pleasant- observe, that rith that plea- to which we of heart, that from the sat- and from the rvation which rticular care, I life, how we I innocent di- ly insensibly degrees, ex- rmance of its itable nature, able property ions to which ssary it is for uld enjoy the heaven, will not thus qual- for truth and idge and per- The seeds of up and flour- u ring this itfi t to bo lookcil religious lifo. tr faculties. r carc3, mub ter of hiinselt, his time, and furtune, spends his time in making himself wiser : and his fortune, in miking others (and there- fore himself) happier : who, as the will and understanding are the two ennobling faculties of the soul, thinks himself not com- plete, till his understanding is beautified with the vr I uable fur- niture of knowledge, as well as his will f>nriched with every virtue; who has furnished himself with all the advantages to relish solitude and enliven conversation ; who when serious, is not sullen ; and when cheerful, not indiscreetly gay ; whose ambition is, not to be admired for a faiss glare of greatness, but to be beloved for the gentle and sober lustre of his wisdom and goodness. The greatest minister of slate has not more business to do, in a public capacity, than he, and indeed every other man, may fmd in the retired and still scenes of life. — Even in his private walks, every thing that is visible convinces him there is present a Being invisible. Aided by natural phil- osophy, he reads plain 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 man- ner : and when he sees him, he adores him with the tribute of a grateful heart. seed. SECTION XVll. Description of candour. True candour is altogether different from that guarded, in- offensive language, and that studied openness of behaviour, which we so frequently meet with among men of the world. Smiling, very often, is the aspect, and smooth are the words, of those who inwardly are the most ready to think evil of o- thers. That candour which is a Christian virtue, consists, not in fairness of speech, but in fairness of heart. It may want the blandishment of external courtesy, but supplies its place with a humane and generous liberality of sentiment. Its man- ners are unaffected, and its professions cordial. Exempt, on one hand, from the dark jealousy of a suspicious mind, it is no leas removed, on the other, from that easy credulity which is imposed on by every specious pretence. It is perfectly con- sistent with extensive knowledge of the world, and with duo at- tention to our own safety. In that various intercourse, which we are obliged to carry on with persons of every differrnl char- acter, suspicion, to a certain degree, is a necessary guard. — It is only when it exceeds the bounds of prudent caution, that it degenerates into vice. There is a proper mean between o 2 lea The English Reader. Pari I. undistinguished credulity, and universal jealousy, which a sound understanding discerns, and which the man of candou/ studies to preserve. He makes allowance for the mixture of evil with good, which is to be found in every human character. He expects none to be faultless; and he is unwilling to believe that there is any without some commendable qualities. In the midst of many defects, he can discover a virtue. Under the influence of per- sonal resentment, he can be just to the merit of an enemy. — He never lends an open ear to those defamatory reports and dark suggestions, which among the tribes of the censorious, circulate with so much rapidity, and meet with so ready accep- tance. He is not hasty to judge ; and he requires full evidence before he will condemn. As long as an action can be ascribed to difterent motives, he holds it as no mark of sagacity to im- pute it always to the worst Where there is just ground for doubt, he keeps his judgment undecided; and, during the pe- riod of suspense, leans to the most charitable construction which an action can bear. When he must condemn, he con- demns with regret ; and without those aggravations which the severity of others adds to the crime. He listens calmly to the apology of the ofl^ender, and readily admits every extenuating circumstance, which equity can suggest. How much soever he may blame the principles of any sect or party, he never confounds, under one general censure, all who belong to that party or sect. He charges them nbt with such consequences of their tenets, as they refuse and disavow. From one wrong opinion, he does not infer the subversion of all sound princi- ples ; nor from one bad action, conclude that all regard to con- science is overthrown. When he *' beholds the mote in his brother's eye," he remembers **the beam in his own." He commiserates human frailty; and judges of others accor- ding to the principles, by which he wouid think it reasonable that they should judge of him. In a word, he views men and actions in the clear sunshine of charity and good nature; and not in that dark and sullen shade which jealousy and party-spi- rit throw over all characters. bl.mr. SECTION XVIH. On the imperfection of that happiness which rests solely on worldly pleasures. Tmi vanity of human pleasures, is u topic which might be embellished with the pomp of much description. But I shall ttudioudly avoid exaggeration, and only point out a threefold a.* Chap- Promiscuous Pieces, Ids vanity in human life, which every impartial observer cannot but admit; disappointment in pursuit, dissatisfaction in enjoy- .linii', uncertainty in possession. First, disappointment in pursuit. When we look around us on the world, we every where behold a busy multitude, intent on the prosecution of various designs, which their wants or de- sires have suggested. We behold ihem employing every me- thod which ingenuity can devise; some the patience of indus- try, some the boldness of enterprise, others the dexterity of stratagem, in order to compass their ends. Of this incessant stir and activity, what is the fruit? In comparison of the crowd who have toiled in vain, how small is the number of the successful ? Or rather, where is the man who will declare, that in every point he has completed his plan, and attained his utmost wish? No extent of human abilities has been able to discover a path which, in any line of life, leads unerringly to success. ** The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor riches to men of understanJing." We may form our plans with the most profound sagacity, and with the most vigilant caution may guard againjit dangers on every side.— But some untbreseen occurrence comes across, which bafHes our wisdom, and lays our labours in the dust. Were such disappointments confined to those who aspire at engrossing the higher departments of life, the misfortune would be loss. The humilialion of the mighty, and the fall of ambi- tion from towering height, little concern the bulk of mankind. These are objects on which, as on distant meteors, they gaze from afar, without drawing personal instruction from events so much above them But, alis! when we descend into the re- gions of private life, we f)t)d disappointment and blasted hope equally prevalent there. Neither the moderation of our views, nor the justice of our pretensions, can ensure success. But "lime and chance happen to all." Against the stream of events both the worthy and tlie undeserving are obliged to struggle; ind both are frequently overborne alike by the current. Besides disappointment in pursuit, dissatisfaction in enjoy- ment is a farther vanity, to which tho human state is subject. This is the severest of nil mortiiications ; after having been successful in the pursuit, to bo ballh^d in tiie enjoyment itself. Yet this is found to bo an evil still more general than the for- mer. Some may be so fortunate as to attain what they have pursued ; but none are rendered completely happy by what they have attained. Disappointed hope is misery ; and yet I! if ' V'i 1^4 T^ie EnsUsh Httadcr, Chap. I successful liope is only imperfect bliss. Look through all the ranks of mankind. Examine the condition of those who ap- pear most prosperous; and you will find that they are nevor just what they desire to be. If retired, they languish for ac- tion; if busy, they complain of fatigue. If in middle life, they are impatient for distmction ; if in high station, they sigh after freedom and ease. Somethin::; is still wanting to that plenitude of satisfaction, which they expected to acquire. Together with every wish that is gratified, a new demand arises. One void opens in the heart, as another is filled. On wishes, wishes grow ; and to the end, it is rather the expectation of what they have not, than the enjoyment of what they have, which occu- pies and interests the most successful. This dissatisfaction in the midst of human pleasure, springs partly from the nature of our enjoyments themselves, and part* iy from circumstances which corrupt them. No worldly enjoy- ments are adequate to the high desires and powers of an im- mortal spirit. Fancy paints them at a distance with splendid colours; but possession unveils the fallacy. The eagerness of 'passion bestows upon them, at first, a brisk and lively relish. But it is their fate always to pull by familiarity, and sometimes to pass from satiety into disgust. Happy would the poor man think himself, if he could enter on all the treasures of the rich; and happy for a short time he might be : but before he had long contemplated and admired his state, his possession would seem to lessen, and his cares would grow*. Add to the unsatisfying nature of our pleasures, the attend- ing circumstances which never fail to corrupt them. For, such as they are, they are at no time possessed unmixed. To human lips it is not given to taste the cup of pgre joy When exter- nal circumstances show fairest to the world, the envied man groans in private under his own burden. Some vexation dis- quiet;*, some passion corrodes him ; some distress, either fell or feared, gnaws like a worm, the root of his felicity. When there is nothing from without to disturb the prospeious, a secret poison operates within. For worldly happiness ever tends to destroy itself, by corrupting the heart. It fosters the loose and the violent passions. It engenders noxious habits; and taints the mind with false delicacy, which makes it feci a thousand unreal evils. But put the case in the most favourable light. Lay aside from human pleasures both disappointment in pursuit, andde ceitfulnesss in enjoyment ; suppose them to be fully Attainable* Chap. 9. Promiscuous Pieces. 165 and completely sMtisfactory ; still there remains to be consid- ered the vanity of uncertain possession and short duration. — Were there in worldly things any fixed point of security which we could gain, the mind would then have some basis on which to rest. But our condiiion is suoh, that ovory thing wavers and totters around us. " Doast not thyself of tomorrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.'' It is much if, du- ring iis course, thou hearest not of somewhat lo disquiet or a- larm thee. For life never proceeds long in a uniform train. It is continually varied by unexpecttM] events. The seeds of alteration are every where sown ; and the sunshine of prosper- ity commonly accelerates their growth. If our enjoyments are numerous, we lie more open on different sides \o be woun- ded. If we have posses!«ed them long, we have greater cause to dread an approaching change. By slow degrees prosperity rises; but rapid is the progress of evil. It requires no prepa- ration to bring it forward. The edifice which it cost much time and labour to erect, one inauspicious event, one sudden blow, can level with the dust. Even supposing the accidents of life to leave us untouched, human bliss must still bo transi- toiy; for man changes of himself. No course of enjoyment can delight us long. What amused our youth, loses its charm in malurer age. As years advance, our powers are blunted, and our pleasurable feelings decline. The silent lapse of time ia ever carrying somewhat from us, till at length the period comes, when all must be swept away. The prospect of this termination of our labours and pursuits, is sufficient to mark our state with vanity. ** Our days are a hami's breath, and our age is as nothing." Within that little space is all our enter- prise bounded. We crowd it with toils and cares, with conten- tion and strife. We project great designs, entertain high hopes, and then leave our plans unfinished, and sink into oblivion. This much let it suffice to have said concerning tho vanity of the world. That too much has not been said, must appear to every one who considers how generally mankind lean to tho opposite side ; and how often, by undue attachment to the pre- sent state, they both focd the most sinful [)assions, and "pierce themselves through with tnany sot lows." dlair. ^SHCTION XIX. What are the real and solid enjoyments of human life. It must be admitted, that unujixed and compleio happiness i« unknown on earth. Nu regulation of conduct can altogether J, i;' ! I \i ■:tt' «• • * r ' ''if V 1G6 Tfie Engfish Reader. Part 1. prevent passions from disturbing our peace, and misfortunes frond wounding our heart. But after this concession is gnade, will it follow, that there is no object on earth which deserves our pursuit, or that all enjoyments becomes contemptible which is not perfect? Let us survey our state with an impartial eye, and be ju»t to tiie various gifts of lieaven. How vain soever this life, considered in itself, may be, the comforts and hopes of religion are sufficient to givo solidity to the enjoyments of the righteous. In the exercise of good affections, and the tes- timony ol an approving conscience ; in the sense of peace and reconciliation with God, through the great Redeemer of man- kind ; in the firm confidence of being conducted through all the trials of life, by infinite Wisdom and Goodness; and in the joyful prospect of arriving, in the end, at immortal felicity; they possess a happiness which, descending from a purer and more perfect region than this world, partakes net of its vanity. Besides the enjoyments peculiar to religion, there are other pleasures of our pre.senl state, which, though of an inferior or- der, must not be overlooked in the estimate of human life. It is necessary to call attention to these, in order to check that repi- ning and unthankful spirit to which man is always too prone.— Some degree of importance must be allowed to the comforts of health, to the innocent gratifications of sense, and to the enter- tainment afforded 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 ihought-and reflection, and to the pleasures of affectionate intercourse with those whom we love. These comforts are often held in too low estimation, merely be- cause they are ordinary and common ; although that is the cir- cumstance which ought, in reason, to enhance their value. They lie open, in some degree, to all; extend through every rank of life; dj fillupagreeably many of those spaces in our presentexistence, which are not occupied with higher objects, or with serious cares. From this representation it appears that, notwithstanding the vanity of the world, a considerable degree of comfort is at- tainable in the present state. Let the recollection of this serve to reconcile us to our condition, and to 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 provi- dence, because all ih!.igsarc not ordered according to thy wish? What title hast thou to find fault with the order of the universe, whose lot is so much beyond what thy virtue or merit gave Part 1. lisfortunes 1 is gnade, 1 deserves ible which artial eye, ain soever and hopes )yment3 of nd the tes- * peace and Gr of man* h rough all ss; and in •tal felicity; I purer and fits vanity, e are other inferior or- 1 life. It is 'k that repi- 00 prone. — comforts of the enter- u re ; some and more and to the m we love, merely be- is the cir- ilue. They rank of life; texistence, rious cares, thstanding mfort is at- ihia serve arrogance ^n of man! I, darest to his provi' I) ihy wishi universe, lerit gave Chap. Promiscuous Pieces . 16T thee ground to claim ! Is it nothing to thee to have been in« troduced into this magnificent world : to have been admitted as a spectator of the Divine wisdom and works ; and to have had access to all the comforts 'A'hich nature, with a bountiful hand, has poured forth around thee ? Are all the hours forgot- ten which thou hast passed in ease, in complacency, or joy? Is it a small favour in thy eyes, that the hand of Divine Mer- cy has been stretched forth to aid thee ; and, if thou reject not its proffered assistance, is ready to conduct thee to a happier state of existence? When thou compatest thy condition with thy desert, blush, and be ashamed of thy complaints. Be silent, be grateful, and adore. Receive with thankfulness the bless- ings which are allowed thee. Revere that government which at present 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. blair. SECTION XX. IScale of beings. Though there is a great deal of pleasure m contemplating the material world ; by which I mean, that system of bodies into which nature has so curiously wrought the mass of dead matter, with the several relations that those bodies bear to one another; there is still, methinks, something more wonderful and surprising, in contemplations on the world of life ; by which I intend, all those animals with which every part of the uni- verse is furnished. The material world is only the shell of the universe: the world of life are its inhabitants. If we consider those parts of the material world, which lie the nearest to us, and therefore subject to our own observation, and inquiries, it is amazing to consider the infinity of animals ^iih which they are stocked. Every part of matter is peopled ; every green leaf swarms with inhabitants. There is scarcely a single humour in a body of a man, or of any other animal, in which our glasses do not discover myriads of living creatures. We find, even in the most solid bodies, as in marble itself, innu- merable cells and cavities, which are crowded with impercep- tible inhabitants, too little for the naked eye to discover. On the other hand, if we look into the more bulky parts of nature, we seethe seas, lakes, and rivers, teeming with numberless kinds of living creatures. We find every mountain and marsh, wil- derness and wood, plentifully stocked with birds and beasts; and every part of matter affording proper necessaries ^nd conve- nience, for the livelihood of the multitudes which inhabit it. i«^?tV.- ' -M I . 16^ The English Reader. Part. 1. Tho fiuihor of *'lho Plurality of Worlds," draws a very good argument from this consideration, for the peopling of ev- ery planet ; as ind>.'od it seems very probable, from the analogy of reason, that if no part of .-natter, with which we are acquain- ted, lies waste and useless, those great bodies, which are at such a distance from us, are not desert and unpeopled; but ra- ther, that they are furnished with beings adapted to ther res- pective situations. Existence is a blessing to those beings only which are en- dowed with perception ; and is in a manner thrown away upon dead matter, any farther than as it is subservient to beings which are conscious of their existence. Accordingly we find, from the bodies which lie under our observation, that matter is only made as the basis and support of animals ; and that there is no more of the one than what is necessary for the existence of the other. infinite Goodness is of so communicative a nature, that it seems to delight in conferring existence upon every degree of perceptive being. As this is a speculation, which I have often pursued with great pleasure to myself, I shall enlarge farther upon it, by considering that part of the scale of beings which comes within our knowledge. There are some living creatures, which are raised but just above dead matter. To mention only that species ofsheli-fish, which is ibrmcd in the fashion of a cone ; that grows to the sur- face of several rocks ; and immediately dies, on being severed from the place where it grew. There are many other crea- tures but one remove from those, .whic)i have no other sense than that of feeling and taste. Others have still an additional one of hearing ; others of smell ; and others, of sight. It is wonderful to observe, by what a gradual progress the world of life advances, through a prodigious variety of species, before a creature is formed, that is complete in all its senses: and even among these, there is such a different degree of per- fection, in the sense .. hich one animal enjoys beyond what ap- pears in another, that though the sense in different animals is distinguished by the same common denomination, it seems al- most of a different nature. If, after this, we look into the sev- eral inward perfections of cunning sagacity, or what we gen- erally call instinct, we find them rising, after the same man- ner, imperceptibly one above another; and receiving addition- al improvements, according to the species in which they are implanted. The progress in nature is so very gradual, that the Part 1. vvs a very ^ling of ev- he analogy re acquain- lich ure at ed ; but ra- te ther res- lich are en- away upon eings which 2 find, from alter is only t there is no slence of the iture, that it ry degree of riiave often arge farther eings which ised but just of shell-fish, vs to the sur- eing severed other crea- other sense m additional )f sight. It )rogre88 the y of species, 1 its senses : jgree of per- ;)nd what ap- it animals is it seems al* into the sev- hat we gen- same man- ing addition- ch they are lual, that the Chap. Promts :uous Pieces, 16D most perfect of an inferior species, comes very near to thje most imperfect of that which is immediately above it. The exuberatit and ovorflowing goodness of the Supreme Being, whose aiercy extends to nil hi.s works, is plainly seen, as I have before hisifcil, in his Iraviiiii; made so verv liule mat- ter, at least what fulls within our knowledge, that does not swarm with life. Nor is his goodness less seen in the diversity, than in the ^^lultitude of living creatures. Had he made but one species of aniiT.als, nonoofthe rest woulil have enjoyed the happiness of existence; he has therefore, specified, in his cre- ation, every dei^ix's of life, every capacity of being. The whole chasm of nature, from a j)lant to a man, is filled up with divers kinils o{ creraures, rising one after another, by an as- cent so gentle and easy, that the little transitions and deviations from one species to another, arc almost insensible. This in- tern)ediate space is so well husUanded and managed, that there is scarcely a degree of perception, which does not appear in some one part of the world of life. Is the goodness, or the wis- dom of the Divine Being, more manifested in this his proceed- ing There is a consequence, besides those 1 have already men- tiouad, which seems very naturally deducible from the forego- ing considerations. If the scale of being rises by so regular a progress, so high as man, we may, by parity of reason, sup- pose, that it still proceeds gradually through those beings which are of a superior nature to him ; since there is infinitely great- er space and room for difFerent degrees of perfection between the Supreme Beitjg and man, than between man and the most despicable insect. In this great system of being, there is no creature so won- derful in its nature, and which so much deserves our particu- lar attention, as man ; who fills up the middle space between the animal and the intellectual nature, the visible and the invi- sible world ; and who is that link in the chain of being, which forms the connexion between both. So that he who, in one respect, is associated with angels and archangels, and may look upon a being of infinite perfection as his father, and the highest order of spirits as his brethren, may, in another res- pect, say to ^'corruption thou art my father, and to the worm, thou art my mother and my sister." addison. SECTION XXI. Irust in the care of Providence recommended, Man, considered in himself, is a very helpless, and a very P « -Si , :h : tr-i 170 The English Reader. Part I. •wretched being. He is subject every moment to the greatest • calamities and misfortunes. He is beset with dangers on all sides; and may become unhappy by numberless casualties, which he could not foresee, nor have prevented had he fore- seen them. It is our comforts, while we are obnoxious to so many acci- dents, that we are under the care of one who directs contin- gencies, and has in his hands the management of every thing that is capable of annoying or offending us ; who knows the assistance we stand in need of, and is always ready io bestow it on those who ask it of him. The natural homage, which such a creature owes to so in- finitely wise and good a Being, is a firm reliance on him for the blessings and conveniences of life ; and an habitual trust in him, for deliverance out of all such dangers and difficulties as may befall us. The man who always lives in this disposition of mind, has not the same dark and melancholy views of human nature, as he who considers himself abstractedly from this relation to the Supreme Being. At the same time that he reflects upon his own weakness and imperfection, he comforts himself with the contemplation of those divine attributes, which are employed for his safety, and his welfare. He finds his want of foresight made up, by the omniscience of him who is the support. He is not sensible of his own want of strength, when he knows that his helper is almighty. In short, the person who has a firm trust in the Supreme Being, is powerful in his power, wise by his wisdom, happy by his happiness. He reaps the benefit of every divine attribute; and loses his own insufficiency in the fulness of infinite perfection. To make our lives more easy to us, we are commanded to put our trust in him, who is able to relieve and succour us; the Divine Goodness having made such a reliance a duty, notwithstanding we should have been miserable, had it been forbidden us. Among several motives, which might be made use of to re- commend this duty to us, I shall only take notice of those that follow. The first and strongest is, that we are promised, he will not fail those who put their trust in him. But without considering the supernatural blessing, which accompanies this duty, we may observe, that it has a natural tendency to its own reward; or, in other words, that this firm trust and confidence in the great Disposer of all things, contri- *art 1. CArtj?. 9. Promiscuous Pieces. 171 reatest on all Lialties, \e fore- ly acci- contin- •y thing )ws the bestow Lo so in- ti for the tin him, as may ud, has iture, as )n to the upon his with the nnployed bresight rt. He e knoMis o has a er, wise e benefit ienoy in ore easy is able ng made ve been 1 of to re- lose that will not r, which ' natural Itbis firm J, contri- bute very much to the getting clear of any affliction, or to the bearing of it manfully. A person who believes he has his suc- cour at hand, and that he acts in the sight of his friend, often exerts himself beyond his abilities ; and does wonders, that are not to be matched by one who is not animated with such a con- fidence of success. Trust in the assistance of an Almighty Being, naturally produces patience, hope, cheerfulness, and all other dispositions of mind, which alleviate those calamities that we are not able to remove. The practice of this virtue administers great comfort to the mind of man, in times of poverty and affliction ; but most of all, in the hour of death. When the soul is hovering, in the last moments of its separation ; when it is just entering on an- other state of existence, to converse with scenes, and objects; and companions, that arc altogether »iew ; what cua support her under such tremblings of thought, such fear, such anxiety, such apprehensions, but the casting of all her cares upon him, who first gave her being; who has conducted her through one stage of it ; and who will be always present, to guide and com- fort her in her progress through eternity? addison. SECTION XXII. Piety and gratitude enliven prosperity. PiETV, and gratitude to God, contribute, in a high degree, to enliven prosperity. Gratitude is a pleasing emotion. The sense of being distinguished by the kindness of another, glad« (lens the heart, warms it with reciprocal affection and gives to any possession which is agreeable in itself, a double relish, from its being the gift of a friend. Favours conferred by men, I acknowledge, may prove burdensome. For human virtue is never perfect; and sometimes unreasonable expectations on the one side, sometimes a mortifying sense of dependence on the other, corrode in secret the pleasures of benefits, and con- vert the obligations of friendship into grounds of jealousy.— But nothing of this kind can aifect the intercourse of gratitude with Heaven. Its favours are wholly disinterested; and with a gratitude the most cordial and unsuspicious, a good man looks up to that Almighty lienefactor, who aims at no end but the happiness of those whom he blesses, and who desires no return from them, but a devout and thankful heart. While others can trace their prosperity to no higher source than a concurrence of worldly ctuses ; and, often, of mean or trifling incidents, which occasionally favoured their designs ; with what ; ^^< ^'M:i 172 The English Reader. Part 1. superior satisfaction does the 3*: rvr^nt ot C4od remark ilie hand of that gracious power which hall is d him up; which hath hap- pily conducted hinn through the various steps of life, and crown- ed him with tlie most favourable distinction beyond his equals? Let us farther consider, that not only gratitude for the past, but a cheering sense of divine favour at the present, enters into the pious emotion. They are only the virtuous, who in their prosperous dnys hear this voice addressed to tliem. ♦' Go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a cheerful heart ; for God now accepleth thy works." He who is the author of their prosperity, gives them a title to enjoy, with complacency, his own gift. While bad men snatch the pleasures of the world as by stealth, without countenance from the great Proprietor of the world, the righteous sit openly down to the feast of life, under the smile of approving heaven. No guilty fears damp their joys. The blessing of God rests upon all that they possess; his protection surrounds them ; and hence, *' in the habitations of the righteous, is found the voice of rejoicing and salvation." A lustre unknown to others, in- vests, in their sight, the whole face of nature. Their piety reflects a sunshine from heaven upon the prosperity of the world ; unites in one point of view, the smiling aspect, both of the powers above, and of the objects below. Not only have they as full a relish as others, lor the innocent pleasures of life, but, moreover, in these they hold communion with their divine benefactor. In all that is goo.d or fair, they trace his hand. From the beauties of nature, from the improvements of art, from the enjoyments of social life, they raise their affection to the source of all the happiness which surrounds them ; and thus widen the sphere of their pleasures, by adding intellectu- al, and spiritual, to earthly joys. For illustration of what I have said on this head, remark that cheerful enjoyment of a prosperous state, which king David had when he wrote the twenty-third psalm; and compare the highest pleasures of the riotous sinner, with the happy and sa- tisfied spirit which breathes throughout that psalm. In the midst of the splendour of royalty, with what amiable simplici- ty of gratitude does he look up to the Lord as " his Shepherd;" happier in ascribing all his success to Divine favour, than to the policy of his councils, or to the force of his arms ! How many instances of divine goodness arose before him in pleas- ing remembrance, when, with such relishr he speaks of the '* green pastures and still waters, beside which God had led Chitp. Promiscuous Pieces, 173 him; of his cup which lie had made to overflow ; and of the table wliich he had prepared for him in the presence of his en- emies!" With what perfect tranquillity does he look forward 10 the time of his passing ihrough " the valley of the shadow of death ;" unappailed by that spectre, whose most distant ap- pearance blasts the prosperity of sinners! lie fears no evil, as long as "the rod and the stafl"" of his Divine Shepherd are with him; and, througii all the unknown periods of this and of future existence, commits himself to his guidance with secure and triumphant hope. *' Surely goodness and mercy will fol- low me all the days of my life; and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever." — What a purified, sentimental enjoy- ment of prosj)erity is hero exhibited ! How dilferent from that gross relish of worldly pleasures, which belongs to those who behold'only the terrestrial side of things ; who raise their views to no higher objects than the succession of human^ontingen- cies, and the weak efforts of human ability ; who have no i)ro- tector or patron irj the heavens, to enliven their prosperity, or to warm their hearts with gratitude and trust ! blair. SECTION XXlll. Virtue, when deeply rooled, is not subject to the influence of fortune. The city of SiJon having surrendered to Alexander, he or- dered Hephestion to bestow the crown on him whom the Sido- nians should think most worthy of that honour. Hephestion being at the time resident with two young men of distinction, offered them the kingdom ; but they refused it, telling him that it was conttary to the laws of their country, to admit any one to that honour^ who was not of the royal family. He then, having expressed his admiration of their disinterested spirit, desired them to name one ol' the royal race, who might remem- ber that he had received the crown through their hands. O- verlooking many, who would have been ambitious of this high honour, they made clioice of Abdolonymus, whose singular merit had rendered him conspicuous, even in the vale of ob- scurity. Though remotely related to the ro)al family, a se- ries of misfortunes h^d reduced him to the necessity of culti- vating a garden, for a small stipend, in the suburbs of the city. While Abdolonymus was busily employed in weeding his garden, the two friends of Hephestion, bearing in their hands the ensigns cf royalty, approached him, and saluted him king. They informed him that Ale.^ander had appointed him to that p 2 ' i' '*' t>4^ i. I 174 The English Reader. Part 1. office; and required him immediately to exchange his rustic garb, and utensils of husbandry, for the regal robe and sceptre. At the same time, they admonished him, when he should be seated on the throne, and have a nation in his power, not to forget the humble condition from which he had been raised. All this, at the first, appeared to Abdolonymus as an illusion of the fancy, or an insult offered to his poverty. He requested them not to trouble him farther with their impertinent jests; and to find some other way of amusing themselves, which might leave him in the peaceable enjoyment of his obscure hab- itation. — At length, however, they convinced him, that they were serious in their proposal; and prevailed upon him to ac- cept the regal olHce, and accompany them to the palace. No sooner was he in possession of the government, than pride and envy created him enemies; who whisj^ered their murmurs in every place, till at last they reached the ear of Alexander. Me 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 Abdolony- mus, *'that I may be able to bear my crown with equal mod- eration: for when I possessed little, I wanted nothing: these hands supplied me with whatever I desired.'' From this answer, Ale.xaiider formed so high an idea of his wisdom, that he confir- med the choice which had been made ; and annexed a «effi;li- bouring province to the government of Sidon. QI'INTIS rUKTILS. SECTION X^^IV. The S2)eech of FAiinicvs^ a Roman nmhassador^ fokhiit Pi/r- rhtis^ who affrmptcd to bribe him to his interests^ by the offer of a great sum of money. With regard to my poverty, the king has, indeed, been just- ly informed. My whole estate consists in a houso of but moaii appearance, and a little spot of ground; from which, by my own labour, I draw my support. Rut if, by any means, thou hast been persuaded to think that this poverty renders me of less consequence in my own country, or in any degree unhap- py, thou art greatly deceived. I have no reason to complain of fortune: she supplies me with all that nature requires; and if I am without superfluities, I am also free from the desire of them. With those, I confess I should be more able to succour the necessitous, the only advanta?:; > for which the wealthy are to be envied; but small as my po'-isessions are, I can still con- Part 1. e his rustic and sceptre. \Q should be wer, not to en raised. s an illusion Ic requested tinent jests; Ives, which )bscure hub- n, thai they n him to ac- palace. iment, than ^pered their 1 the ear of ce to be sent mind he hnd 1 Abdolony- I equal mod- :hing: these this answer, at heconfii- :ed a fietgli- MS ri'RTIL'S. 'o kuiiT Pi/r' hij Ike offer J, been just- of but monii lich, by my iTieans, thou nders mo of gree unlmp- to complain iquires; and ihc desire of c to succour wealthy are ;nn stiH con- Chap. Promiscuous Piccct. 1T& tribute something to the support of the state, and the assiitance of my IViends. With respect to honours, my country places me, poor as I am, upon a level with the richest : for Rome knows no qualifications for great employments, but virtue and ability. 3ho appoints me to officiate in the most august cere- monies of religion; she intrusts me with the command of her armies; she confides to my care the most important negocia- iions. My poverty does not lessen the weight and influence of my counsels in the senate. The Roman people honour me for that very poverty, which king Pyrrhus considers as a dis- grace. They know the many opportunities I have had to en- rich myself, without censure ; they are convinced of my disin- terested z'mI ^ot their prosperity; and if I have any thing to complain of, in the return they make me, it is only the excess of llieir applause. What value, then, can 1 put upon thy gold and silver? What king can add ary thing to my fortune? — Always attentive to discharge the 'Juties incumbent upon me, I have a mind free from self-reprrach ; and I have an honest fame. SECTION XXV. CharacUr of 5 \me3 I. king of England. No PRINCE, so litt'e enterprising and so inoffensive, was ever so much exposed to the opposite extremes of calumny and flattery, of satire and panegyric And the factions which be- gan in his time, being still continued, have made his charac- ter be as mu h disputed to this day, as is commonly that of princes who aro our contemporaries, \fany virtues, however, it must be owned, he was possessed of; but not one of them pure, or free from the contagion of the neighbouring vices.— His generosity bordered on profusion, liis learning on pedant- ry, his pacific disposition on pusillanimity, his wisdom on cun- ning, his friendship on light fancy and boyish fondness. While he imagined that he was only maintaining his own authority, he may perhaps be suspected in some of his actions, and still more of his pretensions, to have encroached on the liberties of his people. While he endeavoured, by an exact neutrality, to acquire the good will of all his neighbours, he was able to pre- serve fully the esteem and regard of none. His capacity was considerable, but fitter to discourse on general maxims, than to conduct any intricate busincf^s. His intentions wcro just, but more adapted to the conduct of private life, than to th« government of kingdoms. Awkward i^':i*i|.| ; \ 176 ^Ihe English Reader. Part 1. W * in his person, and unf^ainly in his manners, he was ill qualified to command respect: partial and undiscerning in his atlectionf^, he was httle fitted to acquire general love. Of a feeble temper, more than of a frugal judgment; exposed to our ridicule from his vanity, hut exempt from our hatred by his freedom from pride and arrogance. And, upon the whole, it may be pro- nounced of his character, that all his qualities were sullied with weakness, and embellished by humanity. Political courage he was certainly devoid of; and from thence chiefly is derived the strong prejudice, which prevails against his personal bra- very : an inference, however, which must be owned, from gen- eral experience, to be extremely fallacious. hu.me. SECTION XXVI. Charles V. emperor of Germany^ resigns his dominions^ and retires from the world. This great emperor, in the plenitude of his power, and in possession 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 this world, in order tliat ha might spend the remain- der of his days in retirement and solitude. Though it requires neither deep reflection, nor extraordinary discernment, lodisco- ver that the slate of royalty is not exempt from cares and dis- appointments; though most of those who are exalted to a throne, find solicitude, and satiety, and disgust, to be tlieir perpetual attendants, in that envied pre-eminence; yet, t>^ descend vol- untarily from the supreme to a sul)ordinate station, and to re- linquish the possession of power in order to attain the enjoy- ment of happiness, seems to be an eflort too great for the human mind. Several instances, indeed, occur in history, of monarchs who have quitted a throne, and havo ended their days in retire- ment. But they were either weak prince , who took this resolution rashly, and repented of ii as soon as it was taken ; or unfortunate princes, from whose hands some strong rival had wrested their sceptre, and compelled them to descend with re- luctance into a private station. Dioclcsian is, perhaps, the enly prince capable of holdujg tlie reigns of government, wlio ever resigned them from deliberate choice ; and who continued, during many years, to enjoy the tranquillity of retirement, without fetching one penitent si^h, or casting back one look of desire, towards the power or djgnity which he had abandoned. Part. 1. Mr hup, 9. •"qualified ^ atibctions, ble temper, idic'jle from joclom from i''^y be pro- sullied with courage lie is derived rsonal bra- , from gen- HU.ME. inions, and 'or, and in 10 heart of > liingdums; ncss or the tile remain- I it requires snf, to disco- res and dis- toa throne, r |)erpetual .'scend vol- nnd to re- the enjoy- t ho human f monarchs sin retire- took this ^!\s taken ; g rival had lid with re- rhaps, the inent, who continued, ctirement, no look of bandoued. Pfotnisciions Pieces, 17T Xo wonder, then, that Charles's resignation should fill all I Europe witli astonishment ; and give rise, both among his con- [temporaries, and among tiie historians of that period, to vari- ous conjectures concerning the motives which determined a prince, whose ruling passion had been uniformly the love of [Dwer, iU l.ic age offifiy-six, when objects of ambition operate wi'li full force on the mind, and are pursued with the greatest ardour, to take "i resolution so singular and unexpected. The emperor, in pursuance of his determination, having as- sembled the tales of the Low Countries at Brussels, seated himself, for ihc last time, in the chair of state; on one side of which was placed his son, and on the other, his sister the (]ueen of Hungary, regent of tiio Netherlands, with a splendid retinue of the grandees of Spain artd princes of the empire sianding behind him. The president of the council of Flanders, by his command, explained, in a few words, his intention in calling this extraordinary meeting of the states. He then read [he instrument of resignation, by which C'harles surrendered to his snn Philip all his territories, jurisdiction, and authority III the Ijow Countries ; absolving his subjects there Irom their oath of allegiance to him, which he required them to transfer to Philip his lawful heir; and ti» servo him with the same loy- ally and zoal that they had manifested, during so long a course of years, in su|)port of his government. CiiarK'-i then rose from his seat, and leaning on the shoulder of the Prit)ce of Orange, hecau^^; he was unable to stand with- 011 t support, he addressed himself to the audience, and, from a paper which \\v. held in his hand, in order to assist his mem- ory, he recounted, with dignity, but without ostentation, all the great things whi.'h he had undertaken and performed, since ni of his adniirnstration. Ho observed, that tlie coinmenceme t'lom the scvoiiteenli) year of his ago, h' had dedicated all his thoughts and nticntion to public objects, reserving no portion (if his time fir the indulgence of his ease, and very little for the enjoyment ol private pleasure; that rither in a pacific or hostiltMnan"er, he hail visited ^icrmany nine times, Spain six France four times, Italv seven limes, the Low Countriee lines, ten times, England twice, Africa as often, and had made clev- oii voyages by sea; that while his health permitted Inm to dis- charge his duty, and the vigour of his constitution wasequ'il, in any degree, to the arduous oHico of governing dominions bo OYtensive, he had never shunned labour, nor repined under* ' u. *t m^: iiiiUttilmit:^^-*^ '^m 178 The English Reader. Part. 1 Chap. JsiibjectI fatigue; that now, when his health was broken, and his vigour ■exhausl exhausted by the rage of an incurable distemper, his growing Jnary infirmities admonished him to retire; nor was he so fond oflmelted reigning, as to retain the sceptre in an impotent hand, which lathers was no longer able to protect his subjects, or to render themlson, ai happy ; that instead of a sovereign worn out with diseases, and Ideepestl scarcely half alive, he gave them one in the prime of life, ac- Jihe Nel customed already to govern, and who added to the vigour of mis regl youth ail the attention ajd sagacity of muturer years; that if, during the course of a long administration, he had committed any material error jn government, or if, under the pressure of! 30 many and great aflairs, and amidst the attention which he had been obliged to give to them, he had either neglected or injured any of his subjects, he now implored their forgiveness; that, for his part, he should ever retain a grateful sense of their fidelity and attachment, and would carry the reuKim- brance of it along with him to the place of his retreat, as his sweetest consolation, as well as the best reward for all his ser- vices; and in his last prayers to Almighty God, would pour forth his ardent 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 such largo additions, some regard would have been justly due to my mem- ory on that account ; but now, when 1 voluntarily resign to you what I might have still retained, I may well expect the warmest expressions of thanks on your part. With these however, I dispense; and shall consider your concern forth" welfare of your subjects, and your love of them, as tlie Ic^t and most acceptable testimony of your gratitude to me. It is in your power, by a wise and virtuous administration, to justi- fy the extraordinary proof which 1 give this day of my pater- nal affection, and to demonstrate that you are wortiiy of the confidence which I repose in you. Preserve an invioiabio re- gard for religion ; maintain the Catholic faith in its purity; let the laws of your country be sacred in your eyrs; encroach not on the rights and privileges of your people; and if the lime shall ever come, when you shall wi rtal)le nccomm rlcs enter, w in solitude ai: r with all thuj hud alarmed an' lit, by turns, Chap. 9. Promiscuous Pieces. 161 the terror of his arms, and the dread of being subjected to his power. In this retirement Charles formed such a plan of life for himself, as would have suited the condition of a private person of a moderate fortune. His table was neat but plain ; his domestics few ; his intercourse with them familiar; all the cumbersome and ceremonious forms of attendance on his person were entirely abolished, as destructive of that social ease and tranquillity, which he courted, in order to sooth the remainder of his days. As the mildness of the climate, together with his deliverance from the burdens and cares of government, procured him, at first, a considerable remission from the acute pains with which he had been long tormented, he enjoyed, perhaps, more complete satisfaction in this humble solitude, than all his grandeur had ever yielded him. The ambitious thoughts and projects which had so long engrossed and disquieted him, werequite ctFaced from his mind princes of Europe, he restrained his curiosity even from any Far from taking any part in the political transactions of the inquiry concerning them ; & he seemed to view the busy scene which he had abandoned, with all the contempt and indifference arising from his thorough experience of its vanity, as well as from the pleasing reflection of having disentangled himself from its cares. dr- robirtsow. ."•"txJ* H\^ -I? i" \ ^■■'h w PART II. CHAR !. SELECT SENTENCES AND PARAGRAPHS. SECTION I. SHORT AND EASY SEMTEIVCES. Education, X IS education forms the common mind; Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclm'd. Candour, With pleasure let us own our errors past; And make each day a critic on the last. Rejleciion. A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs. Secret Virtue. The private path, the secret acts of men, If noble, far the noblest of their lives. Necessary knowledge easily attained. Our needful knowledge, like our needful food? Unhedg'd, lies open in life's common field ; And bids all welcome to the vital feast. Disappointment. Disappointment lurks in many a prize, As bees in flow'rs ; and stings us with success Virtuous elevation. The mind that would be happy, must be great; Great in its wishes ; great in its surveys. Extended views a narrow mind extend. Natural and fanciful life. Who lives to nature, rarely can be poor; Who lives to fancy, never can be rich. NOTE. In the first chapter, the Compiler has exhibited a considerable vari«tv •f poetical construction for the young reader's preparatory exercises. Chap. 1. Select SenlenceSf ^c. 18t Charily, In faith and hope the world will disagree ; But all mankind's concern is charity. The prize cf Virtue. What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, Is virtue's prize. Sense and modesty connected. Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks ; It still looks home, and short excursion makes; But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks. Moral discipline salutary, tieav'n gives us friends to bless the present scene Resumes them to prepare us for the next. All evils natural are moral goods ; All discipline, indulgence, on the whole. Present blessings undervalued. Like birds, whose beauties languish, half conceardi Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes Expanded shine with azure, green, and gold, How blessings brighten as they take their flight! Hope, Hope, of all passions most t)efriend us here; Passions of prouder name befriend us less, Joy has her tears, and transport has her death ; Hope, like a cordial, innocent, though strong, Man's heart, at once, inspirits and serenes. Happiness modest and tranquil, — — Never man was truly blest, But it composed, and gave him such a cast As folly might mistake for want of joy; A cast unlike the triumph of the proud; A modest ai^pect, and a smile at heart. Tri'c greatness. Who noble ends by noble means obtains, Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains, Like good Aurolius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates, that man is great indeed. Tlir tear of sympathy. No radiant peurl, which crested fortune wears, No gem, that twinkling hangs from beauty's ears, j:,i I'* nil 184 The Engluh Reader. Chap. Nor Ihe brighi stars, which night's blue arch adorn, Nor rising suns that gild the vernal morn. Shine with such lustre, as the tear that hreaks, For others* wo, down Virtue's manly cheeks. SECTION II. VERSES IN WHICH THE UNES ARF: OF DIFFERENT LENGTH. Bliss of celestial Origin. Restless mortals toil for nought; Bliss in vain from earth is sought ; Bliss, a native of the sky. Never wanders. Mortals, try; There you cannot seek in vain; For to seek her is to gain. The Passions. The passions are a numerous crowd. Imperious, positive, and loud. Curb these licentious sons of strife; Hence chiefly rise the storms of life : If they grow mutinous, and rave. They are thy masters, thou their slave. Trust in Providence recommended, 'Tis Providence alone secures. In ev'ry change, both mine and .yours. Safety consists not in escape From dangers of a frightful shape : An earthquake may be bid to spare The man that's strangled by a liair. Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oft'nost in what least we dread; Frowns in the storm with angry biow. But in the sunshine strikes the blow. Epitaph, How lov'd, how valuVl once avails thee not. To whom related, or by whom begot : A heap of dust alone remains of thee; ^Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall l)e. Famf, All fame is foreign, but of true desert ; Playi round the head but comes not to the heart. 1* ^'1' Chap. I. Select Sentences^ Sfc. 18ft rt. One self-approving hour, whole years outweighs Of stupid starers and ofioud huzzas; And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels, Than Coesar wiih a senate at his heels. Virtue the giuirdian of ijouth. Down the smooth stream of life the stripling darts, Gay as the morn ; bright glows the vernal sky, Hope swells his sails, and Passion steers his course. Safe glides his little bark along the shore, Where Virtue tal<(^s her stand: but if too far He launches forth beyond discretion's mark, . Sudden the tempest scowU, tho surge-j roar, Blot his fair o afid plunge him in the deep. Suiij-i.se. But yonder comes the pu -'rful king of day, Rejoicing in the east. T..e less'iiing cloud, The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow, lllum'd with fluid gold, his near approach Betoken glad. Lo, now, apparent all Aslant the dew-bright earth, and colour'd air, He looks in boundless majesty abroad; And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays On rocks, and hills, and tow'rs, and waud'ring stream^, High gleaming from afar. Sc/f-govcnunent. May I govern my passions with absolute sway ; And grow wiser and hoiter as life wears away. Shepherd. On a mountain, stretch'd beneath a hoary willow, Lay a shepherd swain, and viow'd the rolling billow. SF/JTION III. VERSES CONTAINING EXCLAMATIONS, INERROGA- TIONS, AISD PARENTHESES. C 07;} pet race. A COMPETENCE is all we can enjoy : Oh! bo content, where tieav'n can give no more! Reflection essential fx> happiness. Much joy not only speaks small happiness, But happinos.- 'hal shortly must expire. Can joy unbottom'd in reflection stand? And, in & tempest, can refleotion live f Q 9 p •0 'i \ K.} IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 4p 1.0 I.I l^|2£ |2.5 |50 l"^" ■■■ ■u iiii 12.2 li It! m Ui& 1-25 II 1.4 1.6 * 6" ► <^ 7a Hiotographic Sciences Corporation n WIST MAIN STMIT WItSTM.N.Y. MSM (7U) •74-4503 i\ 18« The English Reader. Part 2. Friendship, Can gold gain friendship? Impudence of hope! As well mere man an angel might heget. Love, and love only, is the loan for love. ijOren2U) ! pride repress; nor hope to find A friend, but what has found a friond in thee. All like the purchase; few the price will pay : And this makes friends such miracles below. rntirnce. Beware of despVate steps. The darkest day (Live, till to-morrow) will have passM away. Lvxuri/. — — O luxury! Bane of elated life, of aflluent stale-j, What dreary change, what ruin is not thine ^ How doth thy bowl intoxicate the mind! To the soft entrance of thy rosy cave, How dost thou lure the fortunate and great I Dreadful attraction ! Virtuous activilij. Seize, mortals! seize the transient hour; Improve each moment as it flies : Life's a short summer — man a flow'r; He dies — Alas! — how soon he dies! The source of happrncss. Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense. Lie in three words, health, peace, and competence t But health consists with temperance alone ; And peace, O virtue! peace is all thy own. P/acid cmntinn. Who can forbear to smile with nature? Can The stormy passions in the bosom roll, While ev'ry gale is peace, and ev'ry grove Is melody ? Sn/itudc.'^ sacred solitude ; divine retreat! Choice of the prudent ! envy of the great ! By ihy pure stream, or in thy waving shade. We court 'fair wisdom, that celestial maid : The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace, (Strancors on earth,) are innocence and peace. • Bjiolituoe hrrc in nunnf, a irmporni-y scrluHion from thft world. Part 2. ^^ petcnce : ace. I the world Chap. 1. Select Sentences, Sfc. 187 There from ihe ways of men laid safe asliore, We smile to hear the distant tempest roar; There, bless'd with iicalth, with bus'ness unnerplex'ti, This life wo relish, and ensure tho next. Prrsiuiw vof on to.r;vrrow. In human hearts wliat bolder tliou:j;hts can rise, Than man's presumption on to-m rrow's dawn? Where is to-morrow 1 In another world. For numbers this is certain ; the reverse Is sure to none. l)ui:i viviiiiii.s vivu:in:s. Whih't irr liiw let ua livr. "Live, while you live/' the epicure would say, "And seize the pleasures of the present day." *' Live, while you live," the sacred preacher cries; "And give to God each moment as it flies." Lord! in noy views, let bolii united be; I live in pleasure, when 1 live to thee!— doddridoe. SLOUTION IV. VKRSKS IX VARIDIS FORMS. Tlir sccuritii of Virlur, Let coward guilt, with pallid fear, To shelt'ring caverns fly. And justly dread the vengeful fate. That thunders thr'Hi"h the sky. Prote:;ted by that hand, whose law, The threat'ning storms obey, Intrepid virtue suiiles secure. As in the blaze of day. Krs/irnafiun, And Oh ! by error's force suuduM, Since ofl my stubborn will Preposterous shuns the latent good, And grasps the specious ill. Not to my wish, but to my want, Do thou thy gifts apply ; (Jnask'd, what good thou knowest grant ; What ill, though a^k'd, deny. Vomjiassion, I hove found out a gilt for my fair; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed : But let me that plunder forbear! She will sny, 'tis n barbaroaa deed. r :r-\\ ^'- I 16B The English Reader. Part 2. For he ne'r can be true, she averred, Who can rob a poor bird of its young : And I lov'd her the more, when I heard Such tenderness fall from her tongue. Epifdph, Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth, And melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; Heav'n did a recompense as largely send : He gave to mis'ry all he had — a tear; He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas ail he wish'd) a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The booom of his Father and his (iod. Jcy and sorrow connected. Still, where rosy pleasure leads, See a kindred grief pursue; Behind the steps that mis'ry treads, Approaching comforts view. The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd bv sable tints of wo; And blended form, with artful strife. The strength and harmony of life. The polden mean. He that holds fust the golden mean, And lives contentedly between The little and the great. Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, Imbitrring q1! his state. The tallest pines feel most the pow^r Of wini'ry blast; the loftiest tow'r Conies heaviest \o the ground. The bolts that spare the mountain's side. His cloud-capt eminence divide ; And spread the rum round. f' Moderate views and aims recommended. With patsioDs uaruHled, untainted with pride» By reatoa my life let me square; Part 2. I ^*''^ ^• 7d) a friend. dei i. d«, Select Seniencei, t[c. 189 The wants of my nature are cheaply supplied ; And the rest are but folly and care. How vainly, through infinite trouble and Hrife, The rriany their labours employ ! Since all that is truly delightful in life, Is what all, if they please may enjoy. Attachment to life. The tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quii the ground : 'Twas therefore said, by ancient sages. That love of life increased with years. So much, that in our later stages, When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears. Virtue^s address to pfensure.* Vast happiness enjoy thy gay allies ! A youth of follies, an old age of cares; Young yet enervate, old yet never wise, Vice wastes their vigour, and their mind impairs. Vain, idle, delicate, in thoughtless ease, Reserving woes for age, their prime they spend ; All wretched, hopeless, in the evil days. With sorrow ;o the verge of life they tend. Grieved with the present, of the past asham'd. They live and are despisM ; they die, no more are nam'd. SECTION V. VERSES IN WHICH SOUND CORRESPONDS TO SIGNIFI CATION. Smooth and rough verse. Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows. And ttie smooth stream in smoother numbers flows. But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse rough verse should like ihe torrent roar. Shw motion imitated. When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw. The line too labours, and the words move slow. Swift and easy motim. Not so when swift Camilia scours the plain. Plies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. • Sensual ploasuro. •■■- M >■;;: < li m mi I . 190 Ihe English Reader. Part 2. Felling trees in a wood. Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes ; On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown ; Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down. Sound pf a how-string, The string let fly Twang'd short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry. The Pheasant, See ! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings. Scylla and Charyhdis. Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms, And here Charyhdis fills the deep with storms. When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves, The rough rock roars ; tumultuous boil the waves. Boisterous and gentle sounds. Two craggy rocks projecting to the main, The roaring winds tempestuous rage restrain : Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide; And ships secure without their halsers ride. Laborious and inqyeiuous motion. With many a weary step, and many a groan, Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone : The huge round stone resulting with a bound, Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground. Regular and slow movement. First march the heavy mules securely slow ; O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go. Motion slow and difficult, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along A rock torn from the brow of a mountain. Still gath'ring force, it smokes, and urg'd amain. Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous (o the plain. Extent and violence of the leaves. The waves behind impel the waves before. Wide-rolling, foaming high, and tumbling to the shore. Pensive numbers'. In these deep solitude and awful cells. Where heav'nly pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns. Part 3. I Chap. I. Select Sentences^ 8fc, Baitfc. 191 M' — Arms on armour clashing brayM Horrible discoid ; and the madding wheels Of brazen fury rag'd. Sound imitating reluctance. For who, to dumb forgetfuliiess a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned ; Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? SECTION VI. PARAGRAPHS OF GRJ:JATER LENGTH. Connubial affection. The love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against sickness and old age, Preserved by virtue from declension. Becomes not weary of attention : But lives, when that exterior grace, Which first inspired the flame, decays. 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind. To faults compassionate, or hiind ; And will with sympathy endure Those evils it would gladly cure. But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, Shows love to be a mere profession ; Proves that the heart is none of his. Or soon expels him if it is. Swarms offying insects. Thick in yon stream of light a thousand ways. Upward and downward, thwarting and convolved, The quivering nations sport; till tempest-wing'd, Fierce winter sweeps them from the face of day. Ev'n so, luxurious men, unheeding, pass An idle summer life, in fortune's shine, A season's glitter ! Thus they flutter on, From toy to toy, from vanity to vice ; Till, blown away by death, oblivion comes Behind, and strikes them from the book of life. Beneficence its own reward. My fortune (for I'll mention all, And more than you dare tell) is small ; Yet ev'ry friend partakes my store, And want goes smiling from my door. Mf ill ■^"iisl a ig't'i ~ ' I'- lit if 1 if m 1 1 i 1 192 The English Reuder. Part % Will forty shillings warm the breast Of worth or industry distressed ! This sum I cheerfully imparl; 'Tis fourscore pleasures to my heart : And you may make, by means like these, Five talents ten, whene'er you please. 'Tis true, my little purse grows light; But then J sleep sio sweet at night ! This grand specilic will prevail, When all the doctor's opiates fail. Virtue the best treasure. Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul, Is the best gift of Heav'n: a happiness That, even above the smiles and frowns of fate, Exalt's great nature's favourites ; a wealth That ne er encumbers; nor to baser hands Can be transferr'd. It is the only good Man justly boasts of, or can call his own. Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn'd. But for one end, one much-neglected use, Are riches worth our care ; (for nature's wants Are few, and wi\hout opulence supplied ;) This noble end is to produce the soul ; To show the virtues in their fairest light ; And make humanity the minister Of bounteous Providence. Contemplation, As yet 'tis midnight deep. The weary clouds, Slow meeting, mingle into solid gloom. Now, while the drowsy world lies lost in sleep, Let me associate with the serious night. And contemplation her sedate compeer ; Lot me shake off th' intrusive careS of day, And lay the meddling senses all aside. Where now, ye lying vanities of life! Ye ever tempting, ever cheating train ! Where are you now? and what is your amount? Vexation, disappomtment, and remorse. Sad, sick'ning thought! And yet, deluded man, A scene of crude disjointed visions past. And broken slumbers, rises still resolv'd, With new flush'd hopes, to run the giddy round. '■Tk Chap. 2. JVarrative Pieces. 198 Fleasnre of picfy. A Deity believ'd, is joy begun; A Deity ador'd, is joy advanc'd: A Deity bclov'd, is joy malur'd. Each branch of piety delight inspires: Faith builds a bridge from tliis world to the next, O'er death's dark gulf, and all its horror hides; Praise, the sweet exhahlion of our joy. That joy exalts, and makes it svveeler still ; Pray'r ardent opens heav'n, lets down a streann Of glory, on the consecrated hour Of man in audience wilh the Deity. CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIRCES. SECTION I. The hears and the hees. As two young bears, in wanton mood. Forth issuing from a neighbouring wood. Came where th' industrious bees had stored, In artful cells, their luscious hoard ; O'erjoy'd they seiz'd, with eager haste, Luxurious on the rich repast. Alarm'd at this, the little crew About their ears vindicative flew. The beasts, unable to sustain Th' unequal combat, quit the plain; Half-blinded with rage, and mad with pain, Their native shelter they regain ; There sit, and now, discreeter grown. Too late their rashness they bemoan ; And this by dear experience gain. That pleasure's ever bought with pain. So when the gilded baits of vice Are plac'd before our longing eyes, With greedy haste we snatch our fdl. And swallow 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. — i'meriiick. R / » ■10 • Ti J K •' t 104 The English Reader. Part% SECTION n. The nigliflngaJc and the glow-worm, A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long Had cheer'd the vilJag'? with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel as well he might, The keen dennands of appetite; When, looking eagerly around, He spied far ofT, upon the ground, A somethinj^ shining in the dark, And knew the glow-worm by his spark. So, stooping down from hawthorn top, He 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 minstresly, You would ahhor to do me wrong, As much as 1 to spoil 3'our song ; For 'twas the selfsame pow'r 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 his short oration. And, warbling out his approbation, Releas'd him, as my story tells. And found a supper somewhere else. Hence, jarring sectaries may learo Their real int'rest to discern ; That brother should not war with brother, And worry and devour each other ; But sing and shine by sweet consent. Till lile'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. Who studiously make peace their aim : Peace, both the duty and the prize Of him that creeps, and him that fiies. — cowpcb. Chap. 2. JVi/rative Pieces.' SECTION III. The trials of virtue. Placed on the verge of youth, my mind Liffi'ai op'niiig scene survcy'd : I view'd its ills of various kind, Afflicted and afraid. But chief mv fear the danjiGrs mov'd That virtue's path enclo: ^ ill ■ »" ' m i '1 ir ■' » ■,,1; i ■'i 204 rr The Efiif/is/i Reader. Pari 2. I Pride, wlierc wit fails, steps in to our defence, And fills up all the mighty void of sense If once rinht reason drives that cloud awav, Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. Trust not yourself; but, your defects to know, Make use of ev'ry friend — and ev'ry foe. A little learninj; is a dangerous thing ; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring: There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain; And drinking largely sobers us again. Fir'd at first sight with what the muse imparts, In feariess 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 advanc'd, behold, with strange surprise. New distant scenes of endless science rise! So, pleas'd at first the tow'ring Alps we try. Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky; Th' eternal snows appear already past, And the first clouds and mountains seem the last : But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey The growing labours of the lengthened way; Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes; Hilli* peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise. — pope. SECTION IV. Cruclfi/ to hnilcs censured, I WOULD not enter on my list of friends, (Though grac'd 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 lot the reptile live. The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight. And charg'd perhaps with venom, that intrudes A visiter unwelcome into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose, th' alcove. The chamber, or refectory, may die. A necessary act incurs no blame. Not so, when lield within their proper bounds, And guiltless of ofienco lliey ran^c the air. Or take their pastime in the spacious field. Chap. 3. Didactic Pieces. 205 ine sense. There they are privileged. And he that hunts Or harms them there, is guilty of a wrong; Disturbs th' economy of nature's realm, Who when she form'd, design'd ihem 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 arc, 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 seen dishonoured and defil'd, 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 dev'lish of them all. Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule And righteous limitation of its act. By which heav'n 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 find it in his turn. — cowper. SECTION V. A paraphrase on the latter part of the 6th chapter of St, Matthew, When my breast labours with oppressive care, And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear; While all my warring passions are at strife, Oh ! let me listen to the words of life ! Raptures deep-felt his doctrine did impart. And thus he rais'd from earth the drooping heart. '♦Think not, when all your scanty stores afford, Is spread at once upon the spriring board; Think not, when worn the homely robe appears. While on the roof the howling tempest bears; What farther shall this feeble life sustain. And what shall clothe these shiv'ring limbs again. Say, does not life its nourishment exceed? And the fair body its investing weed? Uehold ! and look away your low despair- See the light t^nanti of the barren air; 8 - ' S06 Ihe English Reader. Part 2. To them, nor stores, nor granaries, belong ; Nought, but the woodland, and the pleasing song ; Yet, your kind heav'niy 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 cry, 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 all.'' "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, tlio fowls of heav'n he feeds ; If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads ; Will he not care for you, ye faithless, say ? Is he unwise ? or, are ye less than they 1" — Thomson. SECTION VI. Ihe death of a good man a strong incentive to virtue. The chamber where the good man meets his fate, Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heav'n. Fly ye profane ! if not, draw near \yith awe, Receive the blessing, and adore the chance, That threw in this Bethesda your disease : Ifunrestor'd by this, despair your cure. For, here, resistless demonstration dwells ; A death- bed's a detector of the heart. Here tir'd dissimulation drops her mask. Thro' life's grimace, that mistress of the scene ! Here real, and apparent, are the same. You see the man ; you see his hold on heav'n, If sound his virtue, as Philander's sound. Heav'n waits not the last moment ; owns her friends On this side death ; and points them out to men ; A lecture, silent, but of sov'reign pow'r! To vice, confusion : and to virtue, peace. Whatever farce the boastful hero plays, # Virtue alone has majesty in death ; And greater itill, the more the tyrant frowns.— youno. Part 2. ng; f glow ! feeds ; HOMSON. virtue. e, lends ■YOU NO. Chan. 3. Didactic Pieces. SECTION VII. 207 Reflections on a future state^ from a review of winter. * Tis dune ! dread winter spreads his latest glooms, And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year. How 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 fluw'ring spring, thy summer's ardent strength. 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 ? those longings after fame ? Those restless cares ? those busy bustling days ? Those gay-spent, festive nights 1 thoue veering thoughts. Lost between good and ill, thatshar'd thy life? All now are vanished ! Virtue sole survives. Immortal, never-failing friend of man. His guide to happiness on high. And see! * Tis come, the glorious morn ! the second birth Of heav'n and earth ! awak'ning nature hears The new-creating word ; and starts to life, In ev'ry heightened 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 retin'd clears up apace. Ye vainly wise! Ye blind presumptuous! now. Confounded in the dust, adore that Power, And Wisdom oftarraign'd: see now the cause Why unassuming worth in secret liv'd. And died neglected : why the good man's share In life was gall, and bitterness of soul : Why the lone widow and her orphans pin'd In starving solitude; while luxury. In palaces lay straining her low thought. To form unreal wants: why heav'n'*l)orn truth, 4nd moderation fair, wore the red marks Of superstition's scourge why licens'd pain. That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe, Imbitter'd all our bliss. Ye good distress'd \ Tel xm ' t M-f^ Ul to« The English Reader. Part 2. I t Ye 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, deem'd evil, is no more : The storms of wint'ry time will quickly pass, And one unbounded spring encircle all. — Thomson. SECTION VIII. Adam's advice to Eve, to avoid temptation. " O WOMAN, best are all things as the will Of God ordain'd them ; his creating hand Nothing imperfect or deficient left Of all that he created, much less man. Or aught that might his happy state secure, Secure from outward force. Within himself The danger lies, yet lies within his pow'r : Against his will he can receive no harm. But God left free the will ; for what obeys Reason, is free, and reason he made right ; But bid her well beware, and still erect, Lest, by some fair appearing good surprised, She dictate false, and misinform the will To do what God expressly hath forbid. Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins That I should mind thee oft : and mind thou me. Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve, Since reason not impossibly may meet Some specious object by the foe suborn'd, And fall into deception unaware. Not keeping strictest watch, as she was warn'd. Seek not temptation then, which to avoid Were better, and most likely if from me Thou sever not; trial will come unsought. Wouldst thou approve thy constancy 1 approve First thy obedience ; th* other who can know, Not seeing the attempted, who attest ? But if thou think, trial unsought may find Us both securer than thus warn'd thou seem'st, Go ; for thy stay, not free, absents the more : Go in thy native innocence ; rely On what thou hast of virtue, summon all ; For God towards tlieo hath done liis part ; do thine." MILTO.N Chap. 3. Didactic Pieces. 209 SECTION IX. On procrasiinafion. Be 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 sleals, till all are fled ; And, to the mercies of a moment leaves Tlie vast concerns of an eternal scone. 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 lodg'd in their own hands is folly's vails; That lodg'd 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 thro' ev'ry stage. When young, indeed, In full content, we sometimes nobly rest, Unaxious for ourselves ; and only wish, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; At fifty, chides his infamous delay ; Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; In all the magnanimity of thought, Resolves, and re-solves, then dies the same. And why? Because he thinks himself immoital. All men think all men mortal, but themselves; Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Strikes thro' their wounded hearts the sudden dread : But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close ; whore, past the shaft, no trace is found As from the wing no scar the sky retains ; The parted wave no furrow from the keel ; So dieg in human hearts the thought of death. ff ft illS' ■f"- ' " * ■■■ ft 210 like English Reader. Part 2. Ev'n with tlio tender tear wliich Nature sheds O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. — young SECTION X. That philosophy, which .slops at secondary causes, reproved Happy tlie man wlio sees a God eniployM In all the good and ill that eheekcr life ! Resolving all events, with their effects And arljitration wise of the Su^'rc-mc. Did not his eye rule all thingS; and intend Tile least of our concerns ; (since from the least Tlie grofitest oft originate ;) could chance Find place in liis dominion, or dispose One lawless particle to thwart his plan : Tiien God might he surprised, and unforseen Contingencc might alarm him, and disturb The smooth and equal course of his affairs. Tills truth, philosophy, though eaglc-cy'd In nature's tendencies, oft o'crlooks ; And having found his instrument, forgets Or disregards, or, more presumptuous stilK Denies the pow'r that wields it. God proclaims His hot displeasure against foolish men That hve an athiest life ; involves the heaven In tempests ; quits his grasp upon the winds, And gives them all their fury ; bids a plague Kindle a firey boil upon the skin, And putrefy the breath of blooming health ; He calls for famine, and the meagre fiend Blows mildew from between his shrivel'd lips, And taints the golden ear ; he springs his mines And desolates a nation at a blast : Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells Of homogeneal and discordant springs And principles ; of causes, how they work By neccessary laws their sure'effccts, Of action and re-action. Ho has found The source of the disease that nature feels ; And bids the world take heart and banish fear. Thou fool! will thy discov'ry of the cause Suspend th' effect, or heal it ? Has not God Still wrought by means since first he made the world ? And did he not of old employ his means Chap. 3. Didactic Pieces. dU ). YOUNG To drown it? What is his creation les. Than a capacious resorvt ir of means, Form'd for his use, and ready at his will? Go, dress thine eyes wiili rye-sulve ; ask of him, Or ask of whomsoever lio han frni^rht ; And lear/i, though late, O.ir. genuine cause of all.— cowper. SECTKiv XL Indignant sentiments on national prejudices and hatred^; and on slavery. Oh, for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguily of shade, Where rumour of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more | My ear is pain'd, My soul is sick with ev'ry day's report Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. There is no tlesh in man's obdurate heart; It does not feel for man. The nat'ral bond Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax That fails asunder at tlie touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not coloured like his own ; and having pow'r T' 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 interpos'd, Make enemies of nations, who had else, Like kindred drops, been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And worse than all, and most to be deplor'd, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot. Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that mercy, with bleeding heartf Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man ! And what man seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while 1 sleep. And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd No: dear as freedom ivS, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price ; " t ' , \ / 2U The English Reader. Part 2. I had mucli rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him We have no slave at home— llien why abroad'? And they themselves once feriied o'er the wave That pafts us, are emancipate and loss'd. Slaves cannot breathe in lOngland : if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free ; They touch our country, and their shakles fall. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through cv'ry vein Of all your empire; that where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy loo.— cowper. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES, SECTION I. The morning in summer. The meek-eyed morn appears, mother of dews, 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 br(jak the clouds away. With quicken'd step Brown ni<|ht 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 wiili the dawn. Blue, thro' the dusk, the smoking currents shine ; Ami from the bladed field the fearful hare Limps, awkwartl: while along the ibrest-glado The wild deer trip, and often turning gaze At early passenger. Music awakes The native voice of nndisscmble'l joy; And thiek around the woodland hymns arise, llous'd by the cock, i\w soonclade shepherd leaves Mis mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells; And from the crowded fold, in order, drives His flock to taste the verdure of the morn. Paisciy luxurious, will not man awake; And, springing from (he bed of sloths enjoy The cool, the frarant, ami th« silent hauf . ! . < Chap. 4. Descriptive Pieces, ais To mediialion due and sacred song? For is there aught in sleep can charm the wise ? To lie in dead oblivion, losing half The fleeting moments of too short a life; Total extinction of ih' enlightened soul ! Or else to feverish vanity alive, Wildcr'd, and tossing thro' distempcr'd dreams? Who would, in such a gloomy state remain Longer than nature craves; when ev'ry muse And every blooming pleasure waits without. To bless the wildly devious morning walk? — Thomson, SECTION II. Rural sounds, as iccll as rural sights, ddightfuL Nor rural sights alone, but rural sounds Exhilarate the spirit,' and restore The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds, That sweep the skirl of some far spreading wood Of ancient growth, make music, not unlike The dash of ocean on liis winding shore. And lull the spirit while they fill the mind, IJnnumber'd branches waving in the blast. And all their leaves fast flutt'ring all at once. Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods; or on the softer voice Of neighb'ring fountain ; or of rills that slip Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, loose themselves at length In matted grass, lliat, with a livelier green, Betrays the secret of their silent course. Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds; But animated nature sweeter still. To sooth and satisfy the human ear- Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The live long night. Nor these alone whose notes. Nice fmger'il art must emulate in vain; But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime, In still repeated circles, screaming loud. The jay, the pye, and ev'n the boding owl That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and harsh, Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, And only there, please highly for their sake. — cowpbr. ^it! '' :i.:.| J. t f """} % 'Hf •\ ■Ml y 314 The English Reader. Part •* SECTION III. IVie rose. The rose had benn waslj'd. just wash'd in a shower. Which Mary to Anna couvey'd ; The plenliful njoisiure enfumbcr'd the flower, And weigh'd down its beautiful head. The cuj) was all fill'd, and the loaves were all wet, And it socnrd to a fancilul view, To wcop for ihe birJo it had left with regret, On the nufishiiii' bush, where it i^rcw. I hastily seiz'd it, unfit aa it was For a nose[fay, so dripping and drown'd; And swin^^ing it rudely, too rudely, alas! 1 snapp'd it— it fell to the ground. And such, I excluini'd, is the pitHess pari. Some act by the dclicato nnuid, Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart. Already to sorrow resignd. This elegant rose, had I shaken it less. Might have blooni'd wiilj its owner awhile; And the tear that is wip'd with a little address. May be follow'd perhaps by u smile.— cowper. SECTION IV. Care of birds for their, young. As thu.'^ the patient darn assiduous sits. Not to he templed from her tender task. Or by sharp hunger, or by suKjoth delight, Tho' the whole ioosen'd spring around her blows, Her synjpa!hi?ing partner takes his stand High on th' oj>po!ie.;t hank, and ceaseless sings Thet(?Jious linn; away ; or else supplies Her place a moment, while she sudckin Hits To pick the scanly m"al. 'i'lT appoir)led time With piuus toil fiilfiird, the callow young, WarinM and ev|):indcd into perfect life, Tiieir briltle bondag(H)ieak, and come to light, A helpless family, demanding fo(»d With constant clamour. () what passions then, What melting sentiments of kindly care. On tho new parents seize! Away ihcy fly Aflectioualc, and iitidcsiring bear Chap. 4. Descriptive Pieces. 215 The most delicious morsel to their young; Which equally distribute^], ngain The search begins. E\qu so a gnnfle pair. By fortune sunk, but f jrn»'d of frcirrous mould, And charm'd with cares be>ond llic vuig;u- breast. In some lone cot amid ih<; distant woods, Sustain'd alono by providcnti:J Mcav'n, Oft, as they weeping cyo tiieir infant train, Check their own appoiit(?s, and give them all. — Thomson. SECTION V. Liberty end slavery conirnslcd. Part of a letter written from Italii hy Addison. How has kind Ilciv'n adorn'd the happy land, Scatter'd blessings wifli a waMeful hand! But what avail her unexliauslod storo.^-", Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores, With all the gifts that hcav'n and cartli impart, The smiles nfnature, and the charms ofart. While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, And tyranny usurps her happy plains? The poor inhabitant behoKIs in vain The redd'ning orange, and the swelling grain ; Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines. And in the myrile's fragrant !>hade repines. Oh, Liberty, thou pow'r sruprcmoly bright. Profuse of bliss and pregnant with (i(;liglii ! Perpetual pleasures in thy presence reign; And smiling plenty leads ihy wanton train. Eas'd of her load, suhjtH-iion grows more light; And p( verty looks cheerful in ihy sight. Thou mak'st the glo(»my face of nature gay ; Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. On foreign mountain;?, may t'ne «^im rcfmo The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine ; With citron groves adorn a distnit soil. And tlie fat olive swell with floods of oil ; We envy not the warmer clinie, that lies 111 ten degrees of more irjdulgent skies ; Nor at the coarseness of our hoav'n rr|)ine, Tho* o'er our heads the fro/en IMei'id.s shine; 'Tis Liberty that crowns r»ritannia%3 isle, And makes her barren rocks, and bleak moi'Dtoins, m>\ t\6 The English Reader. Part 2. SECTION VI. Charity, A paraphrase on ike VMh chapter cf the epistle to tJu Corinthians. Did sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue, Than ever man pronounc'd or angel sung ; Had I all knowledge, human and divine, That thought can reach, or science can define; And had I pow'r to give thatknowledj^e birth, In all the speeches of the babbling earth ; Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire, To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire ; Or had I faith like that which Israel saw, When Moses gave them miracles, and law ; Yet, gracious charity, indulgent guest. Were not thy pow'r exerted in my breast; Those speeches would send up unheeded pray'r That scorn of life would be but wild despair ; A cymbal's sound were better than my voice ; My faith were form ; my eloquence were noise. Charity, decent, modest, easy, kind. Softens the high, and rears the abject mind ; Knows with just reins, and gentle hand, to guide Betwixt vile shame, and arbitrary pride. Not soon provok'd, she easily Ibrgives ; And much she suflTers, as she much believes. Soft peace she brings wherever she arives; She builds our quiet, as she forms our lives ; Lays the rough paths of peevish nature oven ; And opens in each hcnrt a little heav'n. Each other gift, which God on man bestows, Its proper bounds, and due restriction knows; To one fix'd purpose dedicates its pow'r ; And finishing its act, exists no more. Thus, in obedience to what Heav'n decrees, Knowledge shall fail, and prophecy shall cease ; Hut lasting charity's more ample sway, Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay, In happy triumph shall for ever live ; And endless good difluse, and endless praise receive. As through the artist's intervening glass, Our eye observes the distant planets pass ; A Utte we discuvor ; but allow, That more rematus unseen, than art can sbow ; In Part '2. I Chap. 4 Descriptive pieces^ So whilst our mind its knowlodgo would improve, (Its feeble eye intent on things above,) High as we may, we lift our reason up, By faith directed, and confirmed by hope; Yet are we able only to j:urv<;y, Dawnings of beams, and promises of day; Heav'n's fuller cfliuence-mcci^is our dazzled sight, Too great its swifinoss:, txnri too strong its light. But soon the mediate clouds simll be dispelled; The Sun shall soon bo face to ficc beheld, In all his robes, with all his glory on, Seated sublime on liis meridian throne, Then constant faith, and holy hope shall die, One lost in certainty, and one in joy : Whilst thou, more happy pow'r, lair charity, Triumphant sister, greatest of the three. Thy otlice, and thy nature still the same. Lasting thy lamp, and unconsum'd thy flanne, Shalt still survive — Shalt stand before the host of heav'n confest, For ever blessing, and for ever blest., — prior. SECTION VII. Picture nfagood luan. Some angle guide my 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 storrri : All the black cares, and tumults of this lile. Like harmless; thunders, breaking at his feet, Excite his pity, nut impair his peace. Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred, and the slave, A mingled mob! a wand'ring herd! he sees, Bcwildcr'd in the vale; in all unlike! His full revers^e in all! What higher praise! What stronger demonstration of tiic right? The present nil their care ; the future his. When publie welfare call, or private want. They give to fame ; his bounty ho conceals. Their virtues varnish nature; his exalt. Mankind's efiteem they court; and he his own. Ut * i 'H i,.' u •I 218 Thr Krifriisli RrnrJi'r, Part !:». Theirs tlie wild chr«sc of false IMioitios . His, tbo coniposVl po.-sossion of'lbo true.. Alike througlioiit is his oonsj^tciit jiicro, A.Ilof one colour, nnd <;ii r-voii thread ; While party-colour'd shndcs of hnj)piiK'S5;. With hideous gop.s bctwci ji, j)at('h up f(>r iliein A madmaii's robe : each \,\\^^ of fortiin^' blow;; Tl'ie tatters by, p,nd .shov/s tueii* nakedness. He .sees with otiicr eyes tiian ib.i'irft: wlu re ibey Behold a sun, Ik- sjjIcs a Dclly ; What inakc;i tliein oiily siiiilc, runkes lu'in adore. MHiere they .see mouulaius, h(:l>uf. atoms sees ; An onripiro in bia balanee weighs a ■^iaiu. Tiiey things terrestrial wursliij; as divine : d (lU; His hopes immortal blow them b) That dims his sight and sii.ortciis lus surveVt Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bnund. Titles and honours (ii'tliey j)rov*' bis fntc) He lays aside to find bis dig)iity ; No dignity they find in aught i;csido:T. They triumph in externals, (which cojical Man's real glory,) jjroud of an eclipse; Himself too mucli be prizes to be proud ; And nothing thinks so great in nian, as nvjn. Too dear he holds bif, int'rcst, to neglect Another's welfare, or bis right invfijo ; Their int'rcst, like a lion, lives on pre}-. They kindle at the siitdow of a wrong ; Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heav n. Nor stoops to think Ids injurer bis foe. Nought, but what wounds his virtue, wounf retirement. • " U K.NEW I)'; but his happiiio's, of nifii iThe happihcst ho ! who, fur from pubHc i"-ige> Deep in the vide, with n choico f(!W rotir'ij, O rinks the pure pleasun.'S of the rural Hfe. What tho' tile dome be wiuitinir. w hose proud gate, Each nioriiing, vomits out the sneaking crowd Of flitttcrers false, and in their turn ubus'd ? Vile intercourse ! What though tho glitt'ring robe, Of ev'iy liue reflected light can l^ive, Or .floated ioo.se, or stiff with mazy gobl, The pride and j^aye of fo()h\ oppress him not ? What tho', from utmost land and sea purvoy'd, For iiim each rarer tributa.ry life Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps With luxury and death ? What tho' his bowl Flamcis not with costly juice ; nor sunk in bedd Oft of gay car'\ he tosses out the night, Or melts the thonirlitless hours in idle state? What tho' he knows not those fantastic joys, That still amuse th(3 wanton, still deceive-, A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain; Their hollow mom(;nts undeli^^'hted all 1 Sure peace is his ; a sojid lif»-» estrang'd To disappoiiitment and fallacious; hope. Rich in content, in nature's l)ount3'' rich, In herbs and fruil.>5 ; whatever greens the spring, AV^heii heaven d<'S(;<.'n(ls in .showers ; or bends the bough When sunmi''r rcd(i';ns, and when autumn beams ; Or in the wintiy (i\vhv v,'h;\1ever Hit <\)nrca!'d, and falteit-) with the riclie«:t sap; These arc ni.t wanlin^^j;, i:ur the milky drove, Luxuriant, sj)read o'er all the lowing; vale ; Nor bleating- mountains ; nor tb.e cliide of 3tr».am8 And hum ol' \kiv^, inviting ►sleep sincere Into thtj guiltless hi'cast, beneath tluj shade, Or thrown at lar,ire amid thi; fragrant hay ; Nor aught besides of proyj»ect, grove, or sung, Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and founta.ins ch-ar. Mere loo dwells simple truth ; jdain irmocensu ; (Jnsullied beauty ; sound unbroken youth, rati<;nt uf Inbuur, witb a little pleas'd : , I'll 'I t m u\ m S30 The English Reader. Part 2. Health ever blooming ; unambitious loll ; Calm contemplation, and poeiio ease. — thombox. SECTION IX. The pleasure and benefit of an improved and well- directed imagination. Oh f blest of Heaven, who not the laivguid songs Of luxury, the siren! not the bribes OfsordicJ vvealih, nor all the gaudy spoils Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave Those ever blooming sweets, which, fiom the stor* Of nature, fair imagination culls. To chorm th' enliven'd soul ! What tho' not all Of mortal oflTcjpring can attain the height Of envy 'd life; iho' only few possess Patrician treasures, or imperial state; Yet nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasure?, and an ampler state" Endows at large whatever happy man Will deign to use them. His the city's pompv 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 possesor's narrow claim, His tunefuj breast enjoys. For him, the spring Destils 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 morn. Eeach passing hour sheds tribute from her wings- And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfolt attract hirn. Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow ; not a cloud imbibea The souing sun's ofru!ji;ence ; not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascenc's : but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure, urjreprav'il. N<3r thence parlakei. Fresh pieasLue only ; lor ih' attentive mind, By this harmonious action on her powers. Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft In outward things to meditate the charm Of sacred order, soon she socks at home> To find a kitidred order; to exort Wiihiu herself this eleuranrc of love. Chap. 5. Pathetic Pieces. ni :: !1 i This fair inspir'd delight ; her tempered pow'rs Refine at length, and every passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze On nature's form, where, negligent of all These lesser groces, she assumes the port Of that Eternal Majesty that weigh'd The world's foundations, if to these the mind Exalts her daring eye ; then mightier far Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms Of servile custom cramp her gen'rous pow'rs? Would sordid policies, the barb'rous growth Of ignorance and ropine, 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 coursOi The elements and seasons : all declare For what th' eternal maker has ordain'd The pow'rs of man : we feel within ourselves His energy divine : he tells the heart, He meant, he made us to behold and love What he bcliolds and loves, the ger.eral orb Of life and being ; to be great like Him, Beneficent and active. Thus the men Whom nature's works instruct, with God Hold converse ; grow familiar, day by day, With his conceptions ; act upon his plan ; And form to his, the relish of their souls.— 3** J' m 4 -V i fil I," '.m CHAP. V. PATHETIC PIECES. SECTION I. The 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 i *Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began ; No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sago, tho' he felt as a man. i^ if- ^% 522 Ihe English Reader. Part 2. ♦* Ah! why, all abandjn'd to darkness and wo; Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy besom inthral. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay, Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn; O sooth him whose pleasures like thine pass away : Full quickly they pass — but they never leturn." "Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The moon liall'extinguish'd her crescent displays; But lately I marked, when majestic on high Shj 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 I Ah fool ! to exult in a glory so vainl" *' 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more : 1 mourn ; but, yc woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I m^-M rn ; Kind nature the embryo blossom will save : But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ! O when shall the day dawn on the pight of the grave P' ** 'Twas thus by the glare of false science betrayed, That leeds, to bewilder; and dazzles, to blind ; My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. O pity, great Father of light, then 1 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." ** 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 morn. 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." bkattie. F^t 2. ■ Chap, 5. Pathetic Pieces. SECTION H. II I. i i' ill f The heggar^s jieletion. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have borne l;im to your door; Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ; Oh ! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. These latter'd clothes my poverty bespeak, These hoary locks proclaim my Icngthen'd years ; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek. Has been the channel to a flood of tears. Yon house, erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect drew me from my road ; For plenty there a residence has found. And grandeur a mugnificient abode. Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor! Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread, A pamper'd menial drove mc from the door, To seek a shelter in an humbler shed. Oh ! take me to your hospitable doom ; Keen blows the wind, and piercing in the cold! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb ; For I am poor, and miserable old. Should I reveal the sources of my grief, If soft humanity «i'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity would not be represt. Heav'n sends misfortunes; why should we repine? 'Tis Heav'n has brought me to the state you see, And your condition may be soon like mine. The child of sorrow and of misery. A little farm was my paternal lot ; Then like the lark I sprightly hail'd the morn ; But ah ! Oppression forc'd me from my cot. My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. My daughter, once the comfort of my age, Lur'd by a villain from her native home, Is cast abandon'd on the worlds wide stage. And doomM in scanty poverty to roam. My tender wife, sweet soother of my care ! Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, /- m S34 7 he English Reader. Pan 2. Fell, ling*ririg fell, a victim to despair, And left the worlcl to wretchedness and mc. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door ; Whose days have dwindled to the shortest span : Oh ! give relief, and heaven will bless your store. SECTION III. Unhappy close of Life, How shocking must thy summons be, O Death ! To him that is at case in his possessions ! Who counting on long years of pleasure here ! Is quite unfurnish'd for the world to come ! In that dread moment, how the frantic soul Raves round the walls of iier clay tenement ; Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help ; But shrieks in vain ! How wishfully she looks On all she's leaving, now no longer her's ! A little longer; yet a little longer ; O might she stay to wash away her stains ; And fit her for her passage ! Mournful sight ! Her very eyes weep blood ; and evVy groan She heaves is big with horror. But the foe, Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose, Pursues her close, thro' ev'ry lane of life ; Nor misses once the track ; but presses on, Till, forc'd at last to the tremendous verge, At once she sinks to everlasting ruin. — r. blaiu« SECTION IV. Elegy to pity. Hail, lovely pow'r ! whose bosom heaves the sigh. When fancy paints the scene of deep distress ; Whose tears spontaneous crystallize the eye. When rigid fate denies the pow'r to bless. Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey From flowr'y meads, can with that sigh compare ; Not dew-drops glitt'ring in the morning ray. Seem near so beauteous as that falling tear. Devoid of fear, the fawns around thee play; Emblem of peace the dove before thee flies ; No blood -st6un*d traces mark thy blameless way ; Beneat^ thy feet no hapless insect die«. our door ; n : store. f ? f Chap. S. Pfithetic Pieces. Mi Come, lovely nymph, and range the mead with mo. To spring ihe pcUridge from the guilful foe ; From secret snares the struggling bird to free ; And slop the hand uprais'd to give the bioM*. And when the air with heat meridian glows, And nature droops beneath the conquVing gi^t^m, Let us, slov wandr'ring where the current Hows, Save sinking flies that float along the stream. Or turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care, To me thy sympathetic gifts impart; , ' Teach me in frindship's grifs to bear a share. And justly boast the gon'rous feeling heart. Teach me to. sooth the helpless orphan's grief; With timely aid the widow's woes assuage; To mis'ry's moving cries to yield relief; And he sure resource of drooping age. So when the genial spring of life shall fade, And sinkmg nature own the dread decay, Some soul congenial then may lend its aid, And gild the close of life's eventual day. i i*t ' . ;i'j,' Hi ■1 ' I se, .AIK. 3 sigh, ress; ompare ; ir. 53; way ; SECTION V. Verses supposed to he written hy Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez, 1 AM monarch of all I survey, . My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute. Oh solitude! where are the charms, That sages have seen in thy face ? Better dwell in the midst of alarms. Than reign in this horrible place. 1 am outof humanitie's reach, I must finish my journey alone; Never hear the sweet music of speech ; I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain, My form with indifference see: They are so unacquanted with man, Their tamenesss is shocking to me. 'I Sri mil IJ I 1 1 t j| ii 'H '' 'i%6 'I lie Em^lish Read*'ir. Part U. Society, Iriciidship, unci love, Divinely bestow'd upon man. Oh had I the wings of a dov(,', How soon would I tnsto you rjg.'iin ! Mv sorrows 1 tlien mij^lit: assuas-c In the wavs of roli";if>n and truth ; Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. Religion ! what treasure untold Besides in that heavenly word ! More precious than silver or gold, Or all that this earth can aiFurd. But tlic sound of the church-going bell ' These vallies and rocks never heard; Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell, Or sinil'd when a sabbath ap[>earM. Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore, Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought !ift(?r me? O tell me I yet have a friend. Though n friend I am never to see. flow fleet is a glance of the mi;id ! Compared with the spe(3d of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift- wingVl arrow.-^; of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there ; But, alas ! recollection at hand Soon hurries mc back to despair. But tk(! sea-fowl is g(jn(* to her nest, The beast 13 laid dowji m his lair; l^von here is a s«?ason of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There's m^rcy in everyplace ; And mercy, encouraging thought ! Gives even alllielion a grace, And reeonciles man to his lot. — cowrr.ii. Part % ■ Chap. r>. Pathetic Pieces. SECTION VL 2«T \ i W 'mI' Grnfitudr. When all thy mercies, O my God' My rising soul survcjs, Transported willi iho vifjw, I'm lost In wonder, love, and praise. O how shall Wf)rds, with equal warmth, The gratitude declare, Thai glows within my ravish'd hear t? Th But thou canst read it there ide ly providence my life sustain'd, And all my wants red rest, When in the silent tomh I lay, And hung upon the breast. Tb all my weak complaints and cries Thy mercy lent an ear, Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learn'd To form themselves in pray^'. Tnnumber'd comforts to my soul Thy tender care bestow'd, Before my infant heart conceiv'd From whom those comforts flow'd. When, in the slipp'ry paths of youth, With heedU^ss .steps, 1 ran. Thine arm, unseen, conveyed me safe, And led me up to man. Through hidden dangers, toils, and death.' It gently clear'd my way; And through the ple.ising snares of vice, More to bo loarM than they. When worn with sicUness, ofi hast thou. With health reiiew'd n)y face ; And, when in sins and sorrows sunk, Revived my soul with grace. Thy bounteous hand, with worldly bliss Has made my cup run o'er; And, in a kind and liiithful fti'iud, Has doubled all my store. Ten thousand thousnufl precious gllK My daily thank-; cu^ploy ; .r ■•• \ '''i ! / HI ,1 m #*: ns The English Reader. Fart 2. Nor is the least a cheerful heart That tastes those gifls with joy. Through ev'iy period of my life, Thy goodness I'll })ui\suc ; And, after death, in distant worlds. The jjlorious? iheme renew. When nature fail.i, and day and night Divide thy works no tr.OiC, My ever-grateful heart, O Lord ! Thy mercy shall adore. Through all eternity, to thee A joyful song I'll raise, For O ! eternity's too short To utter all thy praise. — addison. SECTION VII. A man perishing in the snow ; from whence rejlections are raisid on I he miseries of life. As thus the snows arise ; and foul and fierce All winter drives along the dari^cn'd air; In his own loose-revolving field, the swain Disaster'd stands ; sees other hills ascend, Of unknown joyless hrow ; and other scenes, Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on, From hill to dale, still more and more astray ; Impatient flouncing through the drifed heaps, Slung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul!- What black despair, what horror fills his heart! When, for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd His tufted cottnge rising through the snow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Far from the track, and blest abode of man: Whilo round him night resistless closes fast, And ev'ry tempest howling o'er his head, Renders the savage wilderness more wild. Then throng the buisy shapes into his mind, Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep, A dire descent, beyond the pow'r of front I Offaitfjless bogs: of precipices huge ••«< :j> ■' .1 Fart 2. H^^*^- ^' flections ars 8 of home rl! < t if PatJiefic Pieces. 220 Smooth'd up with snow; and what is land unknown, What water, of the sti I unrroz(^n spring, In the loose marsh or solitary lake, Where the fresh fuunlain from the bottom boils. These check his fearful steps; and down lie sinks Beneath the shelter of the shapele>*s drift, Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots Through the wrong bosom of the dying man. His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. In vain for him th' officious wife prepares The fire fairblazini;, and the vestment warm ; In vain his little childr'^n, peeping out Into the mingled storm, demand their sire. With tears of artless innocence. Alas! Nor wife, nor children, more shall ho behold; Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve The deadly winter seizes; shuts up sense; And, o'er his inmost vilals creeping cold, Lays him along the snows a stitfen'd corse, Slretch'd out and bleaching in the northern blast. Ah, little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleasure, pow'r, and allluence surround; They who ihoir thoughtless hours in giddy mirth And wanton, often cruel riot, waste; Ah little think they, while they dance along. How many feel, this very moment, death. And all the sad variety of pain ! How many sink in the devouring flood. Or more devouring flame ! How many bleed. By shameful variance betwixt man and man! How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms, Shut from the common air, and common use Of their own limbs! How many drink the cup Of bQleful ffrief, or eat the bitter bread Of misery . Sore pierc'd by wintry winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless poverty! How many shake With all the fiercer tortures of the mind. Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorsol How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop la deep retir'd distress! Mow many stand Arotind the death-bed of their dearest irieods* And point the parting angui<*h i Thought, fond mtin ih It Ji '% 111* '» ■ i '■' II ni I ,. m uo The English Reader. Part 'I. or these, and all the thousand nameless ills, That one incessant struggle render life, One scene of toil, ofsuffering, and offate, Vice in his high career would stand appall'd, And heedless rambling impulse learn to think; The conscious heart of charity would warm, And her wide wish benevolence dilate ; The social tear would rise, the social sigh ; And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, Refining still, the social passions work. — Thomson. SECTION VII I. •fl morning hymn. These are thy glorious works, parent of good. Almighty thine this universal frame, Thus wond'rous fair; thyself how woiid'rous then ! Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heav'ns To us, invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lower works ; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r 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 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 dnwn. Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. Thou son, of this groat world, both eye nnd soul, Acknowledge him thy greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st. And when high noon has gain'd and when thou fall'st. Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st, With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies ; And ye five other wand'ring fires that move In mystic dance, not without song, resound His praise, who out of darkness calTd up light. Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth Of nature^s womb, that in quaternion run P«rpet(\al circle, multiform and mix ▲no Dourith til thiogi ; let your ceaBetess chaogt Chap. 0. Promiscuous Pieces. tISl Vary to our great maker stiil new praise. Ye mists and exalations that now rise From hiii or steaming lake, dusky or gray, Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honour to the world's great author rise I Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with fulling show'rs Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow Breathe softer loud : and wave your tops, ye pines. With ev'ry plant, in sign of worship wave. Fountains, and ye that wurhle as ye flow Melodious 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 praise; 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 scng, and taught his praise. Hail UNIVERSAL Lord ! be bounteons still To give us only good ; and if the night Has gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. — milton. CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. SECTION I. Ode to content, O THOU the nymph with placid eye f O seldom found, yet ever nigh ! Receive my temp'rate vow. Not all the storms that shake the pole Can e'er disturb ihy halcyon soul, And smooih, unallerM brow. O come, in simplest vest array'd. With all thy sober cheer display'd* To bless my longing sight ; m I! 1) 1; f ( l;i V( aafi Tiui En^llsk Heatier. Pun 2. Thy mien cornposM, Uiy even pace, Thy meek r«'ij;ard, thy matron grace, An«l chaste subdu'd delight. No more by varying passions beat, O gently guide my pilgrim feel To find thy hermit cell; Where in some pure and equal sky, Beneath thy soft indulgent eye, The modcbt virtues dwell. Simplicity in attic vest, And innocence, with candid breast. And jlear undaunted eye; And Hope, who points to distant years. Fair op'ning thro' this vale of tears A vista to the sky. There Healili, thro' whose calm bosom glide The temp'rate 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 sagQ A tyrant master's wanton rage. With settled smiles, to meet: InurM to toil and biller bread. He bow'd his ni^eU submille the most nunute and mean, A virtuous mind can morals glean." ♦' Thy fame is just,'' iho sage replies | *» Thy viituo proves thee truly wise. Pride oflen guides the author's pen, Book^ as a fleeted arc as men ; But he who studies nature's laws. From certain truth his maxims draws ; And those, without our schools, gifflice To make men moral, good, anrl wise.''— gay. Part 2. I Chap. 6. Promiscuous Pieces. SECTION III. 235 ' 7 he road to happiness open to all men. Oh happiness ! our being's end and aim! Good, pleasure, ease, content! whale'er thy mme, That something still which prompts th' eternal sigh, For which wo bear to live, or dare to die; Which still so near us, yet beyond iisii(;s, O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool and wise; Plant of celestial seed, ifdropt below Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow? Fair opening to some conn's propitious shine, Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine? Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassion laurels yield, Or reap'd in iron liarvests of the field? Where grows? where grows it not ? if vain our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not the soil. Fi.\*d to no spot is happiness sincere ; 'Tis no where to be found, or ev'ry where ; 'Tis never to be bought, but always free ; And, fled from monarchs, St. John ! dwells with thee. Ask of the learn'd the way. The learn'd are blind ; This bids to serve and that to shun mnnkind : Someplace the bliss in action, some in case; Those call it pleasure, aufi contentment these : Some sunk to beasts, fuid pleasure end in pain ; Some swell'd to god's confess ev'n virtue vain ; Or indolent, to each extreme they fall. To trust in ev'ry thing, or doubt of all. Who thus define it, sav they more or less Than this, that hnppiness is happiness? Take nature's path, and mad opinions leave; All stales can roach it, and all heads conceive ; Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell ; There needs but thinking right, and meaning well ; And mourn our various portions as we please, Equal is common sense, and common ease. Kemrmbcr, man, *Mhe universal cause Acts not by partial, but by j;cn'ra! laws;" And makes what happiness we justly call, Subsist not in the good of 0D«, but all.— fofe. ^ Ml' 1 ';«; i'^'F I ( I J jil l\\ )1 1 1 \ .. i 296 The English Reader. Part 2. SKCTIQN IV. The goodness of Providence. The Lord my pasturo shall prepare, And feed me with a shephcM'd's care ; His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye ; My noon-day walks he shall attend, And all rtiy midnight hours defend. When in the sultry glebe 1 faint, Or on the thirsty mountains pant; To fertile vales and dewy meads. My weary wand'ring s^teps he leads; W lie re peaceful rivers, soft and slow, Amid the verdant landscape flow. Tho' in the paths of death I tread. With gloomy horrors overspread, My sM'uafast heart shall fear no ill ; For thou, O Lord, art with me still : Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, And guide me through the dreadful shade. Tho' in a bare and rugged way. Through devious lonely wilds I stray, Thy bounty shall my pains beguile; The barren wilderness shall smile. With sudden greens and herbage crown'd. And streams shall murmur all around. — addison. SECTION V. The Creators works attest his greatness. The spacio.'s firmament on high, With all the blue othereal sky, And spangled heav'ns, a shining frame, Their great original proclaim: Th' unwearied sun from day to day. Does his Creator's povv'r display, And publishes to ev'ry land. The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail, The moon takes up the wond^rous tale, And, nightly, to the list'ning earth* Repeats the story of her birth. Part t. ■ Chap. «. Promiscuous Pieces. t37 Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all Move roun(i the dark terrestrial ball! What tho' nor real voice nor sound, Amid their radiant orbs be found ! In reason's ear they all rejoice. And utter forth a glorious voice, For ever singing as they shine, •* The hand thai made us i^j Divine." — adoison. SECTION VI. An address to the Deity. O THOU ! whose balance does the mountains weigh ; Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey ; Whose breath can turn those wat'ry worlds to flame» That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame ; Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate fulls^ And on the boundless of thy goodness calls. O! give the winds all pastuHence to sweep. To scatter wide, or bury in the deep. Thy pow'r, 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 lK)il, let anger he my prai««e. And sin the gracet'ul indignation raise. My love be warm to succour the distressed. And lift the burden from the soul oppressed. O may my understanding ever rend This glorious volume which thy wisdom made! May sea and land, and earth and heav'n be joined. To bring th' eternal Author to my mind ! When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll, May thoughts of thy dread vengeance sliake my soul ! When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shinOi Adore, my heart, the Majesty divine! Grant I may ever at the morning ray, Open with pray'r the consecrnted day ; Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise, ^ • And with the nnountiag sun ascend th? (kies ; ^ 1i \n M I l|l i| li «f 14 . ^-^ 4, |l*'n t* liil !l 1 238 The Enslish Reader, As that advances, let my zeal improve, And glow wiih ardour of consummate love ; Nor cense at eve, but with the setting sun My endless worship shall he still begun. And oh ! permit the gloom of solemn night To sucred thought may forcibly invite. When this world's shut, and awful planets rise, Call on cur minds, and raise them to the skies; Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight, And show all nature in a milder light ; Howev'ry hoist' rous thought in calm subsides! How the smooth'd spirit into goodness glides ! Oh how divine! to trade the inilky way. To the bright palace of the Lord of Day ; His court admire, or for his favour sue. Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew : Pleas'd to look down and see the world asleep; While I long vigils to its Founder keep! Canst thou not shake the centre ? Oh coatrol, 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. O may I pant for thee in each desire ! And with strong faith foment the holy fire ! Stretch out my sou! in hope, and grasp the prize, Which in eternity's deep boson 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!'^YouNO. SECTION VIL Tlie pursuit of happiness often ill-directed. The midnight moon serenely smiles O'er nature's soft repose ; No low'ring cloud obscures the sky, Nor ruffling tempest blows. Now cv'ry passion sinks to rest. The throbbing heart lies still ; "Jhap. 6. Promiscuous Pieces. 280 And varying schemes of life no more Distract the lab'ring will. In silence hush'd to reason's voice, Attends each mental pow'r : Come, dear Emilia, and enjoy Reflection's fav'rite hour. 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 Of gay assemblies dwell ; Or hide beneath the solemn gloomt That shades the hermit's cell ? How oft the laughing brow of joy A sick'ning heart conceals ! And, through the cloister's deep recess, Invading sorrow steals. la 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 deny'd. The heart in frendship finds.* Ah! dear delusion, gay conceit Of visionary minds! However our varying notions rove. Yet all agree in one, To place its being iti some state, At distance from our own. O blind to each indulgent aim, Of power supremely wise, Who fancy happiness in aught The hand of Heav'n denies ! Vain is alike the joy wo seek. And vain what we possess. Unless harmonious reason tunes The passions into peace. To temper'd wishes, jutt desires^ It happineae confio'd '^% I \ * if. I ji ! h h t \K ^i6 T^e EngUsh l^eader. Pan*z. And, deaf to folly's call, attends The music of the mind. — carter. SECTION vin. The Fire- Side. Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd. The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, In folly's maze advance ; Tho' singularity and pride Be call'd our choice, we'll 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 noi^•y neighbour enters here. No intermeddling stranger near, To spoi! our heartfelt joys. If solid happiness we prize. Within our brjast this jewel lies ; And they are fools who roam : The world has nothing to bestow; From our own selves our joys must flow And that dear hut, our home. Of rest was Noah's dove bereft, When with impatient wing sImj left That safe retreat, the ark; Giving her vain excursion o'er, The disappointed bird once more Explored the sacied bark. Tho' fools spurn hymen's gentle pow'rs. 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 comfort bring. If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring Whence pleasures ever rise ; We'll form their minds, with studious caret To all that's manly, good, and Mr, And train them for the iki< Chap, 6. Promiscuous Pieces. m While Ihey our wisest hours engage. * They'll joy our youth, support our age, And crown our hoary hairs : They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day. And thus our fondest loves repay. And recompense our cares. Noborrow'djoys! they're ail our own. While lo the world we live unknown, Or bv the world forgot : Monarchs! we envy not your state ; We look v/ith pity on the great, And bless our hunmblcr lot. Our portion is not large, indeed ! But then how little do we need! For nature's calls are few: In this the art of living lies, To want no nnore than may suffice, And make that little do. We'll therefore relish, with content, Whate'er kind Providence has sent, Nor aim beyond our pow'r ; 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 when favours are denied. And pleas'd with favours giv'n : Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part; This is that incense of ihe heart. Whose fragrance smells to hcav'n. We'll ask no long protracted treat. Since winter-life is seldom sweet; Hut when our feast is o'er. Grateful from table we'll arise, Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes. The relics of our 4» l)Ieed to-day. Had he thy reason, would he .^kip and play? Pleas'd to the ImsI, he crops the flow'ry food. And licks the hand just rnis'd to shed his blood. Oh blindness to thij future ! kindly giv'n. That each may lill llie circle mark'd by Heav*n ; Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sj)arr(iw full ; Atoms or systems into ruin huil'd And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope Elumbly then ; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher Death ; and God adore. What future bliss lie givrs not thee to know, Hut gives that hope l»» be thv hlesji;.g now. flope springs eternal in the human breast: Man never IS, but aU^ays to bk blest. The soul, Ufjeasy, and confm'd I'rom home, Rests and expatintes in a life to come. Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd minJ Sees God in clouds, or hears hiui in the wind ; His soul proud science never taught to stray Far as the Solar Walk or Milky Way ; Yot simple nature to his hope has ^iv'n, Behind the cloudtopt hill, a liumbNir heav*n ; Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the wat'ry waste ; Where slaves once more their native land behold» No fiendi torment, no (.'hristians thirst for gold. To BE, contents his natural desire ; He asks no angel's wing, no seraph^s fir«. T ni N A Chap. 6. Promiscuous Pieces. 248 But thinks, adrniltPcl lo that equal sky, Ilis faithful dog shjill bear l>iin company. Go, wiser thou! and in tijy scale of sense, Weigli thy opinion ngninsl Providence ; Call imperfection what thou lanciest suoh ; Say here lie give.s too litile, there too mtjch.— In priJe, in rcas'nine, Full prostrate nl his throne: Ye princes, rulers, nil adore ; Praise him, ye kings, who makes your pow*r An image of his own. Ye fair, by nature form'd to move, O praise ih' eternal souuck. of love, With youlh'ienliv'nlng fire : Let Rge take up the tuneful lay §igb his btess'd name— then soar away, And askan angel's lyre.~ootLViB. tr Chajf, 0. Promiscuous Pieces. SECTION XV. 249 The universal prayer. Father op all ! in ev'ry age, In ev'ry clime, ador'J, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord! Thou GREAT FIRST CAUSE, least understood, Wlio all my sense confin'd To know but this, that Thou art good, And that myself am blind; Yet gave me, in this dark estate, To seethe good from ill ; And binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will. What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do. This teach me more than hell to shun. That more than heaven pursue. What blessings thy free bounty gives, Let me not cast away ; For God is paid, when man receives ; T' enjoy is to obey. Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me bound, Or think the Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round. Let not this weak unknown hand Presume thy bolls to throw ; And deal damnation round the land, On each I judge thy foe. If I am right, thy grace impart, Still in the right to stay ; If 1 am wrong, oh teach my heart To find that bitter way ! Save me alike /rom foolish pride, Or impious discontent, At aught thy wishom has denied, Or aught thy goodness lent. Teach me to feel another's wo, To hide the fault I see; ) .' ■/ . * / I! ".ffli 'r I 250 l.he English Reader. Part 2, That mercy I to others sliow, That mercy show to me. Mean tho' I nm, not vvliolly so, Since quicken'd by thy breath; O Jead me wheresof^'er I go. Thro' ihi!! day's life or death! This day, be bread and peace my lot: All else beneaih the piin Thou know'st ifbesl bcstow'd or not, And let ihj will be done. To thee, whose temple is all space. Whose allar, enrih, sea, skies ! One ehorus let rll beings raise ! All nature's incense rise. —pope. SECTION XVI. Conscience. O trkach'rous conscience ! while she seems to sleep On rose and myrile. lull'd with syren song; While she seems, nodding o'er her charge, to drop On headlong appetite the slacken'd rein. And give us up to license, nnrecall'd, UnmarkM ;— see. from behind her secret stand, The sly informer mirjutes ev'ry fault. And her dread diary wiih honor fills. * Not th« gross act alone employs her pen ; She reconnoitres fancy's airy band, A watchful foe! the fornndable spy, List'ning o'erhears the whi>pers of our camp; Our dawning purposes of heart explores. And steals our embrvo's of iniciuitv. As all rapacious usurers conceal Their dooms-day book from ail-consuming heirs ; Thus, wi;b indulgence m^ist severe, she treats Us spendthrifts of iiiesiimiible lime ; Unnoted, notes each mom.nl miiapply'd ; In leaves more durai>!e liian le.iv(5s of brass, Writes our whole hislor\ ; wliich death shall read In ev'ry pale delinquent's private ear ; And judgment publish; publish to more worlds '-"'' Than this; and ©ndlcKs age in groans resound. — YouNa Cfufp- fl. Promiscuous Ptecrj, S51 SECTION XVII. On an in ifanf. To the rlaik and silent tomb, Soon I Ir.HlCird froin \\vi \V'"»mb : Scarce liio dawsioriife began, Ere I mca'^ured out vny span. I no smiling j>)cisures Icntnv ; I ntf gay delights could view : Jo) le.ss s(»journcr was I, Only born to wec[» and die.— Happy infant, early blessed I Rest, in peaceful .-iiiunber, rest; Eariy n^scu'd from i!ie cares, Which increase wiib growing years. Nodelitrhts are worth thv stay. Smiling as they seenn, and j;ay ; Short and sicklv are ihev all, Hardiv tasted ere they pall. All our guiety is vain, All our luughter is but pain ; J casting only, and divine. Id an innocence like thine. . SECTION XVIII. The Cuckoo. Hail, beauteous stranger ofthe wood, Attendant on the spring ! Now henv'n repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. Soon as tiie daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear: Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year ? Delightful visitant! uiih thee I hail the time of flow'rs, When heav'n is fill'd with music sweet Of birds amonuf the bowVs. The school -boy, wand' ring in the wood To pull the fl )wVs so gay, Starts, thy curious voice to hear, Aod imitates thy lay. 1 - ti * ,1 1 t / i ill />• !852 The English Render. Soon as the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fly'st the vocal valo, An annual guest in other lands, Another spring to hail. Sweet bird ! thy bow'r is ever green. Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year! O could 1 fly, I'd fly with thee ; We'd make, with social wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the spring. — logan. SECTION XIX. Day. Jl jmstoreil in three parts, MORNING. In the barn the tenant cock, Close to Partlet perchM on high. Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock I) Jocund that the morning's nigh. Swiftly, from the mountain's brow. Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire ; And the peeping sun-beam, now Paints with gold the village spire. Philomel forsakes the thorn. Plaintive where she prates at night ; And the lark to meet the morn, Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. From the low-roof M cottage ridge. See the chatt'ring swallow spring; Darting through the one-archM bridge, Quick she dips her dappled wing. Now the pine-tree's waving top Gently greets the morning gale ; Kidlings, now, begin to crop Daisies, on the dewy dale. From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd, (Restless till her task bedone^} ., Now the busy bee's employ^ Sipping dew before the sun Fart % *Ciiap. 6. Promsciious Pieces. itl Trickling through the crcvicM rock, Where the Iriiipici stream distils. Sweet refreshment waits the (lock. When 'tis suu-drovc from the hills. 'Colin's tor the jiromis'd corn (Ero the harvest hopes are ripe) Anxious 4— whilst the huntsman's horn, Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe. Sweet — O sweet, the warbling throngf, On the white omblossom'd spray ! •JNiature's universal song Echoes to the rising day. NOON. Fervid on the glitt'ring floo(l, Now the noontide radiance glows ^ Drooping o'er its infant bud, Not a dew-drop's left the rose. By the brook the shepherd dines, From the fierce meridian heat, Sheltered by the branching pines, Pendent o'er his grassy seat. Now the ilock forsakes the glade. Where uncheck'd the sunbeams fall, Sure to find a pleasing shade By the ivy'd abbey wall. Echo, in her airy roufid. O'er the river, rock, and hill, Cannot catch a single sound, Save the clack of yonder k,; 'w Cuttle court the zephyr's bland. Where the streamlet w nidcrs cool ; Or with languid silence ;t roll'd l\1:ijeotii'j darkncs-- ! On the v/hirlwind's wii v. F luici;: siil.. \i'.:i, Til ju bidst the world adore And humblest nature wi'h Thy northern b;a«t. MvhterioiKs round! v.hnt skill, what force div*' e, Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet " so aelij,5niiui nii\ ( d, with such kind art, k5Uch hcauiy and beuelicenee cu:n!)in'd ; Shade, unpcrceiv'd, ij^.o boft'nini^ into shade, And all so forming an harmonious wh-. Irt, That as they iUil! ^jucoeeJ, iliey ravi-^di slitl. Ihtt wand'iing f/fl, wiih brute u::coiiscious ^aze, Man mavks n;.t Thee, ni; sks not the mif'hty hand, 'i'hp.t. c\er busy, wiieeld the silent bphcics; \Vorks in tiio seerol deep ; shoots, stean;:ng, thence The fair prolusion that overspreads the spring; Flin^^s from iho sun direct the llaming day ; Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest fortii ; And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life. Nature, attend! join overy living soul, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky : In adoration join ! and, ardent, raiic One general song ! Ye, chief, for whom the whole creation smiles. At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, Crown the great hymn! For me, wlien I lorgct the darling themo. Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray Uitsscts the plain ; inspiring autunm gleams ; Or winter rises in the black'ning cast ; J*e my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more, And dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! Siiould fahj comm'ind me to the farthest vorga Of tlie green earth, to distant barb'rous climes, Uivers unknown to soni; ; wheio first the sun 's'lifip. 0. Promiscuous Pieces. V9 GlWi-i Indian mountains, or his setting beam rjam'js on t!i' Atiiintic isles: 'tis nuuirht lu mc k5ince GoJ is ovor present, ever iVilt, In ihn void wa^te iis in the city full , And v/herc nv: vital breathes there must he joy. When e'en at bst the solemn hour shall come, And v»inj^ my mystic (light to future worlds, I clieerrul will obey ; there, with new puw'rs, Will risiofj wonders sinj; : I cannot no Where L'Mv:;nsAL lo\ t: not smiles around, Sustaining all your orhs, and all their suns; F:om seeming evil still educing good, And hetter thence again, and better still, In inHnitc prcgres.uon. But I lose Myself in ur.M, in liglU ineffable! Come then, expressive silence, muse hia praise. — Thomson, SECTION XX! (I. On iioJitii/le, O soi.iTiDE, romantic maid! Whether by nodding towers you trea