IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) k A J Z K, 1.0 I.I 1.25 uim lis WUl. !IIII18 1.4 1 w '1 /] Photographic Sdences Corporation 23 WIST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716)873-4S03 CIHM/ICMH Microfiche Series. CIHIVI/ICIVIH Collection de microfiches. Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques V i^lMPROVE THEIR \<*^,: '^■'r LANGUAGE AND SEI^ MOST IMPOR' Sl^AJip TO INCULCATE THE IN CITLES OF PIETY AJfD VIRTUE. ■f"'. ■.«-^r.. . WITH A FEW FRELIMUTART OBSERVATIONS ON THE PRINCIPLE^ ! ■'3 •f" OF GOOD READING. i'^ -, > 11 •) ■ . ^ ..•■ • BY LINDLEY MURJflAY, ftft » AUTHOR OF AN ENGLISH GRAHHr/.R, &C. StC. .»♦» ' ».> :»* STBRBOTTPED BT H. H H. tVALLIS, MEW*tORKV ■I » w » •• n .. « •> « TORONTO, U. C. PUBLISHED BY £. LESSLIE & SONS, 1835!* 'i.";-:.- .■>> - *;. .'■ . >*"* .»*f'^4 # »>»--■■ »j •iii. r ' ■■ i .'■ ' . ■■ • ■>* ■ r>. ■', -f 35l^fL^ V,''t- / • ♦ . •'• . • ••• -J... V J J Wi- S.Aug't a 4 mr I *REFA€t:. !) • MANY aelections of excellent matter have been made for the benefit of young i>erBons. Performances of tliis kincl are of ao great utility, that fresh productions of them, and new attempts to Improve the young mind, will scarcely be deemed superfluous, if the writer makes his compilation instructive and interest'ig, 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 meliorate their language and sentiments; and to inculcate some of the most important principles of pietv and virtue. The pieces selected, not only give exercise to a great variety of emstions, and thiB correspondent tones andT variations of voice, but contain sentences and members of sentences, which are diversified, proportioned, and pointed with accuracy. Exercises of this nature are, it is presumed, well calculated to teach yonth to read with propriety and effect A selection of sentences, in which variety and {uroportion, with exact punctuation, have been carefully observed, in all their parts as well as with respect to one another, Mrill pro- bably^ have a nmch greater effect, in properly teaching the art of reading, than is commonly imagined. In such constructions, every thing is accom- modated to the underst^din^ and the voice ; and the common difficulties hi leamiiu[ to read well are obviated. When the learner has acquired a h.-ibit of reading such sentences with justness and facility, he will rciulily npply that habit, and the improvements he has made, to sentences more conipUcal<:d and irregular, and of a construction entirely differeut. The language of the pieces chosen for tius collection has been cirr AiUy r^jfurded. Purity, propriety, perspicuity, and, in many instances, vilciiui.ce of diction, distinguish thein. They are extracted from the woi!:u of Ww. most correct and elegant writers. From the sources whence the srutiiriciits are drawn, the reader may expect to find them connected .-tnd regular, -ititi- ciently important and impressive, and divested of every thing ttmt is c-iti:< r trite or eccentric. The frequent perusal of such composition naturiilly \-.mh to mfn a taste for this species of excellence, and to produce a hubit of ..'ictl , and of composing, with judgment and accuracy.'*' this collection may also serve the purpose of promoting piety ami y ir- I Compiler has introduced many extracts, which place reli)2-ion in the . (. iable light ; and which recommend a great variety of moral duties, by the excellence of their nature, and the happy effects they produce. These subjects are exhibited in a style and manner which are calculated to arrest the attention of youth ; and to make sti'ong and dm'able impressions on theilr minds, f The Compiler has been careful to avoid every expression and sentimerit, * The learner, in his progress through this volume and the Sequel to it, wi!l meet with numerous instances of composition, in strict conformity to the rules for promotingperspicuous and elegant writing, contained in thr^ Appendix to the Authoi^s English Grammar. By occasionally examining th s conformity, he will be confinned in the utility of those rules ; and be enai *ed to apply them with ease and dexterity. It is proper further to observe, that the Reader and the Sequel, besides teaebdnff to read accurately, and inculcating many important sentiments, may be concllered as auxiliaries to the Author's English Grammar ; as practical illustrations of the principles and rules contained in that woric. t In some of the pieces, the Compiler has made a few alterations, chiefly «rh?»l, *o %iapt them Uie better tcHlie design of his work. v^lTiJfe'. .. that might gratify a corropt mind, or,%^ le&M dcme, dtea^e eye or ear of innocence. This ne conceirea im}^ peeuiMiT jaemumm. on every CBrson who writes for the benefit of youth.^t wooM indeed Mr a great and appy improvement in education, if no writing* nere aUoi|Pld to come under their notice, but such as are perfectly innocent ; aad if «ii all proper occa* sions, thev were encouraged to peruse those which tend to inspire a due re- verence for virtue, and an abhorrence of vice, as well as to animate them with sentiments of piety and goodness. Such impressions deeply engraven on their minds, and connected with all their attainments, could scarcely fail of attending them through life, and of producing a solidity of principle and character, that would l^ able to resist the danger arising fram future inter- course with the world. The Author has ender.voured to relieve the grave and serious parts of hlf collection, bv the occassional admission of pieces wliich amuse as well a^ instruct. If, however, any of his readers should think it contains too great a portion of the former, it may be some apology to observe, that in the existinjPf publications designed for tlie perusal of youn^ person^ the preponderance ii greatly on the side of gay and amusing productions. Tt>o much attention mav be paid to this medium of improvement. When the imagination, of youth especially, is much entertained, the sober dictates of the understanding are regarded with indifference : and the influence of good afiSectio^is is either fee- ble, or transient. A temperate use of such entertainment seems therefore requisite, to afford proper scope (or the operations of the understanding and the heart. The reader will perceive, that the Compiler has been solicitioos to recom- mend toyoimg persons, the perusal of the sacred Scriptures,^y interspersing through his work some of the most beautiful and interesting passages of those invaluable writings. To excite an early taste and veneration for this great rule of life, is a point of so high importance, as to warrant the attempt to pro- mote it on every proper occasion. To improve the young mind, ^d to afford some assistance to tutors, in tlie arduous and important work of^ education, were the motives wliich led to ^is production, u the author should be so successful as to accomplish these ends, even in a small des^ree, he will think that his time and pains have been well employed, and wilt deem himself amply rewarded. o flC C( r -''*/.- Kfj Jk: G he al|« toffiv* most body, moit pemevcring force of sound, to that pitoli or voie«, lo which in oonveipition we are accustomed Whereas by netting oM on oar hif hmt pilch or key. we ceriaioly nliow ournelves less comitali, and art likely to strain our voice before we have dono. We shall fatiffue ourtelvea, and read with pain ; and whenever a person speaks with pain to bim^^elf, he \s always heard with pain by his audi* ence. Let iis therefore give the voice full str< ngth and swell of sound^ but always pitch it on our ordinary speaking key. it thould be a constant rule never to utter a ffrealei- quantity of voice tlian we can afford without pnin to oursnlves, and without any extraordinary effort. As long as we keep within these bounds, the other organs of speech will be at liberty to discharge their several offices wi:h ease; and we shall always have our voice under command. But whenever we transgress these bounds, we give up the reins, and have no longer any management of it It is a naoKil rule too, in order to be well heard to cast our eye on some of the most distant persons in the company an i to consider ourselves as read- ing to them. We naturally and mechanically utter our words with such a degree of strength, as to make ourselves be heard by the person whom we address, provided he is within the reach of our vo'ic*? An this is the case in convsaertion, it will hold also in reading to others. But let us remember, that in reading to others. But let us remember, that in read- ing, as well as in conversation it is possible to uffend by speaking too loud. This extreme hurts the ear, by making the voice come upon it in rumbling, indistinct masses. By the habit of reading, when young, in a loud and vehement manner, the voice becomes fixed in a strained and unnatural key ; and is render- ed incapable of that variety of elevation a>)d depression which consti- tutes the true harmony of'utterance, and afford^ ease to the reader, and pleasure lo the audience This unnatural pitch of the voice and disa- greeable monotony, are most observable in persons who were taught tor read in large rooms ; who were accustomerl to stand at too great a distance, when reading to their teachers ; whono instructors were very imperfect in their hearing; or v H^ were taught by persons, that consid- ered loud expressions as the chiS' requisite in forming a good reader. These are circumstances which rltmand tne serious attention of every one to whom the education of youth is committed. SECTION ll.—Distinctness, IN the next place, to being well heard and clearly understood, dis* tinctness of arti' ulation contributes more han mere loudness of sound. The quantity of sound necessary to fill even a large space, is smaller thaif is commonly imagined; and with distinct articulation, a person with a weak voice will make it reach farther, than the strongest voic»- can reach without it. To thisi therefore, every reader i^ught to pay great attention. He must give every sound which he utters, its due proportion : and make every syllable and even every letter in the word which he pronounces, be heard distinctly; without slurring, whispering, or suppressing any of the proper sounds. An accurate knowledge of the simple, elementary sounds of the lan« guage, and a facility in expressing them, are so necessary to distinctness of expression, that if the learner"s attainments are, in this respect, im* perfect, (and many there are in this situation) it will be incumbent on his teacher, to carrv him back to these primary articulations , and to suspend his progress, till he become perfectly mat>ter of them It will be in vain to press him forward, with the hope of forming a good reader, if he cau" not completely articulate every elementary sound of the language* SECTI<.)N lU.^Due deeree of Slowness IN order to express ourselves distinctly, moderation is requisite with regard to the speed of pronouncing. Precipitancy of speech confounds all articulation, and all meaning. It is scarcely necessary to observe, that there may be also an extreme on the opposite side. It is obvious that a lifeless, drawling manner of readii!^ which allows the minds of the hearers to be always outrunnding the speaker, must render every such performauce insiped and fatiguing. But the extreme of reading too fast is much more common, and requires the more to be guarded aefiinpt, heraiTao. \v\\vn it ns crnwn into a hahit, fpw INTRODUCTrftN. i -t^^tO%- 6 OBSERVATIONS ON THE PRINCIPLES OF GOOD READING TO rend with propriety in a pleasintr and importunt nttuimn<;nt ; prrwluc live ol' iinprovciu-'iit ootii to tlic undnrHtandinuT and the lietirt. it is f'«rs-nti-!l to a coinpV.t*: reader, t.iHt he mi.iut jKroeivc tfi'; ideas, and (!nt»r into llie feelings ol' ^the author, wliosv'i s^Mitiiuonts [k; jiroffsscs to rf))tat ; for how vn it po8iiii)le to represent clturiy to others, w)i:it wc lj;ivc ImU faint or inaccuraie cou:eptiou of ourselves / \\ tnsMij ncre no otiu-r i>eiu;tit.s n-Muitiny; trojii the art of readinjf well, timu tiir Ktcessity it hiys us iuidt.r, of pruis> ly asccrtnin- inf^ the meaning of what Wi; read j Hud the Imbit thtnce acquir:;d, of doing this with facility, both wiicn rcadinsj sihntly and aloud, they would consti- tute -a^sulficientcompcnti i(ion Tor all tlic lahmtf we can oestow upon t!ie su'o- \\-xS.. But the pleasure d-'rivcd to Oiirselvns and others, from a clear coni- numicution of ideas and n;eiin:^s ; and t!ie slroniraud durable iinprcii^ions niado thereby on the nunds ol'tlie reader and the ^nidienvc, ar(^ coasidi;r;itions, wiiich give additional inj|iortan<;i^ to the study of tiiis neeessjry and usci'ul art. The perfect attainment of it duubtlesis nHpiirf s a:reat attention and pr u-tMe, joined to extraordinary natiu'al powers ; but as thi.'re are uuuiy dc^^rces of excellence in the ail, tJie student whoise aims fall siiort of perfectiou, will find himself amply rewarded for every exerlion he may think proper to make. To give rules for tiie raanajrement of ihe voice in readiii ;•, by wliicb the necessary pauses, emphasis, ana tones, may be dis(!oven'^d and put in prac- tice, is not possible. After all the directions that can be olFered on these poiiits, much will remiiin to be taught by tlie living instructer : much will be attuiuu- ble by no otiier means, than the force oi example, influencing the imitative powers of the learner. Some rules and principles on these heads will, how- ever, be found usefid, to prevent erroneous and ^^cious modes of utterance ; to give the younf? reader some taste for the subject : and to assist him in ac- quiring a just and accurate mode of delivery. 'Ihe observations wliich we nave to make, for these purposes, may be comprised under the followiifg heads : Proper l/)udness of Voice ; Dlstinctnens ; Slowness ; Propriety of Prommciatton ', Emphasis ; Tones ; Pauses ; and Mode ?ll heard in a large company. Thi? is confoundiu'/ two tilings which are diifercnt, loudness or strenffth of sound, witli the key or note in which we speak. There is a variety of sound within tiie compass of each key. A speaker may t}i''.re- fore render ids voice louder, without altiring the key ; and wc shall ahvays NOTE. For manv of the observations contained in this preliminary tract, tlie author is iudcbtcd to tiic writings of Dr. Blair, and to the EncycIupcvUa BrJtanuica. .*. i ^5 IMTROtVCTiON. 1 1; errori art MiisdMeaklpbejMfVocted. To pronouicc with a propir hi)tic words must be distinguished by a particular tone of voice, as well ;i8 by a par- ticular stress. On the right management of the emphasis depends the life of proatmciation. If no emphasis be placed on any words, not only is discourse rendered heavy and lifeless, but tlie meaning lefi ollcn amblj^uous. If tha emphasis be placed wrong, we pervert and confound the meanmg wholly. Emphasis may be divided into the superior and the inferior emphasis. The superior emphasis determines the meaning of a sentence, with reference to something said before, pi-esnpposcd by the author as general knowledge, or removes an ambiguity, where a passage may have more senses than one. The inferior emphasis enjorces^ graces, and enlivena^ but does not Jix, the mean- ing of any passage. The words to wiiich this latter emphasis is given, are in general, such as seem the most important in the sentence, or on otlier accounts, to merit this distinction. The following passage will sene to exemplify the superior emphasis. " Of man's first disobedience, and the fruH' ■A* Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Brought death into the world, and all our wo, &e Sing, heavenly Muse I" ,||uppokUt4t Utat originally otjiter beings besides mm, had disubi^ed the •*v- INTRODUCTION. , , ilMMtMHy word if 'mphaticaJ : u«, " Vo hills and dale*, ye rivert. woM^ %^ plifan !'* or «■ ilmt p^itlietic cxp(»8tulutiou in the prophecy of Ezokkl, "Why will yc die !" writing^, rcprcHCnt thinf^a, not words; they ci to the underatanJing.^* Some fN;ntenceft ure no full and compreheniit rr that. , ... ... Kmptians, besides itn other oHices, is the great regulator of quantity. Thou(f h the (pmntity of our syllables is fixed, in words separately pronounced, yet it iH ii)nttil)lc, when thrne words are arranged in sentences ; the long being cliangod into Mhoi-t, the sliort into long, according to the importance of the word with reuritnl to meaning. Emphasis altio, in particular cases, alters the Meat of the .icrcnt. Thin is demonstrable (Vom the following examples : " He shall i/tcrriiN<>, but 1 ^hall rfecreuse." " Tlicrc is a difference between giring and fora'tvitm" " in this species of composition, p/aiMibility is much moro eNwntiiil tlitiii ;>robnhitity." In thcHC examoles, the eniphusiH requires the accent in lie placed on nyllabloa to wliich it aoes not conunonly belong. In oitlcr to ac(|uii-c the proper management of the emphasis, the great rule to be giv(;n is, that the reader btudy to attain a just conception of the force and spirit of the 8«in^ to the different passions and emotions. We shaU, however, select oiwi, wliich is extracted from the beautiful lamentation of *»j INTROiyUCTlON. not in the itNetf of iUfcelon ; lest the daiiffhtf ri of the Philistinofl rf>joice ; Icit the dftughlen ef the unctrcumr iscd triuinpli. Ye niountainR of CJilboii, let there be no dew nor rain upon you, nor ficIdH of ofrorin^rH • for tht^re the lihield of the mighty was vilciv castHwav ; the shield of Siuil, as thouprh he liad not been anointed with oil." The nrst of thcsie divisions, exprcwitN iKti<- row and lamentation : thereforo the note is low. The next contains a spirttt d command, and siioula bn pronounced much higher Ttie otlicr sf nteuco, in whicli he makes a pathetic address to the mountains wIk re \m frirndti hnd been llain, must be expressed in a note quite diiforent from tlic two lormt-r : not HO low dera- tion is necessary in this point, as it is in other things. For when the reading becomes strictly imitative, it asumes a thcati'icul manner, and must be high- ly improper, as' well as give offence to the hearers ; because it is inconsistent with that delicacy and modesty which are indispensable on such occasions.^ The speaker who delivers his own emotions, rau^t be supposed to be more' vivid and animated than would be proper in the person who relates them at second hand. We shall conclude this section with the following rule for the tones that indicate the passions and emotions : " In reading;, let all your tones of ex- pression be borrowed from those of common speech, but| in some'def^ec, more faintly characterized. Let those tones which signify any disagreeable passion of the mind, be still more faint than those which indicate agreeable emotions : and on all occasions oreserve yourselves from being so far aifected with the subject, as to be unable to proceed tlirongh it, with that easy and masterly manner, which has its good effects in this, as well as in every other art." SECTION VII. Pauses, • PAUSES, or rests, in speaking or reading, are a total cessation of the voice, during a preceptible, and, in many cases, a measurable space of time. Pauses are equally necessary to the speaker and the hearer. To the speak- er, that he may take breath, without which he cannot proceed far in delive- rv ; and that he may, by these temporary rests, relieve the organs of speech which otherwise would be soon tired by continued action ; to the hearer, that the ear, also, may be relieved from the fatigue which it would otherwise endure from a contmuity of sound ; and that the understanding may have sufficient time to mark the distinction of sentences, and their several members. There are two kinds of pauses : first, eraphatical pauses : and next, such as mark the distinctions of sense. An emphatical pause is generally made after something has been said of peculiar moment, and on whicn we desire to fix t]ie Itearer^-s attention. Sometimes, before such a thing is said, we usher it in witli a pause of this nature. Such pi^.u^es have the same effect as a strong em- phasis ; and are subjec&;i> the snme rules ; especially to Ihe caution of not repeating them too frequently. For as they excite uncommon attention, and of course raise expectation, if the impoi-tauce of the matter be not fully an- swerable to such expectation, they occasion disappointment and disgust. But the most frequent and the principal use of pauses, is to mark the divi- sions of the sense, and at the aamc time to allow the reader to draw his breath , and the proper hiuI dellcutc adjustment of such pauses, is one of the most nice 10 w INTRODUCTION. and difficult articles of delivery. In all readings tli^ifiiltatenMsiit of tlie breath requires a good deal of care, so as not to obfige ui to dinde words from one anottier, which have so intimate a connexion, that they ou^ht to be pro- nounced with the same breath, and without the least separation. Many a sentence is miserably mangled, and the force of the emphasis totally lost, by divisions being made in the wrong place. To avoid this, every one, while he is reading, should be very careful to provide a AiU supply of breath for what he is to utter. It is a great mistake to imagine, that the breath must be drawn only at the end of a period, when the voice is allowed to fall. It may easily be gathered at the intervals of the period, when the voice is suspended only for a moment ; and, by this management, one mav always have a sufficient stock for carrying on the longest sentence, without improper interruptions. Pauses in readmg must generally be formed upon the manner in which we utter ourselves in ordinary, sensible conversation ; and not upon the stifi' arti- ficial manner, which is acquired from readin(|[ books according to tlie common punctuation. It will by no means be sufficient to attend to the points used m printing ; for these are far from marking all the pauses which ought to be made in reading. A mechanjcal attention to these resting places, has perhaps been one cause of monotony, by leading the reader to a similar tone at every stop, and a uniform cadence at every period. The primary use of points, is to assist the reader in discemingthe grammatical construction ; and it is only J 1.. . .1 .. .. ,_x_ ... •_..-_ On this head, ;reat attention sense; and their correspondent times occasionally lengthened beyond what is usual in common speech. To render pauses pleasing and e*|. essive, they must not only be made in the right place, but also accompanied with a proper tone of voice, by wliich the nature of these pauses is intimated, much more than by the length of them, which can seldom oc exactly measured. Sometimes it is only a slight ana simple suspension of voice that is proper ; sometimes a degree of cactence in the voice is required; and sometimes that peculiar tone and cadence which denote the sentence to be finished. In all these cases, we are to regulate our- selves bv attending to the manner in which nature teaches us to speak, when engaged in real and earnest discourse with others. The foUowing sentence exemplifies the suspending and the closing pa.uae» : " Hope, the balm of life, soothes us under every misfortune." The nrst and second pauses are accom- panied by an inflection of voice, that gives the hearer an expectation of some- thing further to complete the sense : the inflection attending the third pause si^niiitis that the sense is completed. The preceding example is an illustration of the suspending pause, in its simple state: the following instance exhibits that pause with a degree of ca- duricti in the voice : "If content cannot remove the disquietudes of mankind, it will at least alleviate them." Th)e suspending pause is often, in the same sentence, attended with both t)ie riKing and the falling inflection of voice ; as will be seen in this example : " Moderate exercise\ and habitual temperance', strengthen the constitution."'*' As the suspending pause may be thus attended with both the rising and the faU^ ing inflection, it is the same with regard to the closing pause: it admits of boUi. The failinff inflection generally accompanies it ; but it is notunfrequently con> nected with the rising inflection. Interrogative sentences, for instance, are oilen terminated in this manner : as, "Am I ungrateful'?" "Is he in earnest^ ?" Bui where a sentence is begun by an interrogative pronoun or adverb, it is commonly terminated by the Tailing inflection : as, "What has he gained by his folly^ ?" " Who will assist him^7" " Where is the messenger^ 1^ "When did ^e "arrive^ ?" When two questions are united in one sentence, and connected by the con- junction or J the first takes the rising, the second ^e falling inflection: as. " Does his conduct support discipline', or destroy it^ ?" The rising and falling inflections must not be confounded with emphasis. * The rising inflection is denoted by the acute ; the falling, by the grave accent; ^r^V*^*" INTRODUCTION. li ^Though thef mur i^lMft coincide, they arc, in their nature, perfectly distinct. £im)ha8i8 sommnBea controls thoi^e inHections. The regular application of the rising anil falling inHcetions, confers so much beauty on expression, and is so necessary to be studied by the young reader, that we shiilf insert a few more examples, to induce him to pay greater at* Icntion to tlic subject. In these instances, all the inflections are not marked. Such only are distingi«is}ied, as are most striking, and will best serve to sliow tlie reader their utility and importance. " Manufactures\ trade\ ana agriculture', certainly employ more than nine- teen 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 constant search of care\ solicitude', remorse', and confusion^" " To advise the iguorant\ relieve the needy\ comfort the afflicted', arc du- ties that fall in our way almost every day of our lives." " Those evil spirits, who, by lonjr custom, have contracted in the body ha- bits of lust' and sensuality^ ; malice', and revenfje^ ; an aversion to evciy tiling that is goud\ just', and laudable , are naturally seasoned and prepared for pain and misery." '' I am persuaded, that neither death', nor life^ ; nor angels', nor principali- ties', nor powei-s^ ; nor things present , nor tilings to coiae^ ; nor height', nor depth^ ; nor any other creature', shall be able to separate us from the love of God\» The reader who would wish to see a minute and ingenious investigation of the nature of these inflections, and the rules by whicii triey are goveiiied, may consult Walker's Elements of Elocution. SECTION VIII. Manner of reading Verse. WHEN we are reading verse, there is a peculiar difficulty in making the paiises justly. The difliculty arises from the uiclody of verse which dictates to the ear pauses or rests of its own ; and to adjust and compound these pro- perly with the pauses of the sense, so as neither to hurt the ear, nor ottend the understanding, 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 pause at the end of the line ; and the other, the caesural 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 finish-^ ed, rhyme renders this always sensible ; and in some noeasure compels us to observe it in om' pronunciation. In respect to blank verse, we ougnt 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 final pause ; and degrade them, by our pronunciation, into mere prose r At the same time that we at- tend to this pause, every appearance of sing-song and tone, must be carefully l^arded against. The close of the line where it makes no pause in the mean- ing, ought not to be marked by such atone as is used in finishing a sentence ; but, without either fall or elevation of the voice, it should be denoted only by so slight a suspension of sound, as majr distinguish the passage from one line to another, without iinuring the meaning. The oth6r kind of meloaious pause, is that which falls somewhere about the middle of the verse, and divides it into two hemistichs ; a pause, not so great as that which belongs to the close of the line, but still sensible to an ordinary ear. This, which is called the ctesural pause, may fall, in English heroic verse, after the 4th, 6th, 6th, or 7th, syllable in the line. Where the verse is so constnict- ed, that this csesural pause coincides with the slightest pause or division in the sense, the line can be read easily ; as in the two furst verses of Pope's Messiah : " Ve nymphs of Solyma^^ ! begin the song ; ** To heav'nly theuies^\ sublimer strains belong.'' But if it should happen that words which have so strict and intimntQ a con- nexion, as not to bear even a momentary separation, are divided from one ano- ther bv this cjBHural pause, we then feci a sort of stniggle hrif-^^r^r., <•• . ■^^^- 12 INTRODUCTION.. ■/'■ ::-- ■ ^ l and the sound, which renders it diflicitlt to read^lpl fiAiits hannomous] y. 1'he rule of proper pronunciation in such cases, is to regard only the pause which the sense Ibrms ; and to read the line accordingly. The neglect of the csesural pause may make the line sound somewhat unharmoniously ; but the effect would be much worse, if tlie sense were sacrificed to thJ^souud. For instance, in the following lines of Milton : " What in me is dark, " Illumine ; what is low, raise and support." The sense clearly dictates tlie pause after i^/umine, at the end of the 3d sylla- ble, which in reading, ou^ht to be made accordingly : though, if the melody only were to be regarded, illumine should be connected with what follows, and the nause not made till the fourth or sixth syllable. So in tiie following line of dope's Epistle to Dr. Arbutlmot. " I sit, with sad civility I read." The ear plainly points out the caesural pause as falling after sad^ the 4th syl" lable. But it would be very bad reading to make any pause there, so as' to separate sad and civility. Tlie sense admits of no other pause than after the second syllable sitj which therefore must be tlie only pause made in reading this part of the sentence. There is another mode of dividing some verses, by introducing what may be called demi-caesura.-., vhich require very slight pauses ; and which the rea- der should manage with j ..dement, or he will be apt to fall into an affected sing-song mode of pronouncmg verses of this kind. The following lines ex- emplify the demi-c«sura : " Warms' in the sun", refreshes' in the breeze, " Glows' in the stars", and blossoms' in the trees ; " Lives' through all life" ; extends' through all extent, " Spreads' undivided", operates' unspent.'' Before the conclusion of tiiis introduction, the compiler takes the liberty to recommend to teachers, to exercise their pupils in discovering and explain- ing the emphatic words and the proper tones and pauses, of every portion as- signed them to read, previously to their being called out to the performance. These preparatory lessons, in which they should be re^larly exanained, will improve their judgment and taste ; prevent the practice of reading without attention to the subject ; and establish a habit of readily discoveringuie mean- ing, force, and beauty of what they peruse. J: 'i' ■'■'- - ■* '• .■3^^. ''V" ' ■, -■*■'■ ■ ■ .- T •^^f GLISH READER. m' ' - » ■--' ^ PART I. PIECES m PROSE. ,v CHAPTER 1. „.'i SELECT SENTENCES AND PARAGRAPHS. SECTION I. ^" Tr\IIjIGENCE, industry, and proper improvement of •^^ time, are material duties of the young. The acquisition of knowledge is one of the most honour- able occupations of youth. Whatever useful or engaging endo^vments we possess, vir- tue is requisite, in order to their shining with proper lustre. Virtuous youth gradually brings fonvard accomplished and flourishing manhood. Sincerity and tnith form the basis of every virtue. Disappointments and distress are often blessings in dis- guise. ' ' Change and alteration form the very essence of the world. True happiness is of a retired nature and an enemy to pomp and noise. In order to acquire a capacity for happiness, it must be our first study to rectify inward disoi-ders. IVhatever purifies, fortifies also the heart. ^ ^ ^^ From our eagerness to grasp, we strangle and destroy pleasure. . '"^'■■'- .•'•■: ."'"'" " ■ '" " y"^' "-''*''■''■'■■ A temperate spirit, and moderate expectations, are excellent safeguards of the mind, in this uncertain and changing state. There is nothing, except simplicity of intention, ai\d NOTE. — Tn tlie first chapter, the compiler has cxibjted s-ciitonres In a great variety of ci>ns'i.ruclion, and in all the diversity of punctuation. If well practised upon, he pre- numf>s t!iey will fully prepare the young reader for the variouspaus^^s, inftfctionB, and modulations of voic*;. which tho suc.ceedinn pieces require. The Author's " EnglisU FiXerciseH," under the head of Punctuation, vUl atford the learner additional scope for Improving biD)i)«>lf in roadtng s'Mitences and parajrraDhs varlowdv coostructcd. u THE ENGLISH R£ ^ Part L of near approach purity of principle, that can stand th 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 always most likely to be attained, when the business of the world is tempered with thoughtful and serious retreat. He who would act like a wise man, and build his house on the rock, and not on the sand, should contemplate human life, not only in the sunshine, but 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 impression 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 othera, by imparting what they feel. Our ignorance of what is to come, and of what is really good or evil, should correct anxiety. about wordly success. The veil which covers from our sitrht the events of suc- ceeding years, is a veil woven by the hand of mercy. The best preparation for all the uncertainties of futurity, consists in a well-ordered mind, a good conscience, and a tjheerful submission to the will of Heaven. ^. SECTION IL 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, we should often find them peopled with the victims of intem- perance and sensuality, and with the children of vicious in- dolence and sloth. To be wise in our own eyes, to be wise in the opinion of the world, and to be wise in the sight of our Creator, are three things so very different, as rarely to coincide. Man, in his highest earthly glory, is but a reed floating on the stream of time, and forced to follow every new direction of the current. ' : '-..:- The corrupted temprr, and the guilty passions of tlio ''•;»!, Chaf. T. LECT SE1NTFNCES. 1» every advantage which the world con- frustrate the ei fers on them. The external misfortunes of life, disappointments, poverty, and sickness, are light in comparison of those inward distresses of mind, occasioned by folly, by passion, and by guilt. No station is so high, no power so great, no character so unblemished, as to exempt men from the attacks of rashness, malice, or envy. Moral and religious instruction derives its efficacy, not so much from what men are taught to know, as from what they are brought to feel. He who pretends to great sensibility towards men, and yet has no feeling for the high objects of religion, no heart to ad- mire and adore the great Father of the universe, has reason to distrust the truth and delicacy of his sensibility. When, upon rational and sober enquiry, we have estab- lished our principles, let us not suffer them to lie shaken by the scoffs of the licentious, or the cavils of the sceptical. When we observe any tendency to treat religion or morals with disrespect and levity, let us hold it to be a sure indica- tion of a perverted understanding, or a depraved heart. ' Every degree of guilt incurred by yielding to temptation, tends to debase the mind, and to weaken the generous and benevolent principles of human nature. Luxury, pride, and vanity, have frequently as much in- fluence in corrupting the sentinients of the great, aa igno- rance, bigotry, and prejudice, have in misleading the opinions of the multitude. y^ Mixed as the present state is, reason and religion pro- nounce that, generally, if not always, there is more happi- ness than misery, more pleasure than pain, in the con- dition of man. Society, when formed, requires distinctions of property, diversity of conditions, subordination of ranks, and a multi- plicity of occupations, in order to advance the general good. That the temper, the sentiments, the morality, and, in general, the whole conduct and character of men, are in- fluenced by the example and disposition of the persons with whom they associate, is a reflection which has long since passed into a proverb, and been ranked among the standing maxims of human wisdom, in all ages of the world. SECTION III. THE desire of improvement discovers a liberal mind, and is connected with many accomplishments, and many virtues. 16 THE ENGLISH READE ,\ Part 1. i mind; and Innocence confers ease and freedom leaves it open to every pleasing sensation. Moderate and simple pleasures relish high with the tern* pcrate : In the midst of his studied refinements, the volup- tuary languishes. Gentleness corrects whatever is offensive in our manners ; and, by a constant train of humane attentions, studies to alle- viate Uie burden of common misery. That gentleness which is the characteristic of a good man, has, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart ; and, let me add, nothing except what flows from the heart, can ren- der even external manners truly pleasing. Virtue, to become either vigorous or useful, must be ha- f)itually active : not breaking forth occasionally with a ti^n- sient lustre, like the blaze of a comet ; but regular in its re tunis, like the light of day : not like the aromatic gale, which sometimes feasts the sense; but like the ordinary breeze, which purifies the air, and renders it healthful. The happiness of every man depends more upon the state of his own mind, than upon any one external circumstance : nay, more than upon all externsd 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 pessant to ilie priiict;. Riches and pleasures are the chief temptations to crimi- nal deeds. Yet those riches, when obtained, may very pos- sibly overwhelm us with unforeseen miseries. Those plea- sures may cut short our health and life. He who is accustomed to turn aside from the world, and commune with himself in retirement, will, sometimes at >Ieast, hear the trutlis which the multitude do not tell him. A more sound instructer will lift his voice, and awaken with- in the heart those latent suggestions, which the world had overpowered and suppressed. Amusement often becomes the business, instead of the re- laxation, of young persons : it is then highly pernicious. He that waits for an opportunity to do much at once, may breathe out his life in idle wishes; and regret, in the last hour, his useless intentions and barren zeal. ^ ; % The spirit of true religion breathes mildness and affability. It gives a native, unaffected ease to the behaviour. It ia so- cial, kind, and cheerful ; far removed from that gloomy and illiberal superstition, which clouds the brow, sharpens the Chap. 1 SELECT SENTE^XES. 17 tempef, dejectsf me spirit, and teaches men to fit themselves lor another world, by neglecting tlie concerns of this. Reveal none of the secrets of thy friend. Be faithful to Ills interests. Forsulce him not in danger. Abhor the thought of acquiring any advantage by his prejudice. Man, always prosperous, would be giddy and insolent ; always afflicted, would he sullen or det'pondeat. Hopes and fears, joy and sorrow, are, therefore, eo blended in his life, as both to give room for worldly pursuits, and to recall, from time to time, the admonitions of coniscience. »»; SECTION IV. TIME once past never returns: the moment wliich is lost, is lost for ever. There is nothing on earth so stable, as to assure ws of un- disturbed rest ; nor so powerful as to aflbid us constant pro- tection. ^ The house of feasting, too often becomes an avenue to the house of mourning. Short, to the licentious, is the in- terval between them. It is of great importance to us, to form a proper estimate of human life; without either loading it with imaginary evils, or expecting from it greater advantages than it is able to yiehl. Among all our corrupt passions, there is a strong and "inti- mate connexion. When anyone of them is adopted into ou* fa- nrlv, it seldom quits until ithasfathered upon us all its kindred. , Charity, like the sun, brightens every object on which it shines; a censorious disposition casts every character into the darkest shade it will bear. Many men mistake the love, for the practice, of virtue; and are #iot so much good men, as the friends of goodness. Genuine virtue has a langirage that speaks to every heart throughout the world. It is a language wh'ch is understood by all. In every region, every climate, the homage paid to it U the same. In no one sentiment were ever mankind more generally agreed. The appearances of our security are frequently deceitful. . Wiien our sky seems most settled and serene, in some un- ^>obssrved quarter gathers the little black cloud in v/hich the tempest ferments, and prepares to discharge itself on our head. ' The man of true fortitude may be compared to the castle f.uilt on a rock, which defies the attacks of the surrounding ^vaters: the man of a feeble and timorous spirit, to a hut placed on the shore, which every wind shakes, and e\'«ry vavp overflows. » ■2* ,: 18 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I, Nothing is so inconsistent with self-poNiiilon as violent anger. It overpowers reason ; confounds our ideas ; dis- torts the appearance, and blackens the colour of every ob- ject. By the storms which it raises witKin, and by the miss- chiefs which it occasions without, it generally brings on the passionate and revengeful man, greater misery than he can l)i*inff on the object of his resentment. The palace of virtue has, in all ages, been represented as placed on the summit of a hill ; in the ascent of which, labour is requisite, and difficulties are to be surmounted ; and where a conductor is needed, to direct our way, and to aid our steps. In judging of others, let us always think the best, and em- ploy die spirit of charity and candour. But In judging of ourselves, wc ought to be exact and severe. Let him who desires to see others happy, make haste to give while his gift can be enjoyed ; and remember, that every moment of delay takes away something from the value of his benefaction. And let him who proposes his own happiness reflect, that while he forms his purpose, the day rolls on, and " the night cometh, when no man can work." To sensual persons, hardly any thing is what it appears to be ; and what flatters most, is always farthest from reality. There are voices which sing around them ; but whose strains allui>e to ruin. There is a banquet spread, where poison is in every dish. There is a couch which invites them to rcr pose ; but to slumber upon it, is death. If we would judge whether a man is really happy, it i^ not solely to his houses and lands, to his equipage and his retinue we are to look. Unless we could see farther, and discern what joy, or what bitterness, his heail feels, we can pronounce 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 ra- tional and well founded ; next, that it is of the highest im- f»ortance to every other part of religion and virtue; and, astly, that it is most conducive to our happiness. There is certainly no greater felicity, than to be able to look back on a life usefully and virtuously employed; to jtrace our own progress in existence, by such tokens as excite neither shame nor sorrow. It ought, therefore, to be the care olF those who wish to pass their last hours with comfort, to lay up such a treasure of pleasing ideas, as shall support the expenses of that time, which is to depend wholly upon the fund already acquired. ..s^. .:-'■'*■ CllAP. I. SELECT SENTENCES. 19 to 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-morrow. Can we esteem that man prosperous, who is raised to a situation which flatters his passions, but which corrupts his principles, disorders his temper, and fmally oversets his vir- tue? What misery does the vicious man Secretly endure ! — Ad- versity ! how blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver, in com- parison with those of guilt ! l^lien 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 dis- appointed in designs which they earnestly pursued, but which if successfully accomplished, they have afterwards seen would have occasioned their ruin! What are the actions which afford in the remembrance a rational satisfaction? Are they the pursuits of sensual plea- siure, the riots of jollity, or the displays of show and vanity? No : I appeal to your hearts, my friends, if what you recol- lect with most pleasure, are not the innocent, the virtuous, the honourable parts of your past life. The present employment of time should frequently be an object of thought. About what are we now busied? What is the ultimate scope of our present pursuits and cares? Can we justify them to ourselves? Are they likely to produce any thing that will survive the moment, and bring forth some fruit for fiiturity ? Is it not strange, (says an ingenious writer,) that some persons 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 uneasi- ness and discontent? If we are now in health, peace, and safety ; without any particular or uncommon evils to afflict 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 state? Will any future situation ever msdse us happy, if now, with so few causes of grief, we imagine ourselves miserable? T*^t» ftvi! *!e« '\ •'"- -' state of our mind. - ^* \i our condition oi 20 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. Chj ^■* lortunc: Jind by no alteration of circumstances is likely to be remedied. \Mien the love of unwarrantable pleasures, and of vicious companions, is allowed to amuse young persons, to engros-j their time, and to stir up their passions, the day, of niin, — let them take heed, and beware! the day of irrecoverable ruin begins to draw nigh. Fortune is squandered ; health is b»o- ken; friends are offended, affronted, estranged; aged pa- rents, perhaps, sent aiHicted and mourning to the (lust. On whom does time hang so heavily, as on the slothfjil and la«y? 'J'o whom are the hours so lingering? Who are so often devoured with spleen, and obliged to fly to eveiy expedient, which can help them to get rid of tliemselves ? fiitilead of producing tranquillity, indolence produces a fietful n'stle>-*?ness of mind; gives rise to cravings wiiich are never lati.sfiid; nourishes a sickly, efleminute deiicary which y(,ni6 and corrupts every pleasure. SECTION VT. WE have seen the husbandman scattering liis seed upon the funosved ground! It springs up, is gathered into his banidi, ai,d crowns his labours with joy and plenty. Thus the man who distributes his fortune with generosity aj;d prudence, is amply repiiid by the gratitude of those who!u ha obliges, Ly the approbation of his own mind, and by the ilivour of Heii- ven. ';y Temperance, by fortifying the mind and body, leads to happiness ; intemperance, by enervating them, ends gene- rally in misery. Title and ancestry render a good man more illustricu3 ; hut an ill one, more contemptible. Vice is infanious, though in a prince; and virtue honourable, though in a peasant. An elevated genius, employed in little things, appears (to tise the simile of Longinus) like the sun in iiis evening dc- chnaiion: he remits his splendour, but retains liis magnitude; and pleases more, though he dazzles less. If envious people were to ask themselves, whether the^ would exchange their entire situations with the persons en- vied, (I mean their minds, passions, notions, as well as theii persons, fortunes, and dignities,) — I prejune the self-love, common to human nature, would generally malwe them pre- fer their own condition. ^^- .^ ; ^Ui ; ^^st We have obliged some persons: - very v;ell ! — what would we have more f Is not the consciousness of doing good, a 5* nfiicient reward ? _. . , ,,,,'„,„ ^^,. surel not rati< Al peaci self TI itprJ indei if it it m! are Chap. I. SELECT SENTENCES. 21 Do not hurt yourselves or others, by the pursuit of plea- sure. Consult your whole nature. Consider yourselves not only as sensitive, but as rational beings ; not only as rational, but social ; not only as social, but immortal. Art thou poor? — Show thyself active and industrious^ peaceable and contented. Art thou wealthy? — Show thy^ self beneficent and charitable, condescending and humane. Though rehgion removes not all the evils of life ; though it promises no continuance of undisturbed prosperity, (which indeed it were not salutary for man always to enjoy,) yet, if it mitigates the evils which necessarily belong to our state, it may justly be said to give "rest to them who labour and are heavy laden." What a smiling aspect does the love of parents and chil- dren, of brothers and sisters, of friends and relations, give to every surrounding object, and every returning day ! With what a lustre does it gild even the small habitation, where this placid intercourse dwells ! where such scenes oi heart- felt satisfaction succeed uninterruptedly to one another ! How many clear marks of benevolent intention appear every where around us ! What a profusion of beauty and ornament is poured forth on the face of nature ! What a magnificent spectacle presented to the view of man! What supply contrived for his wants ! What a variety of objects set before him, to gratify his senses, to employ his under- standing, to entertain his imagination, to cheer and gladden tiis heart! The hope of future happiness is a perpetual source of consolation to good men. Under trouble, it soothes their minds ; amidst temptation, it supports their virtue ; and, in their dying moments, enables them to say, "O death! where is thy sting? grave! where is thy victory?" ;;. SECTION VII. AGESILAUS, king of Sparta, being asked, "What things he thought most proper for boys to learn," - answered, "Those which they ought to practise 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 no- thing without cultivation; but which will always abundantly repay the labours of industry, aiid satisfy the most extehsivtj desires, if no part of it be suffered to lie waste by negligence, !WT .,Vj;-:2^> 22 THE ENGLISH READER. Part f. to be overrun with noxiouB pl-antn, or laid out for show rather than use. — ' * When Aristotle was asked, " What a man could jj^in by ipUing a falsehood," he replied, ** Not to be credited when Iw speaks the trutli." L'Estrange, in his Fables, tells us that a number of frolicsome boys were one day watching frogs, at the side of a pond ; and that, as any of them put their heads above tlie water, ihey pelted them down again with stones. One of tlio frogs, appealing to the humanity of the boys, made this striking observation; "Children, you do not consider, that tiiough this may be sport to you, it is death to us." SuU) , the great statesman of France, always retained at his table, in his most prosperous days, the seune frugality to which he had been accustomed in early life. He was fre- quently reproached, by the courtiers, for his simplicity ; but he used to reply to them, in the words of an ancient philoso- pher : " If the guests are men of sense, tliere is sufficient for them ; if they are not, I can very well dispense with their company." Socrates, though primarily attentive to the culture of his mind, was not negligent of his external appearance. His cleanliness resulted from those ideas of order and decency, which governed all his actions ; and the care which he took of his health, from his desire to preserve his mind free and tranquil. Eminently pleasing and honourable was the friendship between David and Jonathan. ** I am distressed for thee, my brothei^ Jonathan," said the plaintive and surviving Da- vid ; " very pleasant hast thou been to me : thy love for me vas wonderful ; passing the love of women." -Sir Philip Sidney, at the battle near Zutphen, was wound- €"1 by a musket ball, which broke the bone of his thigh. 1 ie was carried about a mile and a half, to the camp ; and Keing faint with the loss of blood, and probably parched \with thirst through the heat of the weather, he called for drink. It was immediately brought to him; but as he was putting the vessel to his mouth, a poor wounded soldier, who happened at that instant to be carried by him, looked up to it with wishful eyes. The gallant and generous Sidney ^ook the bottle from his mouth, and delivered it to the sol- dier, saying, " Thy necessity is yet greater than mine.** Alexander tlie Great demanded of a pirate, whom he had taken, by what right he infested the seas? ** By the same right," replied he, " that Alexander enslaves the world. But vess grea the s A 1s-:-f CiiAr. 1. SELECT SENTENCES. ^ But I am calleH a robber, bcrause I have onl) one Hmall vessel; and he is styled a coruiueror, because ho conimaiida great fleets and armies." \^ e too often judge of men by the splendour, and not by the merit of their actioi s. Antonius Pius, tlie Roman Emperor, was an amiable and good man. When any of his couitiers attempt»« V 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? He that formed the eye, shall he not see ? I 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 him, but he coUld not be found. Happy is the man that findeth wisdom. Length of days is in her right hand ; and in her left hand, riches and ho- nour : her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. How good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity! It is like precious ointment; like the dew of Her- mon, and the dew that descended upon the mountains of Zion The sluggard will not plough by reason of the cold ; he shall therefore beg in harvest, and have nothing. I went by the field of the slothful, and by the vineyard 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 1 saw, and considered it well : I looked upon it, and received instruction. Honourable age is not that which standeth in lengtli of time ; nor that which is measured by number of years : but wisdom is the gray hair to man; and an unspotted life Isold age. Solomon, my son, know thou the God of thy fathers; and serve 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, hfi will cast thee ofl' for ever. SECTION IX. THAT every day has its pains and sorrows is universally experienced, and almost universally confessed. But let us not attend only to mournful trutlis: if wt look impartially about us, we shall find, that every day has likewise its plea- sures and its joys. We should cherish sentiments of charity towards all men. The Author of all good, nourishes much piety and virtue in hearts that are unknown to us; and beholds repentance ready to spring up among many whom we consider as r»*probates. Ko one ought to consider himself as ihsiarnificant in the ^ght of his Creator. In our several statioiiis, we are all sent CflAr. I. SELECT SENTENCES. 25 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 the 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 guilt, 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 mat- ter that deserves our highest attention. For when any one of them becomes either too weak or too strong, it endangers both our virtue and our happiness. The desires and passions of a vicious man, having once obtained an unlimited sway, trample him under their feet. They make him feel that he is subject to various, contradic- tory and imperious masters, who often pull him different ways. His soul is rendered the receptacle of many repug- naiit and jarring dispositions ; and resembles some barbarous country, cantoned out into different principalities, which are continually waging war on one another. Diseases, poverty, disappointment, and shame, are far from being, in every instance, the unavoidable doom of man They are much more frequently the offspring of his own mis- guided choice. Intemperance engenders disease, sloth pro- duces poverty, pride creates disappointments, and dishonesty exposes to shame. The ungoverned passions of men be- tray 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 passion among men, much more that it should have prevailed among Christans. Where so much is suffered in common, little room is left for envy. There is more occasion for pity and sympathy, and an inclination to assist each other. At our first setting out in life, when yet unacquainted with the world and its snares, when eveiy pleasure enchants with its smile, and every object shines with the gloss o^novelty, let us beware of the seducing appearances which surround us ; and retoiieci what others have sur^ered from the power of ^6 THE ENGLISH READER. Part t. headstrong desire. If we allow any passion, even though it be esteemed innocent, to acquire an absolute ascendant, our inward peace will be impaired. But if any which has the taint af 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 af- fords the first introduction to vice. The irregular gratifica- tions into which it occasionally seduces him, appear under the form of venial weaknesses ; and are indulged, in the be- ginning, with scrupulousness and reserve. But, by longer practice, these restraints weaken, and the power of habit grows. One vice brings in another to its aid. By a sort of natural affinity they connect and entwine themselves toge- ther ; till their roots come to be spread wide and deep over ail the soul. SECTION X. WHENCE arises the misery of this present world 1 It is not owing to our cloudy atmosphere, our changing seasons, and inclement skies. It is not owing to the debility of our bodies, or to the unequal distribution of the goods of for- tune. Amidst all disadvantages of this kind, a pure, a stead- fast, and enlightened mind, possessed of strong virtue, could enjoy itself in peace, and smile at the impotent assaults of fortune and the elements. It is within ourselves that misery has fixed its seat. Our disordered hearts, our guilty pas- sions, our violent prejudices, and misplaced desires, are the instruments of the trouble which we endure. These sharpen the darts which adversity would otherwise point in vaia against us. While the vain and the licentious are revelling in the midst of extravagance and riot, how little do they think of those scenes of sore distress which are passing at that mo- ment throughout the world; multitudes struggling for a poor subsistence, to support the wife and children whom they love, and who look up to them with eaoer eves for that bread which they can hardly procure ; multitudes groaning under sickness in desolate cottages, untendod and unmourned ; many, apparently in a better situation of life, pining away in secret with concealed griefs; families weeping over the be- loved friends whom they have lost, or in all the bitterness of ajiffuUh, bidding those who are just expiring the last adieu. Never adventure on too near an approach to what is evil. Familiarize not yourselves with it, in the slightest instances, without fear. Listen with reverence to every reprebensioa Chaf. I. SELECT SENTENCES. 27 of conscience ; and preserve the most quick and accurate sen- sibility to right and wrong. If ever your moral impressions begin to decay, and your natural abhorrence of guilt to les- sen, you have ground to dread that the ruin of virtue is fast app) oaching. By disappointments and trials the violence of our pas sions is tamed, and our minds are formed to sobriety and re- flection. In the varieties of life, occasioned by the vicissi- tudes of worldly fortune, we are inured to habits both of the active and the suffering virtues. How much soever we com- plain of the vanity of the world, facts plainly show, that if its vanity were less, it could not answer the purpose of salutary discipline. Unsatisfactory as ii is, its pleasures are still too apt to corrupt our heaits. How fatal then must the conse- quences have been, had it yielded us more complete enjoy- ment 1 If, with all its troubles, we are in danger of being too much attached to it, how entirely would it have seduced our affections, if no troubles had been mingled with its pleasures? In seasons of distress or difficulty, to abandon ourselves to dejection, carries no mark of a great or a worthy mind. In- stead of sinking under trouble, and declaring "that his soul is weary of life," it becomes a wise and a good man, in the evil day, with firmness to maintain his post : to bear up against the storm; to have recourse to those advantages which, in the worst of times, are always left to integrity and virtue ; and never to give up the hope that better days may yet arise. How many young persons have at first set out in the world with excellent dispositions of heart; generous, charitable, and humane ; kind to their friends, and amiable among all with whom they had intercourse ! And yet how often have we seen all those fine appearances unhappily blasted in the progress of life, merely through he infiu nee of loose and corrupting pleasures : and those very persons, who promised once to be blessings to the world, sink down, in the end, to be the burden and nuisance of society ! The most common propensity of mankind, is to store fu- turity with whatever is agreeable to them ; especially in those periods of life, when imagination is lively, and hope is ar- dent. Looking forward to the year now beginning, they are ready to promise themselves much, from the foundations cnf prosperity which they have laid; from the friendships and connexions which they have secured ; and from the plans of con- duct which they have formed. Alas! how deceitful do all these dreams of happiness often prove ! While many are say- infj in secret to their hearts, " To-morrow shall be as this day, 23 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. and more abundantly," we are obliged in return to say to them; "Boast not yourselves of to-morrow for you knovv not what a day may bring forth!'* : ; CHAPTER n. V ^ARR^TIVE PIECES. SECTION I. JVb tank or possessions can make the guilty mind happy, DIONYSIUS, the tyrant of Sicily, was far from being happy, though he possessed great riches, and all the plea- sures which wealth and power could procure. Damocles, one of his flatterers, deceived by these specious appearances of happiness, took occasion to compliment him on the extent of his power, his treasures, and royal magnificence ; and declaied that no monarch had ever been greater or happier than Dionysius. 2 "Hast thou a mind, Damocles," says the king, " to taste this happiness ; and to know, by experience, what the enjojrments are, of which thou hast so high an idea?" Da- mocles, with joy, accepted the offer. The king ordered that a royal banquet should be prepared, and a gilded sofa, cover- ed with rich embroidery, placed for his favourite. Side- boards, loaded with gold and slkver plate, of immense value, were arranged in the apartment. 3 Pages of extraordinary beauty were ordered to attend his table, and to obey his commands with the utmost readi- ness, and the most profound submission. Fragrant oint- ments, chaplets of flowers, and rich perfumes, were added to the entertainment. The table was loaded with the most exquisite delicacies of every kind. Damocles, intoxicated with pleasure, fancied himself amongst superior beings. 4 But in the midst of all this happiness, as he lay indulging himself in state, he sees let down from the ceiling, exactly over his head, a glittering sword hung by a single hair. The sight of impending destruction put a speedy end to hid joy and revelling. The pomp of his attendance, the glit- ter of the carved plate, and the delicacy of the viands, cease to aflbrd him any pleasure. * .1;^. 5 He dreads to stretch forth his hand to the table. He throws off the garland of roses. He hastens to remove from bis dangerous situation ; and earnestly entreats the kln^ to ■M Chap. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 19 restore him to his former humble condition, having no desire to enjoy any longer a happiness so terrible. 6 By this device, Dionysius intimated to Damocles, how miserable he was in the midst of all his treasures ; and in possession of all the honours and enjoyments vvlilch royalty could bestow. cicero. SECTION II. Change of external coniliiion is often adverse lo virtue* IN the days of Joram, king of Israel, flourished the prophet Elisha. His character was so eminent, and his fame so widely spread, that Benhadad, the king of Syria, though an idolater, sent to consult him, concerning the issue of a dis- temper which threatened his life. The messenger employed on this occasion was Ilazael who appeal's to have been one of the princes, or chief men of the Syrian court. 2 Charged with rich gifts from the king, he presents him- self before the prophet; and accosts him in terms of the high- est respect. During the conference whicli they held toge- ther, Elisha fixed his eyes steadfastly on the countenance of Hazael, and discerning, by a prophetic s})irit, his future ty- ranny and ciuelty, he could not contain himself from bui'sting into a flood of tear's. 3 When Hazael, in surprise, inquired into the cause of this sudden emotion, the prophet plainly infariiigd him of the crimes and barbarities, which he foresaw Ihat he would after- wards commit. The soul of Hazael abhorred, at this time, the thoughts of cruelty. Uncorrnpted, as yet, by ambition or greatness, his mviignation rose at being thought capable of the savage actions which the prophet had mentioned; and, with much warmth, he replies : " But what ! is thy sewant a jlog, that he should do this gr^^at thing?" vk4 Tilisha makes no return, but to point out a remarkable change, which was to take place in his condition : '* i. he Lord hath shown me, that tho\i s'l.alt be kmg over Syria." In the course of time, all that liad been predicted ctujie to pass. Hazael ascended the throne, and ambition took possession of h'is heart. *' He smote the cliildre. of Israel m all their coasts. He oppressel them hir'ng a-) :he days «f king Je- hoahazj" and, from what is ieil on record of his actions, he plainly appears to have proved, what the prophet foresaw him to be, a man of violence, cruelty and blood. 6 In this passage of history n object is presented, which deserves our serious attention We behold a man who, in :3* . : ' 39 THE ENGLISH READER. Part. I. one state of life, could not look upon certain crames without surprise and iiorror ; who knew so little of himself, as to l)e- lieve it impossible for him ever to he concerned in committijig them ; that same man, by a change of condition, and an un- guarded state of mind, transformed in all his sentiments ; and as he rose in greatness, rising also in guilt ; till at last he completed that whole character of iniquity, which he once deteiited. blaik. SECTION III. Haman ; or^ the misery of pride, AHASITERUS, who is supposed to be the prince known among the Greek historians by the name of Aitaxerxes, had advanced to the chief dignity in his kingdom, Haman, an Amalekite, who inherited all the ancient enmity of his race to the Jewish nation. He appears, from what is recorded of him, to have been a very wicked minister. Raised to great- ness without merit, he employed his power solely for the gra- tification of his passions. 2 As the honours which he possessed were next to royal, his pride was every day fed with that servile homage, which is peculiar to Asiatic courts ; and all the servants of the king prostrated themselves before him. In the midst of this gene- I'al adulation, one person only stooped not to Haman. 3 This was Mordecai the Jew ; who, knowing this Ama- lekite to be afti enemy to the people of God, and, with vir- tuous indignation, despising that insolence of prosperity with which he saw him lifted up, " bowed not, nor did him reve- rence." On this appearance of disrespect from Mordecai, Haman " was full of wrath ; but he thought scorn to lay kands on Mordecai alone." Personal reve*iji,.j was liot suffi- cient to sjitisfy him. 4 So violent and black were his passions, that he resolve^, to exterminate the whole nation to which Mordecai belongedjf Abusing, for this cruel purpose, the favour of his credulous sovereign, he obtained a decree to be sent forth, that against a certain day, all the Jews throughout the Persian dominions should be put to the sword. 6 Meanwhile, confident of success, and blind to approach- ing ruin, he continued exulting in his prosperity. Invited by Ahasuerus to a royal banquet, which Esther the queen had prepared, " he w'ent forth, that day joyful, and with a glad heart." But behold how slight an incident was sufficient to puison his joy ! As he went forth he saw Mordecai in the taig's gate ; and observed, that he still refused to do him Chap. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. ai homage. " He stood not up, nor was moved lor him;'* cJ- though he well knew the formidable designs which Hainan was preparing to execute. 6 One private man, who despised his greatness, and dis- dained submission, while a whole kingdom trembled before him; one spirit, which the utmost stretch of his power could neither subdue nor humble, blasted his triumphs. His whole soul was shaken with a storm of passion. Wrath, pride, jsind desire of revenge, rose into fury. With difficulty he restrained himself in public ; but as soon as he came to his own house, he was forced to disclose the agony of his mind. 7 He gathered together his friends and family, with Ze- resh his wife. " He told them of the glory of his riches, and the multitude of his children, and of all the things wherein tlie king had promoted him; and how he had advanced him above the princes and servants of the king. He said, more- over, Yea, Esther the queen, suffered no man to come in with the king, to the banquet that she had prepared, but my- self; and to-morrow also am I invited to her with the king." After all this preamble, what is the conclusion? "Yet all this availeth me nothing, so long as I see Mordecai the Jew sitting at the king's gate." 8 The sequel of Haman's history I shall not now pursue. It might afford matter for much instruction, by the conspicu- ous justice of God in his fall and punishment. But contem- plating only the singular situation, in which the expressions just quoted present him, and the violent agitation of his mind which they display, the following reflections naturally arise : How miserable is vice, when one guilty passion creates so much torment! how unavailing is prosperity, when in the height of it, a single disappointment can destroy the relish of all its pleasures! how weak is human nature, which, in the absence of real, is thus prone to form to itself imaginary woes! BLAIR. SECTION IV. Lady Jane Gray. *^ THIS excellent personage wis descended from the royal line of England by both her parents. She was carefully edu- cated in the principles of the reformation; and her wisdom and virtue rendered her a shining example to her sex. But it was her lot to continue onU' a short ptriod on this stage of being; for, in early life, -he fer a saciidce to tl > wild am- bition of the duke of Norinumberland, who promotwi a mai- riage between her and his son, lord Guilford Dudley; an«( 3a THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. raised her to t}i9 throne of England, in opposition to the rights of Maiy and Elizabeth. 2 At the time of their marriage, she was orily about eigh- teen years of age, and her iiusband was also very young; a season of life vfry unequal to oppose the interested views of artful and aspiring men ; who instead of exposing them in danger, should have been the protectors of their imioceiiC(i and youth. 3 This extraordinary young person, besides the solid en- dowments of piety and virtue, possessed the most engaging disposition, the most accomplished parts; and being of an equal age with king jul^vard \I. she had received all her education with him, and seemed even to possess a greater fa- cility in acquiring every pnrt of manly ancf classical literature. 4 She had attained a knowledge of the Roman and Greek languages, as well as of severnl modern tongues ; had passe*! most of her time in aji application to learning ; and express- ed a great indifrereuce for other occupations and amusements usual witli her sex and station. 6 Roger Ascham, tutor to the lady Elizabeth, having at one time paid lier a visit, found her employed in readinj^ Plato, %vhile the rest of tlie family were engager! in a party of hunting in the park ; and upon his admir'ng tlie sinf^ularity of her choice, she told 1dm that s^he " rore'ved more plea- sure from that author, than the others could reap from all their sport and gaiety." 6 Ifer heart, replete with this love of litcn'ature and seri- ous studies, and with tenderness towards her h'lsband, who was deserving of her affection, had r.ever opened itself to the flattering allurements of ambiiion ; aiul the information of her advancement to the throne was by no means agreeable to her. She even refused to accept the crown ; pleaded the preferable right of the two princesses ; expressed her dread of tlie consequences attending an enterprise so dangerous, not to say criminal ; and desired to remain in that private station in which she was born, 7 Overcome at last with the entreaties, rather than rea- sons, of her father and t*ather-in-law, and, above all, of -her husband, she submitted to ther will, and vras prevailed on to relinquish her own judgme.it. But her elevation was of very short continuance. The nation declared for queen MsMy ; and the lady Jane, after wearing the vain pageantry of a crown during ten days, returned to a private life, with much more satisfaction than she felt when royalty was ten- dered to her. i^ fV i 8 ■^jt«^ "/>>"*'*■ Chap. U. NARRATIVE PIEC^ 3. 8 Queen Mary, ivho appears to hm% been incapable oi generosity or clemency, determined to remove every per- son, from whom the least danger could be apprehended. Warning was, therefore, given to lady Jane to prepare for death ; a doom which she had expected, and wnich the in* nocence of her life, as well as the misfortunes to which she had been exposed, rendered no unwelcome news to her. 9 The queen's bigoted zeal, under colour of tender mercy to the prisoner's soul, induced her to send priests, who mo- lested her with perpetual disputation ; and even a reprieve of three days was granted her^ in hopes that she would be per- suaded, during that time, to pay, by a timely conversion to popery, some regard to her eternal welfare. 1 Lady Jane had presence of mind, in those melancholy circumstances, not only to defend her religion by solid argu- ments, but also to write a letter to her sister, in the Greek language, in which, besides sending her a copy of the Scrip* tures in that tongue, she exhorted her to mahitain, in every fortune, a like steady perseverance. 11 On the day of her execution, her husband, lord Guil- ford, desired permission to see her ; but she refused her con- sent, and sent him word, that the tenderness of their part- ing, would overcome the fortitude of both ; and would too much unbend their minds from that constancy which their approaching end re(juired of them. Their separation, she said, would be only for a moment, and they would soon re- join each other in a scene, where their affections would be forever united ; and where death, disappointment, and mis- fortune s, could no longer have access to them, qt disturb their eternal felicity. 12 It had been intended to execute the lady Jane and lord Guilford together on the same scaffold, at Tower Hill ; but the council, dreading the compassion of the people for their youth, beauty, innocence, and noble birth, changed their orders, and gave directions that she should be beheaded within the verge of the Tower. 13 She saw her husband led to execution ; and, having given him from the window some token of her remembrance, she waited with ti'anquillity till her own appointed hour should bring her to a like fate. She even saw his headless body car- ried back in a cart; and found hers^f more cofirmed by the reports which she heard of the constancy of his end, .than shaken by so tender and melancholy a spectacle. 4iS ]4 q,\y John Gage, constable of the Tower, when he led / her to cxecT'.tiori, ilesircd her to bestow orv him some small A u THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. ■iresent, which he might Iceep as a perpetual memorial of her. She gave him her table-hook, in which she had just wrUten three sentences, on seeing her husband's dead body ; one in Oreeic, another in La^ih, a third in English. 16 The purport of them 'Vas, *' that human justice was Against his body, but the Divine Mercy would be favourable to his soul; and that if her fault deserved punishment, licr jouth, at least, and her imprudence, were worthy of excuse ; fuid that God and posterity, she trusted, would show her fa- irour." On the scaffold, she made a speech ^> the by-stand- firs, in which the mildness of her dispositiori !ed her to talvc the blame entirely on herself, without uttering one complaint ^nst the severity with which she had been treated. 16 She said, that her offence was, not that she had laid tier hand upon the crown, but that she had not rejected it with sufficient constancy ; that she had less erred through ambition than through reverence to her parents, whom she had been taught to love and ohty : that she willingly re- ceived death, as the only satisfaction which she could now make to the injured state ; and though her infringement of tJie laws had been constrained, she would show, by her vol- untary submission to their sentence, that she was desirous to atone for that disobedience, into which too much filial piety had betrayed ner : that she had justly deserved this punish- ment, for being made the instrument, though the unwilling instrument, of the ambition of others ; and that the story of her life, she hoped, might at least be useful, by proving that innocence excuses not great misdeeds, if they tend in any way io the destruction of the commonwealth. 17 Afler uttering these words, she caused herself to be ilisrobed by her women, and with a steady, serene counte- naace, submitted herself to the executioner. hu.me. SECTION V. 'frttip^rul ; or, the vanity of riches, AS Ortogrul, of Basra, was one day wandering along the streets of Bagdat, musing on the varieties of merchandise which the shops opened to his view, and observing the dif- ferent occupations which busied the multitude on every side^ he was awakened from the tranquillity of meditation, by a crowd that obstructed his '^lassage. He raised his eyes, and saw the chief vizier wlio, having returned from the divan, ♦vas catering his palace. j - 2 Ortogi*ul mingled with the attendants; and, being 6U|)u {»osed to have some petition for the vizier, was permitted to enter, mired Chap. 1L NARRATIVE PIECES). <^ enter. He suirered the spaciousness of the apartments, acf^ mired the walls hung with golden tapestry , and the flooni covered with silken carpets ; and despised the simple neat* ness of his own little habitation. %^. ; . 3 " Surely," said he to himself, " this palace Is the seat of iiappiness ; where pleasure succeeds to pleasure, and dis- content and sorrow can have no admission. Whatever na- ture has provided for the delight of sense, is here spread foilh to be enjoyed. What can mortals hope or imagine, which the master of this palace has not obtained ? The dishes of luxury cover his table ! the voice of harmony lulls him in hi» bowers ; he breathes the fragrance of the groves of Java^ and sleeps upon the down of tlie cygnets of the Ganges. 4 He speaks, and his mandate is obeyed ; he wishes, anrl his wish is gratified ; all whom he sees, obey him, and all whom he hears, flatter him. How different, O, Ortogrul, is thy condition, who art doomed to the perpetual torments of unsatisfied desire; and who hast no amusement in thjr power, that can withhold thee from thy own reflections* ! 5 They tell thee that thou art wise; but what does wisdom avail with poverty ? None will flatter the poor ; and the wise have very little power of flattering themselves. That man is surely the most wretched of the sons of wretchedness, who lives with his own faults and follies always before him; and who has none to reconcile him to himself by praise, and vene- ration. I have long sought content, and have not found it ; I will from this moment endeavour to be rich.'-' ' 6 Full of his new resolution, he shut himself in his cham- ber for six months, to deliberate how he should grow rich. He sometimes purposed to olTer himself as a counsellor to one of the kings of India ; and at others resolved to dig for dia- monds in the mines of Golconda, 7 One day, after some hours passed in violent fluctuation of opuiion, sleep insensibly seized him in his chair. Ho dreamed that he was ranging a desert coimtry, in search of some one that might teach him to grow rich ; and, as he stood on the top of a hill, shaded with cypress, in doubt whither to direct his steps, his father appeared on a sudden standing: before him. " Ortogrul," said the old man, " I know thy perplexity; listen to thy fatlier: turn thine eyes on the oppo- site mountain." 8 Ortogrul looked, and saw a torrent tumbling down the rocks, roaring with the noise of thunder, and scatterkig its i'oam opt the impending woods. "Now,** said his fa&er, " heboid the valley that lies betweea the hiUa*'^ Qrtognil l.iv;c ¥m R 3^ THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. looked, and espied a little well, out of which issued ft small rivulet. "Tell me now," said his father, "dost thou wish for sudden affluence, that may pour upon tiiee lilic the moun- tain torrent ; or for a slow and gradual incieaHe, resembling the rill gliding from the well ?" 9 ** Let me be quickly rich," said Ortogrul; "let the golden stream be quick and violent." " Look around thee," said his father, " once again." Oi-tognil loolanl, and per- ceived the channel of the torrent dry and duHty ; but follow* ing the rivulet from the well, he traced it to a wide lake, which the supply, slo"' and constant, kept alwnys full. 4Ie awoke, and determined to grow rich by silent profit, and per- itevering industry. 10 Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in niorchandiae ", and in twenty years purchased lands, on which he raised a house, equal in sumptuousness to that of the vizier; to this mansion he invited all the ministers of pleasure, expecting to enjoy all the felicity which he had imagined r'lchcH able to atlbrd. Leisure soon made him weary of himself, and lie longed to be persuaded that he was great and hapj)y. He was cour- I teous and liberal ; he gave all that approached him hopes of pleasing him, and all who should please him, hopes oi being rewarded. Every art of praise was tried, and every •ource of adulatory fiction was exhausted. 11 Ortogrul heard his flatterers without delight, because he found himself unable to believe them. His own heait told him its frailties ; his own understanding reproached him with his faults. " How long," said he, with a deep sigh, " have I been labouring in vain to amass wealth, which at last is useless ! Let no man hereafter wish to be rich, who is already too wise to be flattered." on. johnson. . SECTION VL The Hill of Science. IN that season of the year, when the serenity of the sky, " Uie various fruits which cover the ground, the discoloured foliage of the trees, and all the sweet, hut fading graces of inspiring autumn, open the mind to benevolence, and dispose it for contemplation, I was wandering in a beautiful and ro- mantic country, till curiosity began to give way to weariness; and 1 sat down on the fragment of a rock overgrown with moss ; where the rustling of the falling leaves, the dashing of waters, and the hum of the distant city, soothed my mind tato a most perfect tranquillity ; and sleep insensibly stole ■ ^k^' ^■■-■j CUAP. II. NARRATIVE PIKCES. 37 njion me, as I was indul^inu; the n'j^reealile reveries, which the ohjects arounH me naturally inspired. 2 I immediately fouiul myself in a vast extended plain, in tlie middle of which arose a mountain, higher than I had be- fore any conception of. It was covered with a inulfilude of people, chielly youth ; many of whom pressed forward with the liveliest expression of ardour in tlieir countiMiance, though the way was in many places, steep and dillicnlt. 3 I observed those who had hut ju t he^ain to cHtnb the hill, thought themselves not i'ur from th<.* top; but as they proceeded, new hills were continually rising to their view ; and the summit of the highest they cotdd In^fore discern, seemed but the foot of another, till the moanta.a at length ap- peared to lose itself in the clouds. 4 As I was gazing on these things with astonishment, a friendly instructer suddenly appeared . '* The mountain be- fore thee," said he, "is the Hill of Science. Oa tlie top is the temple of Truth, whose head is aI)ove the clouds, and a veil of pure light covers her face. Observe the progress of her votaries ; be silent and attentive." ^» 6 After I had noticed a variety of objects, I turned my eyes towards the multitudes v,ho were dhnbing the steep as- cent; and observed amongst them a youth of a livelv look, a piercing eye, and something fiery and irrevith c(\}.m\ and uninterrupted steadiness ; for, besides the diUi- '1^ m Itiffr T) 3S THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. I! cullies of the way, they were continually solicited to turn aside by a numerous cro\vd of Appetites, Passions, and Pleasures, whose importunity, when once complied with, they became less and less able to resist ; and though they often returned to tlie path, tlie asperities of lhf3 road were more severely felt ; the hill appeared more steep and rug- ged ; the fruits, which were wholesome and refreshing, semed harsh and ill lasted ; their sight grew dim ; and their feet tript at every little obstruction. 9 I saw, with some surprise, that the Muses, whose bu- siness was to cheer and encourage those who were toiling up the ascent, would often sing in tlie bovvers of Pleasure, and accompany those who were enticed away at the call of the Pa'aions. They accompanied them, however, but a little way ; and always forsook them when they lost sight of the hill. The tyrants then doubled their chains upon the unhappy captives, and led them away, without resistance, to the cells of Ignorance, or the mansions of Misery. 10 Amongst the innumerable seducei's, who were endea- vouring^to draw away the votaries of 'i'ruth from the path of science, there was one, so little foi'niidable in her appeajv ance, and so gentle and languid in ber attempts, that I shoulcl scarcely have taken notice of her, but for the numbei's she had imperceptibly loaded with her chains. 11 Indolence, (for so she was called,) far from proceeding to open hostilities, did not attempt to turn their feet out of the path, but contented herseli' with retarding their pro- cess ; and the purpose she could iiot force them to abandon, she persuaded them to delaj^ Her touch had a power like that of the torpedo, which withered the strength of those who came within its ii Ouencc. Her unhappy captives still turned their faces tovvards the temple, and always hoped to arrive there ; but the ground seemed to slide from btmeath their feet, and they found llfcniselves at the bottom, before they suspected they had changed their place. 12 The placid serenity, which at first appeared in their countenance, changed by degree>s into a melancholy languor, which was tinged with deeper and deeper gloom, as they glided down the stream of Insignificance ; a dark and slug- gish water, which is curled by no breeze, and enlivened by no murmur, till it falls into a dead sea, where startled pas- sengers are awakened by the shock, and the next moment buried in the gulf of Oblivion. 23 Of all tho unhappy deserters from the paths of Science, Chap. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 39 ^' none seemed less able to return than the followers of Indo- lence. The captives of Appetite and Passion would often seize the moment when their tyrants were languid or asleep, to escape from their enchantment ; but the dominion of In- dolence was constant and unreiflitted ; and seldom resisted, till resistance was in vain. 14 After contemplating thrive things, T turned my eyes towards the top of the mountain, where the air was always pure and exhilirating, the pnlh shaded with laurels and ever- greens, and the effulgence which he?;nt;d from the face of Science seemed to shed a glory round her votaries. Hap- py, said I, are they who are permitted to ascend the moun- tain! Rut while I was pronouncing this exclamation, with uncommon ardour, T snw, standing beside me, a form of di- viner features, and a more benign radiance. 15 " Happier," said she, ** are they whom Virtue conducts to the Mansions of Content !" " What," said I, '* does Vir- tue then reside in the vple r' **I am found," said she, "in the vale, and T illuminate the mountai'i. I cheer the cottager at his toil, and inspire the sage at his meditation. I mingle in the crowd of cities, and bless the hermit in his ceil. I have a temple in every heart that owns my influence, and to him that wishes for me, I am already present. Science may raise thee to eminence ; but 1 alone can guide thee to felicity!" 16 While Virtue was thus speaking, I stretched out my arms towards her, with a vehemence which broke my slum- ber. The chill dews were falling around me, and the shades of evening stretched over the landscape. I hastened home- ward, and resigned the night to silence and meditation. AIKIN. SECTION VII. The journey of a day ; a picture of human life. OBIDAH, the son of Abensina, left the caravansera early m the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains of Indostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest ; he was animated with hope ; he was incited by desire ; he walked swiftly forward over the vallies, and saw the hills gradually rising before him. 2 As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the morning song of the bird of paradise ; he was fanned by the lest fluttera of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew from groves of spices. He sometimes contemplated the towering > 40 THE ENGLISH READER. Part « ^ Height of the oak, monarch of the hills ; and sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring; all his senses were gratified, and all care was banished from his heart. 3 Thus he went on, till the sun approached his meridian, and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength , he then iooked round about him for some more commodious path. He saw, on his rsght hand, a grove iiat seemed to wave its shades as a sign of invitation ; he entered it, and found the coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. 4 He did not, however, foiget whither he was travelling; but found a narrow way, bordered with floweis, which ap- peared to have tiie same dliection 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 re- wards of diligence without sulfering its fatigues, 6 He, therefore, still continuerl to walk for a time, with- out the least remission of his ardour, except that he was sometimes tempted to stop by the music of the birds, which the heat had assembled iii the shade ; and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers that covered the banks on each side, or the fruits that hung upon the branches. 6 At last, the green path began to decline from its first tendency, and to wind among hills and thickets, cooled with fountains, and murmuring with waterfalls. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and common track ; but remembering that the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved to pur- sue the new path, which he supposed only to make a few meanders, in compliance with the varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the common road. 7 Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, though he suspected that he was not gaining ground. This uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every new object, and give way to every sensation that might soothe or divert him. He listened to every echo; he mounted every hill for a fresh prospect; he turned aside to every cascade; and pleased himself with tracing the course of a gentle river that rolled among the trees, and watered a large region with innumerable circumvolutions. 8 In these amusements, the hours passed away unaccount- ed ; his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew apt towards what point to travel, lie stood pensive and Chap. II. NARllATIYE PIECES. 4f confused, afraid to ^o forward, lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While lie was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky .was overspread with clouds ; the day vanished from hefore him ; and a sud- den tempest gathered round his head. 9 lie was now roused hy his danQ;er, to a quick and pain- ful rememhrance of his folly ; he now saw how happiness is lost when ease is consulted • he lamented the unmanly im- patience that prompted him to seek shelter in the grove ; and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle to tri- fle. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, '•r.d a clap of thunder broke his meditation. 10 He now resolved to do what yet remained in his power, to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to find some issue where the wood mii?ht open into the plaiu. He prostrated him.self on the ground, and recommended his life to the Lord of Nature. He rose with confidence and tran- quillity, and pressed on with resolution. The beasts of the desert were in motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage and expiration. All the horrors of darkness and solitude surrounded him : tiie wind roared in the woods ; and the torrents tumbled from the hills. 11 Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the wild, without knowing whither he was going, or whether he was every moment drawing nearer to safety, or to destruc- tion. At length, not fear, but labour, began to overcome him ; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled ; and he was on the point of lying down in resignation to his fate, when he beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of a taper. 12 He advanced towards the light, and finding that it pro- ceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on which Obidah fed with eagerness and gratitude. 13 When the repast was over, "Tell me," said the her- mit, " by what chance thou hast been brought hither? I have been now twenty years an inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never savv a man before." Obidah then related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or palliatioif. 14 " Son," said the hermit, << let the errors and follies, the dangers and escape of s ay, sink deep into thy heart. «* ■ ■ - D2 >:'1|? mm ■ id THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. r » ' • I Remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a day We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour, and full of expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope, with gaiety and with diligence, and travel on a while in the direct voa^ of piety, towards the mansions of rest. 15 In a short time, we remit our fervour and endeavour to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining tne same end. We then relax our vi- gour, and resolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance ; but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of securit}^; — • "TB Here the heait softens, and vigilance subsides; we are then willing to enquii-e wnetner another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling ; and always hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, which, for a while, we keep in our sight, and to which we purpose to return. But tempta- tion succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for anotlier; we in time lose the happiness of innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. 17 By degrees, \^ e let fall the remembrance of our original mtention, and quit the only adcMuate object of rational de- sire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy ; till the dai'kness of old age begins to invade us, and disease and anxiety, obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, witii riorrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often vdin*y wisn, that we had not forsaken she ways of virtue. 18 Happy are they, my son, wno snail learn from thy ex- ample, not to despair ; but sliall remember, that, though me day is past, and tneir strentrth is wasted, tbrre yet re- iiains one effort to be made * trat reiormation is never hope- ess, nor sincere endeavours ever unassisted ; that the wan lerer may at length return, after all his errors ; and that he who implores strejigth and cotn'age from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my «on, to thy repose ; commit tbvsel' to the care of C')mnipo- .ence, and when the niorning calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life." dr. johnson. •-';•*(*.• ¥ ■ Chap. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 43 CHAPTER III. DIDACTIC PIECES. SECTION I. TJie importance of a good Editcatioiu 1 CONSIDER a human soul, without education, like marble in the quarry : which shows none of its inherent beauties, until the skill of the polisher fetches out the co- lours. m akes the surface shine, and discovers every orna- inental cloudpspeV^and vein, that runs through the body of it. Education, after the same manner, when it works upoa a noble mind, draws out to view every latent virtue and per- fection, which, ^vithout such helps, are never able ^o make their appearance. 2 If my reader will give me leave to change the allusion so soon upon him, I shall make use of the same instance to il- lustrate the force of education, which Aristotle has brought to explain his doctrine of substantial forms, when he tells us that a statue lies hid in a block of marble ; and that the art of the statuary only clears away the siipertluous matter, and removes the rubbish. The figure is in the stone, and the sculptor only finds it. 3 What sculpture is to a block of marble, education is to a human soul. The philosopher, the saint, or the hero, the' wise, the good, or tlie great man, very often lies hid and concealed in a plebeian, which a proper education might have disinterred, and brought to light. I am therefore much de- lighted with reading the accounts ot' e^avase nations ; and with contemplating those virtues wliich are wild and uncultivated : to see courage exerting itself in fierceneBS, resolution in obsti- nacy, wisdom in cunning, patience in sullenness and despair. 4 Men's passions operate variously, and appear in difierent kinds of actions, according as they are more or less rectifiad and swayed by reason. When one liears of negroes, who, upon the death of their masters, or up, were it rightly cultivated ] And what colour ef excuse eaui 44 THE ENGLISH READER. Part. I, there b«, for the contempt with which \se treat this part of our species, tirat we should not put them upon the common footinf? of iuniianity ; that we should only set an insignifi- cant fine upon the man who murders them ; nay, that we should, as much as in us lies, cut them off* from the pros- pects oi* happiness in another world, as well as in this ; and deny them that which we look upon as the proper means for attaining it ? i . . 6 It is therefore an unspeakable blessing, to be born m those pails of the world where wisdom and knowledge flourish ; though, it must be confessed, there are, even in these parts, several poor uninstructed persons, who are but Me above the inhabitants of those nations of which I have been here speaking ; as those who have had the advantages of a more liberal education, rise above one another by several diflerem degrees of perfection. 7 For, to return to our statue in the block of marble, we see it-soiiietimes only begun to be chipped, sometimes rough hewn, and but just sketched into a human figure; some- times we see the man appearing distinctly in all his limbs and features ; sometimes, we find the figure wrought up to great elegancy ; but seldom meet with any to which the hand of a Phidias or a Praxiteles, could not give several nice touches and finishings. addison. SECTION II. On Gratitude, THERE is not a more pleasing exercise of the mind, than gratitude. It is accompanied with so great Inward sa- tisfaction, that the duty is sufficiently rewarded by the^per- formance. It is not, like the practice of many other virtues, difficult and painful, but attended with so much pleasure, that were there no positive command which enjoined it, nor any recompense laid up for it hereafter, a generous mind would indulge in it, for the natural gratification which it affords. 2 If gratitude is due from man to man, how much more from man to his Maker? The Supreme Being, dees not only coniier upon us those bounties which proceed more immediate- ly from his own hand, but orfn those benefits which are con- veyed to us by others. F.v< : v blessing we enjoy, by what means soever it may be conferred upon us, is the gift of him who is the crreat Author of good, and the Father of mercies. 3 If gratitude, wlien exerted towards one another, uatu- rallv produces a very pleasing sensation in the mind of a / S Chap. HI. DIDACTIC PIECES. 45 grateful iran, it exalts tiie soul into rapture when it is em- ployed on this cfreat ohject of gi'atitude ; on this beneficent Being, who has given us every thing we already possess, and from whom we expect every thing we yet hope for. addison. SECTION III. On Forgiveness. THE most plain and natural sentiments of equity concur with divine authority, to enforce the duty of forgiveness. IjCt him who has never in his life done wrong, be allow- ed the privilege of remaining inexorable. But let such as are conscious of frailties and crimes, consider forejiveness as a debt which they owe to others. Common failings are the strongest lesson of mutual forbearance. Were this virtue unknown among men, order and comfort, peace and repose, would be strangers to human life. 2 Injuries retaliated according to the exorbitant measure which passion prescribes, would excite resentment in return. The injured person would become the injurer ; and thus wrongs, retaliations, and fresh injuries, would circulate in endless succession, till the world was rendered a field of blood. 3 Of all the passions which invade the human breast, re- venge is the most direful. When allowed to reign with full dominion, it is more than sufficient to poison the few plea- sures which remain to man in his present state. How much soever a pei'son may sujfer from injustice, he is always in hazard of sulfering more from the prosecution of revenge. The violence of an enemy cannot inflict what is equal to Qie torment he creates to himself, by means of the fierce and desperate passions which he allows to rage in his soul. 4 Those evil spirits that inhabit the regions of misery, are represented as delighthig in revenge and cruelty. But all that is great and good in the universe, is on the side of clem- ency and mercy. The Almighty Ruler of the world, though for ages offended by the unrighteousness, and insulted by the impiety of men, is " long-sutfering and slow to anger." 5 His Son, when he appeared in our nature, exhibited, both in his life and his death, the most illustrious example of forgiveness which the world ever beheld. If we look m- to the history of mankind, we shall find that, in every age, they who have been respected as worthy, or admired as great have been distinguished for this virtue. 6 Revenge dwells in llitle minds. A nol»le and magnani- flious spirit, is always superior to it. It suffers not, from 46 THE KNGLISH READER. Part I. the injuries of men those severe shocks which others feel. Collected within itself, it stands unmoved by their impotent assaults ; and, with generous pity, rather than with anger, looks down on their unworthy cenduct. It has been truly said, that the greatest man on earth can no sooner commit an injury, than a good man can make himself greater, by for giving it. BLAIR. SECTION IV., J\fotives to the practice of Gentleness, TO promote the virtue of gentleness, we ought to view our character with an impartial eye ; and to learn, from our own failings, to gfive that indulgence which in our turn we claim. It is pride which fills the world with so much harshness and severity In the fulness of self-estimation, we forget what we are. We claim attentions to which we are not entitled. We are rigorous to offences, as if we had never offended ; unfeeling to distress, as if we knew not what it was to suffer. From those airy regions of pride and folly, let us descend to our proper level. 2 Let us survey the natural equality on which Providence has placed man with man, and reflect on the infirmities com- mon to all. If the reflection on natural equality and mutual offences, be insufficient to prompt humanity, let us at least remember what we are in the sight of our Creator. Have we none of that forbearance to give one another, which we all so earnestly entreat from heaven ? Can we look for clemency or gentleness from our Judge, when we are so backward to show it to our own brethren ? 3 Let us also accustom ourselves to reflect on the small moment of those things, which are the usual incentives to violence and contention. In the ruffled and angry hour, we view every appearance through a false medium. The most inconsiderable point of interest, or honour, swells into a mo- mentous object; and the slightest attack seems to threaten immediate ruin. 4 But afler passion or pride has sr/bsided, we look around in vain for the mighty mischiefs v e dreaded. The fabric, which our disturbed imagination had reared, totally disap- pears. But though the cause of contention has dwindled away, its consequences remain. We have alienated a friend ; we have imbittered an enemy ; we have sown the seeds of future suspicion, malevolence, or disarust. 6 Let us suspend our violence for a moment, when causes Chap. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 4r of discord occur. Let us anticipate that period of coolness, which, of itself, will soon arrive. Let us reflect how little we have any prospect of gaining by fierce contention ; but how much of tne true happiness of life we are certain of throw- ing away. Easily, and from the smallest chink, the bitter waters of strife are let forth ; but their course cannot be fore- seen; and he seldom fails of suffering most from their poi- sonous effect, who first allowed them to flow. blair. SECTION V. A suspicious Temper the source of J\Iise^ij to its Possessor. AS a suspicious spirit is the source of many crimes and calamities in the world, so it is the spring of certain misery to the person who indulges it. His friends will be few ; and small will be his comfort in tliose whom he possesses. Be- lieving others to be his enemies, he will of course make them such. Let his caution be ever so great, the asperity of his thoughts will often break out in his behaviour ; and in return for suspecting and hating, he will incur suspicion and hatred. 2 Besides the external evils which he draws upon himself, arising from alienated friendship, broken confidence, and open enmity, the suspicious temper itself is one of the worst evils which any man can sufler. If " in all fear there is tor- ment," how miserable must be his state, who, by living iii perpetual jealousy, lives in perpetual dread ! 3 Looking upon himself to be surrounded with spies, ene- mies, and designing men, he is a stranger to reliance and trust. He knows not to whom to open himself. He dresses his countenance in forced smiles, wliile his heart throbs within from apprehensions of secret treachery. Hence fret- fulness and ill humour, disgust at the world, and all the painful sensations of an irritated and imbittered mind. 4 So numerous and great are the evils arising from a sus- picious disposition, tnat, of the two extremes, it is more eli- gible to expose ourselves to occasional disadvantage from thinking too well of others, than to suffer continual misery by thinking always ill of them. It is better to be sometimes imposed upon, than never to trust. Safety is purchased at too dear a rate, when, in order to secure it, we are obliged to be always clad in armour, and to live In perpetual hos- lility with our fellows. ^ This is, for the sake of living, to deprive ourselves of the comfort of- life. The man of candour enjoys his situation, whatever it is, with cheerfulness and peace. Prudence d^ .;a-.:|5. 4ft THE ENCLISIT READKll. Part f. rocts his intercourse with the world : and no black suspicions haunt his hours oC rest. Acrustonied to vww the characters of his neignbours in the most lavonrahle liu:ht, he is like one who dwells amidst those heautiful scenes ot nature, on which the eye rests with pleaMiire. 6 Whereas the suspicious man, hnvinff his imacjination filled with all the shocking forms of Human falsehood, de- ceit, and treachery resembles the traveller in the wilderness, who discerns no o^jects around him, but such as are either dreary or terribh ; caverns that yawn, serpents that hiss, and beasts ol prey that howl. blaiu. SECTION VI. Comforts of Religion. THERE are many who have passed the age of youth and Deauty; who have resigned the pleasures of that smiling sea- son; who begin to decline into the vale of years, impaired in their health, depressed in their fortunes, stript of their friends, their children, and perhaps still more tender con- nexions. What resource can this world afford them? It presents a dark and dreary waste, through which there does not issue a single ray of comfort. 2 Every delusive prospect of ambition is now at an end ; long experience of mankind, an experience very different from what thv> ope., and generous soul of youth had fondly dreamt of, has rendered the heart almost inaccessible to new friendships. The principal sources of activity are taken aviray, when those for v/hom we labour are cut off from us ; those who animated, and who sweetened all the toils of life. 3 Where then can the soul find refuge, but in the bosom of Religion? There she is admitted to those prospects of Providence and futurity, which alone can warm and fill the heart. I speaK nere of such as retain the feelings of hu- manity; whom misfortunes have softened, and perhaps ren- dered more oelicately sensible ; not ol such as possess that stupid insensibility, which some are pleased to dignify with the name of Pnilosophy. 4 It might therefore be exper^^^d. that those philosophers, who think they stand in no nee- 'uemselves of the assistance of religion to syoport their virtue, anvl who neve feel the want of its consolations, would yet have the humanity to consider the very different situation of tlie rest of mankind ; and not endeavour to di^prive them of uliat liabit, at leasts ^' Chap. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 49 if they will not allow it to be nature, has made necessary to their morals and to their happiness. » 6 It might be expected, that humanity would prevent and teanng irom inem men* only remammg comtort. J attempt to ridicule religion may be agreeable to some, by re- lieving them from restraint upon their pleasures; and may render others very miserable, by making them doubt those truths, in which they were most deeply interested ; but it can convey real good and happiness to no one individual. GREGOllY. SECTION VII. Diffidence of our Abilities, a mark of Wisdom. IT is a sure indication of good sense, to be diffident of it. We then, and not till then, are growing wise, when we l)e- gin to discern how weak and unwise we are. An absolute perfection of understanding, is impossible : he makes the nearest approaches to it, who has the sense to discern, and the humility to acknowledge, its imperfections. 2 Modesty always sits gracefully upon youth: it covers i\ multitude of faults, and doubles the lustre of every virtue which it seems to hide : the perfections of men being like those flowers which appear more beautiful, when their leaver are a little contracted and folded up, than when they are full blown, and display themselves, without any reserve, to tlie view. ' ■ ■^■"i? -I ; : >. ; ^\^.; 3 We are some of us very fond of knowledge, and apt to value ourselves upon any proficiency in the sciences ; one sci- ence, however, there is, worth more than all the rest; and that is, the science of living well ; which shall remain, when "tongues shall cease," and "knowledge shall vanish away." 4 As to new notions, and new doctrines, of which this age is very fruitful, the time will come, when we shall have no pleasure in them : nay, the time shall come, when they shall be exploded, and would have been forgotten, if they had not been preserved in those excellent bool<^, which contain a confutation of them ; like insects preserved for ages in aiit- ber, which othenvise would soon have returned to tiie com- mon mass of things. 5 But a firm belief of Christianity, and a practice suitable to it, will support and invigorate the mind to the last; and ivinst of all. at last at that important hour, Vvhirh must ilt*- KO ENGLISH READER. Part I. iifl clde our hopes and apprehensions; and the wisdom which, like our Saviour, coineth from al)ovo, will, tliroiigli hia merits, brinsf us thither. All our otlier sluiiies and pui-suits, however different, ought to be subservient to, and centre in, this grand point, tlie pursuit of eternal happiness, by beiiis,' good in ourselves, and useful to the world. seed. SECTION vrii. On the importance of Order in the distribnlion of our Time TIME we ought to consider as a sacred tnist, committed to us by God : of which we are now the depositoiies, and are to render an account at the last. That portion of it which he has allotted to us, is intended portly lor the concerns of this world, partly for those of the next. Let each of tliese occupy, in the distribution of our time, that space which properly belong to it. 2 Let not the hours of hospitality and pleasure interfere with the discharge of our necessary aHairs ; and let not what we call necessary affairs, encroach upon the time which is due to devotion. iTo every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heaven. If v/e delay till to- morrow what ought to be done to-day, we overcharge the morrow with a burden which belongs not to it. We load the wheels of time, and preveiit them from tarrying us along smoothly. ' ^ ' 3 He who every morning plans the transactions of the day, and follows out that plan, carries on a thread which will guide him through the labyniith of the most busy life. The orderly arrangement of his time, is like a ray of Hght, which darts itself through all his aHairs. But where no plan is laid, where the disposal of time is surrendered merely to the chajuce of incidents, all things lie huddled together in one chaos, which admits neither of distribution nor review. 4 The first requisite for introducing order into the manage- ment of time, is to be impressed with a just sense of its value. Let us coasider weU how much depends upon it, and how fast it flies away. The bulk of men are in nothing more capricious and inconsistent, than in their appreciation of time. "When they think of it, as the measure of their continuance on earth, they highly prize it, and with the greatest anxiety, seek to lengthen it out. 6 But when they view it in separate parcels, they appear to hold it in contempt, and squander it with inconsic arate profusion. "While tliey ccmplain that life is short, th» f are Chap. HI. DIDACTIC PIECES. 51 often wi-^hiri^ its (UflTcrtMit periods at an end. Covetous of cvei-j' other possession, of time only they are prodigal. They allow every idle miin to be master of this property, and make every frivolous occupation welcome that can help them to conaume it. 6 Amonfi^ those who are so careless of time, it is not to be expected that order should be observed in its distribution. lint, by this fatal neglect, how many matierials of severe and liistirif^ regret are tliey layinar up in store for themselves ! 'I'he time which they suH'er tn pass away in the midst of con- fusion, bitter repeiitaMce seeks afterwards in vain to recall. VV [lat was oniittt'd to l)e done at itii proper moment, arises to he the torment of some future season. -v'*''*' ".»«**«» 7 iVlanhood is dis'^racrd l)y the consequences of neglected youth. Old a«>e, opprej^sed l)y cares that belonged to a for- mer period, labours under a burden not its own. At the cl();:e of life, the dyinjq^ man beholds with anguish that his days are finishing", when his preparation for eternity is hardly romtnenced. Such are the eftects of a disorderly waste of lime, throuj^h not nttendinp: to its value. Every thing in the life of such persons is misplaced. Nothing is performed iu*ight, from not being' performed in due season. 8 I5ut he who is orderly in the distribution of his time, takes the proper nietliod of escaping those manifold evils. He is juslly said to redeem the time. By proper manage- ment he proloiujs it. He lives much in little space; more in a few years, than others do in many. He can live to God and Ins own soul, and at the same time, attend to all the lawful interests of the present world. He looks back on the past, and provides for the future. J'' 'i ■ ■■•■ • "^^ '■ 9 He catches and anests the hours as they fly. They are marked dowfi for useful purposes, and their memory re- mains. AVhereas tiioae hours fleet by the man of confusion, like a shadow. His days and years are either blanks, of which he has no remembrance, or they are filled up with so confused and irrej^ular a succession of unfinished transactions, that though he remembers he has been busy, yet he can ghre no account of the business which has employed him. •Sfifj*'?^^M?s'/ •■ M '^W.^^.^^'Y ; '-r-., ,■ '■.,:. 6 When Sodom could not furnish ten righteous men to save it, Lot remained unspotted amidst the contagion. He lived like an angel among spirits of darkness ; and the de- stroying flame was not permitted to go forth, till the good man was called away, by a heavenly messenger, from his devoted city. 7 When " all flesh had corrupted their way upon the Chap. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 53 earth," then lived Noah, a righteous man, and a preachei of righteousness. He stood alone, and was scoffed by th# profane crew. But they, by the deluge, were swept away; while on him. Providence conferred the immortal honour, of being the restorer of a better race, and the father of a new world. Such examples as these, and such honours confer- red by God on them who withstood the multitude of evil doers, should often be present to our mindd. 8 Let us oppose them to the numbers of low and corrupt examples, which we behold around us; and when we are in hazard of being swayed by such, let us fortify our virtue, by thinking of those, who, in former times, shone like stars in the midst of surrounding darkness, and are now shining in the kingdom of heaven, as the brightness of the firmament, for ever and ever. blair. SECTION X. The mortifications of Vice greater than those of Virtue. THOUGH no condition of human life is free from unea- siness, yet it must be allowed, that the uneasiness belonging to a sinful course, is far greater than what attends a course of well-doing. If we are weary of the labours of virtue, we may be assured, that the world, whenever we try the ex- change, will lay upon us a much heavier load. 2 It is the outside only, of a licentious life, which is gay and smiling. Within, it conceals toil, and trouble, and deadly sorrow. For vice poisons human happiness in the spring, by introducing disorder into the heart. Those pas- sions which it seems to indulge, it only feeds with imperfect gratifications ; and thereby strengthens them for preying, in the end, on their unhappy victims. 3 It is a great mistake to imagine, that the pain of self- denial is confined to virtue. He who follows the world, as much as he who follows Christ, must "take up his cross ;" and to him,. assuredly, it will prove a more oppressive bur- den. Vice allows all our passions to range uncontrolled v and where each claims to be superior, it is impossible tc gratify all. The predominant desire can only be indulged at the expense of its rival. 4 No mortifications which virtue exacts, are more severb than those which ambition imposes upon the love of ease, pride upon interest, and covetousness upon vanity. Self- denial, therefore, belongs, in common, to vice and virtue ; but with this remarkable difference, that the passions which K2 54 THE ENGLISH READER. Part L virtue requires us to mortify, it tends to weaken ; whereas, those which vice obliges us to deny, it, at the same time, strengthens. The one diminishes the pain of self-denial, by moderating the demands of passions ; the other increases it, by rendering those demands imperious and violent. 6 T^Tiat distresses that occur in the calm life of virtue, can be compared to those tortures which remorse of conscience inflicts on the wicked ; to those severe humiliations, arising from guilt combined with misfortunes, which sink them to the dust; to those violent agitations of shame and disap- pointment, which sometimes drive them to the most fatal ex- tremities, and make them abhor their existence ! How often, in the midst of those disastrous situations, into which their crimes have brought them, have they execrated the seductions of vice ; and, with bitter regret, looked back to the day on which they first forsook the path of innocence ! blair. SECTION XI. On Contentment, CONTENTMENT produces, in some measure, all those effects which the alchymist usually ascribes to what he calls the philosopher's stone ; and if it does not bring riches, it does the same thing, by banishing the desire of them. If it cannot remove the disquietudes arising from a man's mind, body, or fortune, it makes him easy under them. It has in- deed a kindly influence on the soul of man, in respect of every being to whom he stands related. 2 It extinguishes all murmur, repining, and ingratitude, towards that Being who has allotted him his part to act in this world. It destroys all inordinate ambition, and every tendency to corruption, with regard to the community wherein he is placed. It gives sweetness to his conversation, and a perpetual serenity to all his thoughts. 3 Among the many methods which might be made use of for acquiring this virtue, I shall mention only the two follow- ing. First of all, a man should always consider how much he has more than he wants ; and secondly, how much more unhappy he might be than he really is. 4 First, a man should always consider how much he has more than he wants. I am wonderfully pleased with the re- ply which Aristippus made to one, who condoled with him upon the loss of a fann : *' Why," said he, " I have three farms still, and you have but one ; so that I ought rather ta be afflicted for you, than you for me." Chap. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 55 5 On the contrary, foolish men are more apt to consldet- what they have lost, than what they possess ; and to fix their eyes upon those who are richer than themselves, rather than those who are under greater difficulties. All the real plea- sures and conveniences of life lie in a narrow compass ; hut it is the humour of mankind to be always looking forward, and straining after one who has got the start of them in wealth and honour. 6 For this reason, as none can be properly called rich, who have not more than they want, there are few rich men in any of the politer nations, but among the middle sort of people, who keep their wishes within their foilunes, and have more wealth than they know how to enjoy. 7 Persons of a higher rank live in a kind of splendid pov- erty; and are perpetually wanting, because, instead of ac- i uiescing in the solid pleasures of life, they endeavour to out- vie one another in shadows and appearances. Men of sense have at all times beheld, with a great deal of miith, this silly game that is playing over their heads; and, by contracting their desires, they enjoy all that secret satisfaction which others are always in quest of. 8 The truth is, this ridiculous chase after imaginary plea- sures cannot be sufficiently exposed, as it is the great source of those evils which generally undo a nation. Let a man's estate be what it may, he is a poor man if he does not live within it; and naturally sets himself to sale to any one that can give him his price. 9 Wh*n Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who had left him a good estate, was oflfered a great sum of money by the king of Lydia, he tljanked him for his kindness; but told him, he had already more by half than he knew" what to do with. In short, content is equivalent to wealth, and luxury to poverty ; or,, to give the thought a more agreeable turn, " Content is natural wealth," says Socrates ; to which 1 shall add, luxury is arttficial poverty. 10 I shall therefore reconmiend to the consideration ot those who are always aiming at superfluous and imaginary enjoyments, and who will not be at the trouble of contracting their desires, an excellent saying of Bion, the philosopher, namely, " That no man has so much care, as he who en- deavoTU's after the most happiness."^ 11 In the second place, every one ought to reflect how much more unhappy he might be than he really is. The for- mer consideration took in all those who are sutRcienil/ pro- 56 THE ENGLISH READER. Part 1. vided with the means to make themselves easy; this regards such as actually lie under some pressure or misfortune. These may receive great alleviation, from such a comparison Is the unhappy person may make between himself and others ; or between the misfortune which he suffers, and greater misfortunes which might have befallen him. 12 I like the story of the honest Dutchman, who, upon breaking his leg by a fall from the main-ma^t, told the stand- ers by, it was a great mercy that it was not his neck. To which, since I am got into quotations, give me leave to add the saying of an old philosopher, who, after having invited some of his friends to dine with him, was ruffled by a person that came into the room in a passion, and threw down the table that stood before him : " Every one," says he, " has his ca- lamity ; and he is a happy man that ha.T no greater than this." 13 We find an instance to the same purpose, in the life of doctor Hammond, written by bishop Fell. As this good man was troubled with a complication of distempers, when lie had the gout upon him, he used to thank God that it was not the stone ; and when he had the stone, that he had not both these distempers on him at the same time. 14 I cannot conclude this essay without obsening, that there never was any system besides that of Christianity, which could effectually produce in the mind of man, the vir- tue I have been hitherto speaking of. In order to m^ke us contented with our condition, many of the present philoso- phers tell us, that our discontent only hurts ourselves, with- out being able to make any alteration in' our circumstances ; others that whatever evil befalls us is derived to us by a fatal necessity, to which superior beings themselves are subject ; while others, very gravely, tell the man who is miserable, that it is necessary he should be so, to keep up the harmony of the universe; and that the scheme of Providence would be troubled and perverted, were* he otherwise. 15 These, and the like considerations, rather silence ths«i satisfy a man. They may show him that his discontent is unreasonable, but they are by no means sufficient to relieve it. They rather give despair than consolation. In a word, a man might reply to one of these comforters, as Augustus did to his friend, who advised him not to grieve for the death of a person whom he loved, because his grief could not fetch him again: **It is for that very reason," said the emperor, « that I grieve." 16 On the contrary, religion bears a more tender regard Chap. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 67 to human nature. It prescribes to every miserable man th« means of bettering his condition: nay, it shows him, that Clearing his afflictions as he ought to do, will naturally end in the removal of them. It makes him easy here, because it can make him happy hereafter; . addison ,, SECTION XII. ;' ^^ _■. I Rank and Riches afford nogrowid for Envy, u^ OF all the grounds of envy among men, superiority in rank and fortune is the most general. Hence the malig- nity which the poor commonly bear to the rich, as engross- ing to themselves all the comforts of life. Hence the evil eye with which persons of inferior station scrutinize those who are above them in rank ; and if they approach to that rank, their envy is generally strongest against such as are just one step higher than themselves. 2 Alas! my friends, all this envious disquietude, which agitates the world, arii^es from a deceitful figure which im- poses on the public view. False colours are hung out : the real state of men is not what it seems to be. The order oi society requires a distinction of ranks to take place ; but in point of happiness, all men come much nearer to equality than IS commonly imagined; and the circumstances which form any material difference of happiness among them, are not of that nature which renders them grounds of envy. 3 The poor man possesses not, it is true, some of the con- veniences and pleasures of the rich; but, in return, he is free from ttiany embarrassments to which they are subject. By the simplicity and uniformity of his life, he is delivered from that variety of cares, which perplex those v/ho have great affairs to manage, intricate plans to pursue, and many enemies, perhaps, to encounter in the pursuit. 4 In the tranquillity of his small habitation, and private fa- mily, he enjoys a peace wiiich is often unknown at courts. The gratifications of nature, which are always the most satis- factory, are possessed by him to their full extent; apd if he be a stranger to the refined pleasures of the wealthy, he is unacquainted also with the desire of them, and by conse- quence, feels no want. { Z**! »' »«j<> .v-r#3 ml 5 His plain meal sfifisfies hfe appetitd^ wiih a relish pro- ba1&!y higher than that bf the rich man, w^ho sits down to his luxurious banquet. His sleep is more sound; his health more firm ; he knows not what spleen, languor, and listless- ness, are. His accustomed employments or laboucg.are not .*.-! 58 THE ENGLISH READER. Part J more oppressive to him, than the labour of attendance on courts and the great, the labours of dress, the fatigue ot amusements, the very weight of idleness, frequently are to htf^'rich. 6 In the mean time, all the beauty of the face of nature, all the enjoj'ments of domestic society, all the gaiety and cheerfulness of an easy mind, are as open to him as to those of the highest rank. The splendour of retinue, the sound of titles, the appearances of high respect, are indeed soothing, for a short time, to the great; but, become familiar, they are soon forgotten. — .Custom effaces their impression. They sink into the rank of those ordinary things which daily re- cur, without raising any sensation of joy. 7 liCt us cease, therefore, from looking up with discon- tent and envy to those, whom birth or fortune has placed above us. Let us adjust the balance of happiness fairly. When we think of the enjoyments we want, we should think also of the troubles from which we are free. If we allow their just value to the comforts we possess, we shall find rea- son to rest satisfied, with a very moderate, though not an opulent and splendid condition of fortune. Often, did we know the whole, we should be inclined to pity the state of those whom we now envy. _ blair. ^^>v. /.{•^ SECTION xni. '^fV Paiience under Provocations^ our Interest as well as Duty. THE wide circle of human society is diversified by an endless variety of characters, dispositions, and passions. — Uniformity is, in no respect, the genius of the world. Every man is marked by some peculiarity, which distinguishes him from another; and no where can two individuals be found, v\ ho are exactly, and in all respects, alike. Where so much diversity obtains, it cannot but happen, that in the intercourse which men are obliged to maintain, their tempers will often be ill adjusted to that intercourse i will jar, and interfere with each other. ^^^ 'y^ix-,- , --^^^ ;: - -^rm ',■....■■ -vV^^^ 2 Hence, in every station, the highest as well as the low- est, and in every condition of life — public, private, and do- mestic— *occa8ion8 of irritation frequently arise. We are provoked, sometimes, by the folly and levity of those with ;vhom we are connected ; sometimes, by their indifference or neglect; by the incivility of a friend, the haughtiness of a jsjiperior, or the insolent behaviour of one.in lower station*. Chap. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 6§ 3 Hardly a day passes, without somewhat or other occur- ring, which serves to ruffle the man of impatient spirit. Of course, such a man lives in a continual storm. He knows not what it is to enjoy a train of good humour. Servants, neigh- bours, friends, spouse, and children, all, through the unre- strained violence of his temper, become sourcea rlisturbance and vexation to him. In vain is affluence: in vain are health and prosperity. The least trifle is sufficient to discompose his mind, and poison his pleasures. His very amusements are mixed with turbulence and passion. 4 I would beseech this man to consider, of what small mo- ment the provocations which he receives, or at least imagines himself to receive, are really m themselves; but of what great moment he makes them, by suR'ering them to deprive him of the possession of himself. I would beseech him to consider, how many hours of happiness he throws away, which a little more patience would allow him to enjoy: and and how much he puts it into the power of the most insignifi- cant persons to render him miserable. 5 "But who can expect," we hear him exclaim, "that he is to possess the insensibility of a stone 1 How is it possible for human nature to endure so many repeated provocations? or to bear calmly with so unreasonable behaviour?" My brother! if thou canst bear with no instances of unreasonable behaviour, withdraw thyself from the world. Thou art no longer fit to live in it. Leave the intercourse of men. Re- treat to the mountain, and the desert ; or shut thyself up in a cell. For here, in the midst of society, offences must come, 6 We might as well expect, when we behold a calm atmos- phere, and a clear sky, that no clouds were ever to rise, and no winds to blow, as tiiat our life were long to proceed, with- out receiving provocations from human frailty. The careless and the imprudent, the giddy and the fickle, the ungrj^teful and the interested, every where meet us. They are the briers and thorns, with which the paths of human life are beset. He only, who can hold his crurse among them with patience and equanimity, he who is prepared to bear what he must expect to happen, is worthy of the name of a man. 7 if we preserved ourselves composed but for a moment, we should perceive the insignificancy of mo;-it of those provo- cations which we magnify so highly. When a few suns more have rolled over our heads, the storm will, of itself, have subsided ; the cause of our present impatience and. dis- turbaijf e will be utterly for^^otten. Can we not, then, aiiti •■2-"* iom am eo THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. cipate this hour of calmness to ourselves ; and begin to enjoy the peace which it will certainly bring ? 8 If othem have behaved improperly, let us leave them to their own folly, without becoming the victims of their caprice, and punishing ourselves on their account. Patience, in tliis exercise of it, cannot be too much studied by all who wish their life to flow in a smooth stream. It is the reason of u man, in opposition to the passion of a child. It is the en. joyment of peace, in opposition to uproar and confusion. t ■.'*.' BLAIR. }M SECTION XIV. J^oderation in our Wishes Recommended, THE active mind of man seldom or never rests satisfied with its present condition, how prosperous soever. Origi- nally formed for a wider range of objects, for a higlier sphere of enjoyments, it finds itself, in every situation of fortune, straitened and confined. Sensible of deficiency in its state, it is ever sending forth the fond desire, the aspiring wiali, after something beyond what is enjoyed at present. •*2 Hence, Qiat restlessness which prevails so generally among mankind. Hence, that disgust of pleasures which they have tried ; that passion for novelty ; that ambition of rising to some degree of eminence or felicity, of which they have formed to themselves an indistinct idea. All which may be considered as indications of a certain native, original great- ness in the human soul, swelling beyond the limits of its pre- sent condition, and pointing to the higher objects for which it was made. Happy, if these latent remains of our primi- tive state, served to direct our wishes towards their proper destination, and to lead us into the path of true bliss ! 3 But in this dark and bewildered state, the aspiring ten- dency of our nature, unfortunately takes an opposite direc- tion, and feeds a very misplaced ambition. The flattering appearances which here present themselves to sense ; the dis- tinctions which fortune confers ; the advantages and plea- sures which we imagine the world to be capable of bestowing, fill up the ultimate wish of most men. These are the objects which engross their solitary musings, and stimulate their ac- tive labours ; which warm the breasts of tiie young, animate the industry of the middle aged, and often keep alive the passions of the old, until the very close of life. 4 Assuredly, there is nothing unlawful in our wishing to be freed from whatever is disagreeable, and to obtain a fuller Chap* HI. DIDACTIC PIECES. 01 enjoyment of the comforto of life. But when these wishes are not tempered by reason, they are in danger of precipita- ting us into much extravagance and folly. Desires and wishes are the first springs of action. When they become exorbitant, the whole character is likely to be tainted. 6 If we suffer our fancy to create to itself worlds of ideal happiness, we shall discompose the peace and order of our minds, and foment many hurtful passions. Here, then, let moderation begin its reign, by bringing within reasonable bounds the wishes that we form. As soon as they become extravagant, let us check them by proper reflections on tlie fallacious nature of those objects, which the world hangs out to allure desire. 6 You have strayed, my friends, from the road which con- ducts to felicity; you have dishonoured the native dignity of your souls, in allowing your wishes to terminate on nothing higher than worldly ideas of greatness or happiness. Your imagination roves in a land of shadows. Unreal fonn^ de- ceive you. It is no more than a phantom, an illusion of hap- piness, which attracts your fond admiration; nay, an illu- sion of happiness, which often conceals much real misery. 7 Do you imagine that all are happy, who have attained to tliose summits of distinction, towards which your wishes as- pire? Alas! how frequently has experience shown, that where roses were supposed to bloom, nothing but briers and thorns grew ! Reputation, beauty, riches, grandeur, nay, royalty itself, would, many a time, have been gladly ex- changed by the possessors, for that more quiet and humble station, with which you are now dissatisfied. 8 With all that is splendid and shining in the world, it is decreed that there should mix many deep shades of woe. On the elevated situations of fortune, the great calamities of life chiefly fall. There, the storm spends its violence, and there, the thunder breal^s; while, safe and unhurt, the in- habitants of the vale remain below. Retreat, then, fr'»m those vain and pernicious excursions of extravagant desire. 9 Satisfy yourselves with what is rational and attainable. Train your minds to moderate views of human life, and hu- niaii happiness. Remember, and admire the wisdom of Agur's petition • "Remove far from me vanity and lies. Give me neither poverty nor riches. Feed me with food convenient for me ; lest I be full and deny thee ; and say, who is the Lord ? or lest I be poor and steal, and take the name of my God in vain.*' > blair. r^ .• . .• F ;•:-:••■- 62 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. ^ ^ SECTION XV. Otnniscienee and Omniprtsmce of the Deity, the Source oj Consolation to good men, 1 WAS yesterday, about sun-set, walking in the open fields, till the night insensibly fell upon me. T at first amused myself with all the richness and variety of colours which ap- peared in the western parts of heaven. In proportion as they faded away and went out, several stars and planets appeared one after another, till the whole firmament was in a glow. 2 The bluenesa of the ether was exceedingly heightened and enlivened, by the season of the year, and the rays of all those luminaries that passed through it. The galaxy ap- peared in its most beautiful white. To complete the scene, the full moon rose, at length, in that clouded majesty, which Milton takes notice of ; and opened to the eye a new picture of nature, which was more finely shaded, and disposed among softer lights, than that which the sun had before dis- covered to me. 3 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 dis- turbs men of serious and contemplative natures, David hinv- felf fell into it in that reflection : " When I consider fhe heavens, tlie work of thy fingers ; the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained ; what is man,that thou art mindful of him, md the son of man, that thou regardest him !" 4 In the same manner, when I considered that infinite host of stars, or, to speak more philosophically, of suns, which were then shining upon me ; with those innumerable sets oi planets or worlds, which were moving round their respective suns ; when I still enlarged the idea, and supposed another heaven of suns and worlds, rising still above this which I discovered ; ^nd these still enlightened by a superior firma- ment 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 me : in short, while I pursued this thought, I could not but reflect on that little insignificant figure which ( myself bore amidst the immensity of God's works. 5 Were the sun, which enlightens this part of the creation, with all the host of planetary worlds that move about him, ut- terly extinguished and annihilated, they would not be missed, more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The space they possess is so exceeding little in comparison of the whole. duAP. t!I. DIDACTIC PIECES. 63 it would scarcely make a blaiik in the creation. The chasm would be imperceptible to an eye that could take in the whole compass of nature, and pass from one end of tne 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 aflasses, we see many stars which we do not discover with our naked eyes ; and the finer our telescopes are, the j^ater still are our discoveries. 6 Huygenius carries this thought so far, that he does not think it impossible there may be stars, whose light has not yet travelled down to us, since their first creation. There is no question that the universe has certain bounds set to it ; but when we consider that it is the work of Infinite Power prompted by Infinite Goodness, with an infinite space to ex- ert itself in, how can our imagination set any bounds to it 2 7 To return, therefore, to my first thought, I could not hut look upon myself with secret horror, as a being that was not worth the smallest regard of one who had so great a work under his care and superintendency. I was afraid of being overlooked amidst the immensity of nature, and lost among that infinite variety of creatures, which, in all probability, swarm through all these immeasurable regions of matter. 8 In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought, I considered that it took its rise from those narrow concep- tions which we are apt to entertain of the Divine Nature. We ourselves cannot attend to many different objects at the same time. If we are careful to inspect some things, we must of course neglect others. This imperfection which we observe in ourselves, is an imperfection that cleaves, in some degree, to creatures of the highest capacities, as they are creatures ; that is, beings of finite and limited natures. 9 The presence of every created being is confined to a cer- tain measure of space ; and, consequently, his observation is stinted to a certain number of objects. The sphere in which we move, and act, and understand, is of a wider circum- ference 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. -' ' 10 When, therefore, we reflect on the Divine Nature, we are so used and accustomed to this imperfection in our- selves, 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 hJs attributes are infinite ; tat the poorness of our conceptions is such, that it cannot ^^ m m srp m h^'i mi 1^ yiiij 'i-1 Mm i,'-.^* M THE ENGLISH READER. Vaut L forbear setting bounds to every thing it contemplates, till our reason comes again to our succour, and throws down all those little prejudices, which rise in us unawares, and are natural to the mind of man. 11 We shall therefore utterly extinguish this melancholy thought, of our being overlooked by our Maker, 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 he is omnipresent; and, in the second, that he is omniscient. 12 If we consider him in his omnipresence, his being passes through, actuates, and supports, tlie whole frame of nature. His creation, in every part of it, is full of him. There is nothing he has made, which is either so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, that he does not essentially re- side in it. His substance is within the suljstance of every being, whether material or immaterial, and as intimately present to it, as that being is to itself. 13 It would be an imperfection in him, were he able to move out of one place into another; or to witlulraw himself from any thing he has created, or from any part of that space which he diffused and spread abroad to infinity. In short, t(^peak of him in the language of the old philosophers, he is a Being whose centre, is every where, and his circumfe- rence, no where. 14 In the second place, he is omniscient as well as om- nipresent. His omniscience, indeed, necessarily and na- turally flows from his omnipresence. He cannot but be conscious of every motion that arises in the whole materia] world, which he thus essentially pervades; and of every thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, to every part of which he is thus intimately united. 15 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 pro- gress through infinite space, with the same activity, it would still find itself within the embrace of its Creator, and encom- passed by the immensity of the Godhead. , {> 16 In this considerati >n of the Almighty's omniprescmce and omniscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. He cannot but regard every thing that has being, especially such of his creatures who fear they are not regarded by him. He is privy to all their thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart m particular, which is apt to trouble them on this occ^asT^ ; Chap. IT. ARGUMENTATIVK PIECES. ^6 for, as It is impossible he should overlook any of his crea- tures, so we may be confident that he rcifards v\ ith an eye o^ mercy, those who endeavour to reconimond themseivest to hit notice, and, in an unfeigned humility ol'heart, think theniseivef unworthy that be should he mindrul of them. ' ^sdwis^n. CHAPTER IV. ARGUMEJVr.rrirE PIEr^S, SECTION I. Happiness is founded in Reciiludc of londiu f. ALL men pursue good, and would be happy, If klicjr knew how : not happy for minutes, and miserable for houi^ ; but happy, if possible, through every part of their existence. Either, therelore, there is a good of this steady, durable kind, or there is not. If not, then all ^ood must be tran- sient, and uncertain ; and if so, an object of the loweat value, nhich can little deserve our attention or inquiry 2 But if there be a better good, sujch a good as we are eeeking, like every other thing, it must be derived from some cause; and thatcause must eithr"" ? • external, internal, or mix- ed; in as much as, except these three, there is no other possi- ble. Now a steady, durable good, cannot be derived trom an external caijse; since uil derived from externals musfc fluctuate as they Huctuuit. 3 l^y the same rule, it cannot be derived from a mixturi^ of the two ; because the part which is external will propor- tionably destroy its essence. What then remains but the cause internal — the very cause which we have supposed., when we place the sovereign good in mind in rectitude oi conduct. V • HARRIS,. ,.(^.,,., ,,.,;,,. SECTION n. ,;:,:,,;.;:. .._,^.. ^ M?: Virtue and Piety Man's Hio;hest Interest #- j'^ I FIND Hrtyself existing upon a little spot, surrounded every way by an immense, unknown expansion. — W here am I ? What sort of place do I inhabit ? Is it exactly itccomodated in every instance to my convenience ^ Is there no excess of cold, none of heat, to offend me ? Am 1 never aTinoyed by animals, either of my own, or a different kind? Is every thifig subservient to me, as thou8:h I had ordered all myseff? No — -jwthing like it — the fartiiest from it possibte; F2^ f« TiVR EXGLISBT READER. Part I. 2 The world appears not, then, originally made for the private convenience of me alone? — It does not. But is it not possible so to accomodate it, by my own particular in- dustry? If to accommodate man and beast, heaven ari'd earth, if this be beyond me, it is not possible. What con- sequence 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. 3 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, joined 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 possible. 4 How, then, am I assured that it is not equally true of maa ? Admit it, and what follows ? If so, then honour and justice are my interest; then the whole train of moral vir- tues are my interest; without some portion of which, not even thieves can maintain society. 5 But, farther still-i^-I stop not here — I pursue this social interest as far as I can trace my several relations. I pass from my own stock, my own neighbourhood, my own nation, to the whole race of mankind, as dispersed throughout the earth. Am I not related to them all, by the mutual aids of commerce, by the general intercourse of arts and letters, by that common nature of which we all participate 1 6 Again — I must have food and clothing. WiAout a proper genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I not related, in this view, to the very earth itself? to the distant sun, from whose beams I derive vigour? to that stupendous course and order of the infinite host of heaven, by which the times and masons ever uniformly pass on? 7 Were this order once confounded, I could not probably Burvive a moment; so absolutely do I depend on this com- mon general welfare. What, then, have I to do, but to en- large virtue into piety? Not only honour and justice, and what I owe to man, are my interest. Hut gratitude also ; acquies- eence, resignation, adoration, and all I owe to this great poli- ty^ and its great Qovwu^ov^ cwr corainon Farent* karris^ i-it' f: -.■. - rf i >= v"r f ^">i Tf « . > ^.- "'"'■'"■■-•.- • -{"ft / . , • 'fl^ tM . V • ^... ~ .' .* (jttit ^^L^f-; C^F. IT. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. iS7 SECTION III. . . ..w-ut-r The Injustice of an Unchantable Spirit, - " i A SUSPICIOUS, uncharitable spirit, is not only incon- sistent with all social virtue and happiness, but it is also in itself, unreasonable and unjust. In order to form sound opinions concerning characters and actions, two things are especially requisite ; information and impartiality. But such as are most forward to' decide unfavourably, are commonly destitute of both. Instead of possessing, or even requiring, full information, the grounds on which they proceed are fre- quently the most slight and frivolous. 2 A tale, perhaps, which the idle have invented, the inqui- sitive have listened to, and the credulous have propagated ; or a real incident, which rumour, in carrying it along, has ex- aggerated and disguised, supplies them with materials of con- fident assertion, and decisive judgment. From an action they presently look into the heart, and infer the motive. This supposed motive they conclude to be the ruling principle, and pronounce at once concerning the whole character. 3 Nothing can be more contrary both to equity and to fiound reason, than this precipitate judgment. Any man who attends to what passes within himself, may easily discern what a complicated system the human character is; and what a vainety of circumstances must be taken into the account, in order to estimate it truly. No single instance of conduct, whatever, is sufficient to determine it. 4 As from one worthy action, it were credulity, not chari- tyf to conclude a pei^on to be free from all vice; so from one which is censurable, it is perfectly unjust to infer that the author of it is without conscience, and without merit. If we knew all the attending circumstances, it might appear in an i&xcusable light ; nay, perhaps, under a commendable form. The motives of the actor may have been entirely different from Iho^e which we ascribe to him ; and where we suppose him impelled by bad design, he may have been prompted by conscience and mistaken principle. - .- ^..^^t^:,--^^ $ Admitting the action to have been in every view crimi- nal, he may have been hurried into it through inadvertency and surprise. . He may have sincerely repented; and the virtuous principle may have now regained ite full vigour. Perhaps this was the corner of frailty ; the quarter on which he lay open to the incursions of temptation ; while the other fi^veoued of his heart were Urmly guarded by conscience, 6d THE ENGLISH READER. Paut I. 6 It is therefore evident, tliat no part of the government of temper deserves attention more, than to Iteep our minds pure from uncharitable prejudices, and open to candour and humanity in judging of others. The worst consequences, both to ourselves and to society, follovir from the opposite spirit. - ';. blair. ^v^ SECTION IV. The Misfortunes of JSIen mostly chargeable on themselves, WE find man placed in a world, where he has by no means the disposal of the events that happen. Calamities some- times befall the worthiest and the best, which it is not in tilieir power to prevent, and where nothing is left them, bui to acknowledge, and to submit to the high hand of Heaven. For such visitations of trial, many good and wise reasons caii be assigned, which the present sul)ject leads me not todiscussi 2 But though tiiose unavoidable calamities make a part, yet they malce not the chief part, of the vexations and sor- rows that distress human life. A multitude of evils beset i\3y for the source of which we must lool? to another quarter. No sooner has any thing in the health, or in the circum- stances of men, gorite cross to their wish, than thoy begin to talk of the unequal distribution of the good thiiigs of this life ; they envy the condition of others ; they repine at their own lot, and fret against the Ruler of the v»^orld. 3 Full of these sentiments, one man pines under a broken constitution. But let us ask him, whether he can, fairly and honestly, assign no ca jse for this but the unknown decree of heaven? Has he duly valued the blessing of health, and al- ways observed the rules of virtue and sobriety 1 Has he been moderate in his life, and temperate in all his pleasures ? It now he is only paying the price of his fornter, perhaps his forgotten indulgencies, has he any title to complain, as if he were suffering unjustly ? 4 Were we to survey the chambers of s'.ckness and dis- tress, we should often find them peopled with the victims of intemperance and sensuality, and with the children of vicious indolence and sloth. Among the thousands who languish there, we should find the proportion of innocent sufllererS to be small. We should see faded youth, premature old age, and the prospect of an untimely jyrave, to be the portion of multitudes, who, in one whv or other, h^ve brought those evils on themselv«?s ; while vet these martvrs of vice and Dhap. l^^ ARGUIVIENTATITE PIECES. folly, have the assurance to arraigu the hard fate of ma», and' to " fret against the Lord." 6 But you, perhaps, complain of hardships of another kind ; of the injustice of the world , of the poverty which you suffer, and the discouragements under which you la- bour; of the crosses, and disappointments, of which your life has been doomed to be full. Before you give too much scope to your discontent, let me desire you to reflect impar- tially upon your past train of life. 6 Have not sloth or pride, ill temper, or sinful passions, misled you often from the path of sound and wise conduct \ Have you not been wanting to yourselves in improving those opportunities which Providence offered you, for bettering and advancing your state? If you have chosen to indulge your humour, or your taste, in the gratifications of indolence or pleasure, can you complain because others, in preference to you, have obtained those advantages which naturally be- long to useful labours, and honourable pursuits? 7 Have not the consequences of some false steps, into which your passions, or your pleasures, have betrayed you, pursued you through much of your life; tainted, perhaps, your characters, involved you in embarrassments, or sunk you into neglect? It is an old saying, that every man is^ke artificer of his own fortune in the world. It is certain, thai the world seldom turns wholly against a man, unless through his own fault. "Religion is," in general, "profitable untt all things." « 8 Virtue, diligence, and industry, joined with good tem- per, and prudence, have ever been found the surest road to prosperity; and where men fail of attaining it, their want of success is far oftener owing to their having deviated from thai road, than to their having encountered insuperable bars in it. Some, by being too artful, forfeit the reputation of probity. Some, by being too open, are accounted to fail in prudence. Others, by being fickle and changeable, are distrusted by all, 9 The case commonly is, that men seek to ascribe their disappointments to any cause, rather than to their own mis- conduct ; and when they can devise no other cause, they lay them to the charge of Providence. Their folly leads them into vices; their vices into misfortunes; and in their misfor- tunes they " murmur against Providence." 10 They ai'e doubly unjust towards their Creator. In their prosperity, they are apt to ascribe their success to their own diligence, rather thaa to his blessing ; lu^d in their adversity, sro THB ENGLISH READER. Part f. they impute their distresses to his providence, not to their own misbehaviour. Whereas, the truth is the ver)' reverse of this. " Every good and every nerfect gift cometh from above ;" and of evil and misery, man is the author to himself. 11 When, from the condition of individuals, we look abroad to the public state of the world, we meet with more proofs of the truth of this assertion. We see great societies of men torn in pieces by intestine dissensions, tumults, and civil commotions. We gee mighty armies going forth, in formidable array, against each other, to cover the earth with blood, and to fill the air with the cries of widows and orphans. Sad evils these are, to which this miserable world 19 exposed. 12 But are these evils, I beseech you, to be imputed to God ? Was it he who sent forth slaughtering armies into the field, or who filled the peaceful city with massacres and blood ? Are these miseries any other than the bitter fruit of men's violent and disorderly passions ? Are they not clearly to be traced to the ambition and vices of princes, to the quarrels of the great, and to the turbulence of the pepple? Let us lay them entirely out of the account, in thinking of Pj^vidence, and let us think only of the " foolishness of man." ^^3 Did man control his passions, and form his conduct According to the dictates of wisdom, humanity, and virtue, the eai'th would no longer be desolated by cruelty ; and human societies would live in order, harmony, and peace. In those scenes of mischief and violence which fill the world, let man behold, with shame, the picture of his vices, his ignorance, and folly. Let him be humbled by the mortifying view of his own perverseuess ; but let not his ** heart fret against the Lovd.'^ ^V BLAIR. SECTION V. On disinterested Friendship, 1 AM informed that certain Greek writers, (pliilosophers, it seems, in the opinion of their countr3rmen,) have advanced some very extraordinary positions relating to friendship; as, indeed, what subject is there, which these subtle geniuses have not tortured with their sophistry ? 2 The 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 has more than sufficient to call forth his solicitude, in the course of his own a^airs, it is a Chap. III. ARGUMENTATITE PIECES. n weakness, they contend, anxiously to involve himself in the concerns of others. 3 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 circum- stances and situations shall render most expedient. They add, as a capital article of their doctrine, that " to live ex- empt from cares, is an essentia) ingredient to constitute hu- man happiness ; " but an ingredient, however, which he who voluntarily distresses himself with cares, in which he has no necessary and personal interest, must never hope te possess." 4 I have been told likewise, that there is another set oi^». pretended philosophers, of the same country, whose tenets concerning this subject, are of a still more illiberal and un- generous cast. The proposition which they attempt to estab- lish, is, that " friendship is an affair of self-interest entirely ; and that the prober motive for engaging in it, is, not in order to gratify the kind and benevolent affections, but for the be- nefit of that assistance and support which are to be derived from the connexion." 5 Accordingly they assert, that those persons are most di^osed to have recourse to auxiliary alliances of this kiiu^ who are least qualified by nature, or fortune, to depend upon their own strength and powers ; the weaker sex, for instance, being generally more inclined to engage in friendships thau the made part of our species ; and those who are depressed by indigence, or labouring under misfortunes, than th^ wealthy and the prosperous. 6 Excellent and obliging sages, these, undoubtedly! To strike out the friendly affections from the moral world, would be like extinguishing the sun in the natural ; each of theia being the source of the best and most grateful satisfactions, that Heaven has coiiferred on tiie sons of men. But I should be glad to know, what tl.e real value of this boyy^ed exemp- tion from care, wliich they proiu se their disciples, justly amoMuts to? an exemption fla.eiing to self-love, I confess; bin which, upon many occurrences in human life, should be rejected with the utmost disdaiii. 7 For nothing, surely, can be more inconsistent with a well-poised and manly spirit, than to decline eagaging in any laudable action, or to be discouraged from persevering in it, by an appr«»heusion of the trouble and solicitude with which it may probably be atten^dctl. 72 THE ENGLISH READER. Paut I. • ■< S Virtue herself, indeed, ought to be totally renounced, if it be right to avoid every possible means that may be produc- tive of uneasiness; for who, that is actuated by her princi- ples, can observe the conduct of an opposite character, with- out being affected with some degree of secret dissatisfaction? 9 Are not the just, the. brave, and the goofi, necessarily exposed to the disagreeable emotions of dislike and avpraion, when they respectively meet with instances of fraud, of cow- ardice, or of villany ? It is an essential property of every well-constituted mind, to be affected with pain, or pleasure, according to the nature of those moral appearances that pre- ,* sent themselves to observation. ^^4} 10 If sensibility, therefore, be not incompatible with true wisdom, (and it surely is not, unless we suppose that philoso- phy deadens every finer feeling of our nature,) what just rea- son 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 1 11 Extinguish all emotions of the heart, and what differ- ence 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 harden- mg the soul against all the softer impressions of humanity ! "f 12 The fact, certainly, is much otherwise. A truly good /man, is, upon many occasions, extremely susceptible of ten- .' der sentiments ; and his heart expands with joy, or shrinks with sorrow, as good or ill fortune accompanies his friend. Upon the whole, then, it may fairly be concluded, that, as in the case of virtue, so in that of friendship, those painful sensations which may sometimes be produced by the one, as well as by the other, are equally insufficient gl'ounds for ex- cluding either of them tVoni taking possession of our bosoms. 13 They who insist that *' utility is the first and prevailing motive, which induces niajikind to enter into particular friendships," appear to mo to divest the association of its most amiable and engaging principle. For,. to a mind rightly dis- posed, it is not so much the henefits received, as the affec- tionate zeal from which they flow, that gives t'^em their best and most valuable recommendation. 14 It i^ so far indeed from being verified by fact, that a sense of our wants, is the original cause of forming these ami- cable alliances, that on the contrary, it is observivble, that none have been more distinguished in their friendships than those, whose power miU opulewc^. but above a-H, whose supe- Chap. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 7d rlor virtue, (a much firmer support,) have raised them above every necessity of having recourse to the assistance of others. 15 The true distinction, then, in this question, is, that **a3 though friendship is certainly productive of utility, yet utility is not the primary motive of friendship." Those selfish sen- sualists, therefore, who, lulled in the lap of luxury, presume to maintain the reverae, have siirely no claim to attention ; as they ai'e neither qualified by reflection, nor experience, to be competent judges of the subject. 16 Is there a man upon the face of the earth, who would deliberately accept of all the wealth, which this world can bestow, if offered to him upon the severe terms of his being unconnected with a single moi'tal whom he could love, or by whom he should be beloved i This would be to lead the wretched life of a detested tyrant, who, amidst perpetual suspicions, and alarms, passes his miserable days, a-itran^eP to every tender sentiment ; and utterly precluded from the heart-felt satisfactions of friendship. JStlehnotWs translation of Cicero^s Lalius, SECTION VI. On the Immortality of the SottI, 1 WAS yesterday walking alone in one of my friend^jsT woods ; and lost myself in it very apjreeably, as 1 was running over, in my mind, the several arguments that establish this great point; which is the basis of morality, and the source of all the pleasing hopes, and secret joys, that can arise in the heart of a reasonable creature. . *^ 2 I consider those several proofs drawn — First, from the nature of the soul itself, and particularly its immateriality ; which, though not absolutely necessary to the eternity of itsdu* ration, has, I think, been evinced almost to a demonstration. 3 Secondly, from its passions and sentunents ; as par- ticularlyj from its love of existence ; its horror oi' annihila- tion ; and its hopes of immortality ; vvith that secret satis- faction which it nnds in the practice ofviitue ; and that unea- siness which follows upon the commission of vice. Thirdly, from the nature of the Supreme Being, whose jnslice, good- ness, wisdom, and veracity, are all concerned in this point. 4 But among these, and other excellent arguments for the immortality of the soul, there is one drawn from the perpetual progress of the soul to its perfection, without a possibility of ever aniving at it ; which is a nint tliat I do not jemembcr to have seen opened anii improved by others wke have written at ^" fi. ^ if;. r '|:f <•■•'■' 74 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. on this subject, though it seems to me to carry a very great weight with it. 5 How can it enter into the thoughts of man, that the soul, which is capable of immense perfections, and of receiving new improvements to all eternity, shall fall away into nothing, almost as soon as it is created ? Are such abilities 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, woujd be the same thing he is at present. 1^ 6 Were a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplish^ ments ; were her faculties to be full blown, and incapable of farther enlargements ; I could imagine she might fall away in- sensibly, and drop at once into a state of annihilation. But can we believe a thinking being, that ic in a perpetual progress of imnrcvement, and travelling on from perfection to perfec- tion, after having just looked abroad into the works of her Creator, and made a few discoveries of his infinite goodness, wisdom, and power, must perish at her tirst setting out, and m the very beginning of her inquiries 1 7 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 are formed for our use, and which can finish their business in a short life. 8 The silk- worm, after having spun her task, lays her eg§^ and dies. But a man cannot take in his full measure ojf knowledge, has not time to subdue his passions, establish his soul in virtue, and come to the perfection of his na- ture, before he is hurried off the stage. Would an infinitely wise Being make such glorious creatures for so mean a pur- pose ? Can he delight in the production of such abortive in- telligences, such short-lived reasonable beings? Would he give us talents that are not to be exerted I capacities that are never to be gratified ? 9 How can we find that wisdom which shines through all his works, in the formation of man, without looking on this world as only a nursery for the next ; and without believing that the several generalims of rational creatures, ^vhich ri33 up and disappear in such quick successions, are only to re ceiv« their nrst rudiments of existence here, and alt(;rvrard3 til ■f-.^^ Cha?. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 7« to be transplanted into a more friendly climate, where they may spread and flourish to all eternity ? 10 There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and tri- umphant consideration in religion, than this of the perpetual progress which the soul makes towards the perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at a period in it. To look upon the soul as going on from strength to strength ; to con- sider that she is to shine for ever with new accessions of glo- rjy and brighten to all eternity ; that she will be still adding virtue to virtue, and knowledge to knowledge ; carries in it something wonderfully agreeable to that ambition which is natural to the mind of man. Nay, it must be a prospect pleasing to God himself, to see his creation for ever beautify- ing in his eyes ; and drawing nearer to him, by greater de- grees of resemblance. 11 Methinks this single consideration of the progress of a finite spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extinguish all envy in inferior natures, and all contempt in superior. That cherub, which now appears as a god to a human soul, knows very well that the period will come about in eternity, when the human soul shall be as perfect as he himself now is ; nay, when she shall look down upon that degree of perfection as much as she now falls short of it. It is true, tlie higher na- ture still advances, and by that means preserves his distance and superiority in the scale of being ; yet he knows that, how high soever the station is of which he stands possessed at present, the inferior nature will, at lengtli, mount up lo it, and shine forth in the same degree of glory. 12 With what astonishment and veneration, may we look into our own souls, where there are such hidden stores of vir- tue and knowledge, such inexhausted sources of perfection ! We know not yet what we shall be ; nor will it ever enter into the heart of man, to conceive the glory that will be always in reserve for him. The soul, considered with its Creator, is like one of those mathematical lines, that may draw nearer to another for all eternity, without a possibility of touching it : and can there be a thought so transporting, as to consider our- selves in these perpetual approaches to him, who is the stand- ard n«t #nly of perfeeti«B, but ef happiness ! ABPfsuNt -> -v:.:,j?» v$ THE ENGLISH READER. Part I* CHAPTER V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. SECTION I. The Seasons, AMONG the great blessings and wonders of the creation, may be clasned the regularities of times, and seasons. Im« mediately 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 continue to the very end of all things. Accordingly, in obedience to that promise, the rotation is constantly presenting us with some useful and agreeable alteration ; and all the pleasing novelty of life arises from these natural changes ; nor are we less indebted to them for many of its solid comforts. 2 It has been frequently the task of the moralist and poet, to mark, in polished periods, the particular charms and con- veniences of every change; and, indeed, such discriminate observations upon natural variety, cannot be undelightful ; since the blessing which every mouth brings along with it, is a fresh instance of the wisdom and bounty of that Providence, which regulates the glories of the year. We glow as we contemplate ; we feel a propensity to adore, whilst we enjoy. 3 In the time of seed-sowing, it is the season of confidence : the grain which the husbandman trusts to the bosom of the earth, shall, haply, yield its seven-fold rewards. Spring presents us with a scene of lively expectation. That which was before sown, begins now to discover signs of successful vegetation. The labourer observes the change, and antici- pates the harvest; he watches the progress of nature, and smiles at her influence ; while the man of contemplation walks forth with the evening, amidst the fragrance of flow- ers, and promises of plenty; nor returns to his cottage till darkness closes the scene upon his eye. Then cometh the harvest, when the large wish is satisfied, and the granaries of nature are loaded with the means of life, even to a luxmy of abundance. #4 The powers of language are unequal to the description of this happy season. It is the carnival of nature : sun and shade, coolness and quietude, cheerfulness and melody, love and gratitude, unite to render every scene of summer delightful. The division of light and darkness, is one of the "•■^.'. Chap. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. n kindest efTorts of Omnipotent Wisdom. Day and night yield us contrary blessings; and, at the same time, assist each other, by giving fresh lustre to the delights of both. Amidst the glare of day, and bustle of life, how could we sleep? Amidst the gloom of darkness, how could we labour? 6 How wise, how benignant, then, is the proper division i The hours of light are c/'aot J to activity ; and tliose of darkness, to rest. Ere the day is passed, exercise and na- ture prepare us' for tlie pillow ; and by tlie time that the morning returns, we are again able to meet it with a smile. Thus, every season has a charm peculiar to itself; and every moment affords some interesting innovation. melmoutii. SECTION II. The Cataract of jyiagara, in JVorth America, THIS amazing fall of water is made by the river St. Law rence, in its passage from lake Erie into the lake Ontario. The St. Lawrence is one of the Inrc^est rivers in the world , and yet the whole of its waters is discharged in this place, by a fall of a hundred and fifty feet perpendicular. It is not easy to bring the imagination to correspond to the greatness of the scene. 2 A river extremely deep and rapid, and that serves to drain the waters of almost all North America into the Atlan- tic Ocean, is here poured precipitately down a ledge of rocks, that rises like a wall, across the whole bed of its stream. The river, a little above, is near three quarters of a mile broad ; and the rocks, where it grows narrower, are four hundred yards over. 3 Their direction is not straight across, but hollowing; in- wards like a horse-shoe: so that the cataract, which bends to the shape of the obstacle, rounding inwards, presents a kind of theatre, the most tremendous in nature. Just in the mid- dle of this circular wall of waters, a little island, that has braved the fury of the current, presents one of its points, and divides the stream at top into two parts; but they unite again long before they reach the bottom. 4 The noise of the fall is heard at the distance of several leagues: and the fury of the waters, at the termination of their fall, is inconceivable. The dashing produces a mist, that rises to the very clouds ; and wkich forms a most beau- tiful rainbow, when the sun shines. It will be readily sup- posed, that such a cataract entirely destroys the navigation of Q 2 i ?U ^Wr 78 THE ENGLISH HEADER. Part I the stream ; and yet some Indians, in their canoes, as it ii said, have ventured down it with safety.* goldsmith. ^ SECTION ni. The Grotto of Jlntiparos. OF all the subterraneous caverns now known, the grotto of Antiparos is the most remarkable, as well for its extent, as for the beaiity of its sparry incnistations. This celebrattui cavern was first explored by one Magni, an Italian traveller, about one hundred years ago, at Antiparos, an inconsidera- ble island of the Archipelago. 2 " Having been informed," say^ he, "by the natives of Paros, that, in tlie little island of Antiparos, which lies about two miles from the fonner, a gigantic statue was to be seen at the mouth of a cavern in tliat place it was resolved tliat we (the French consul and himseli) should pay it a visit. In pur^'.uance of this resolution, after we had landed on the island, and walked al)out four miles through tlie midst of beautiful, plains, and sloping woodlands, we at lengtli came to a little hill, on the side of which yawned a most horrid cavern, which, by its gloom, at first struck us with terror, and almost repressed curiosity. ; 3 Recovering the first surprise, however, we entered boldly, and had not proceeded above twenty paces, when the supposed statue of the giant presented itself to our view, We quickly perceived, that what the ignorant natives had been terrified at as a giant, was nothing more tlian a sparry concretion, formed by the water dropping from the roof of the cave, and by degrees hardening into a figure, which theu' Teal's had formed into a monster. « .- 4 Incited by tliis extmordinary appearance, we were in- duced to proceed still further, in quest of new adventures in this subterranean abode. As we proceeded, new wonders of- fered themselves; the spars, formed into trees and shrubs, presented a kind of petrified grove ; some white, some green ; and all receding ki due perspective. They struck us with the more amazement, as we knew them to be mere productions of nature, who, hitherto in solitude, had, in her playful mo- ments, dressed the scene, as if for her own amusement." * This vetituring damn in tafi ty, is a report, bearing upon its front its own refuta- tion : tliat it ever should have found a place in tlie brain or the book of tlie elt^gant liistorian, is a matter of surprise. Canoes and other vcssoli*, with passeiigeia, are, indeed, sometimes unfortunately drawn down the awful declivity, but seldom a ven- tage of either is ever aflerwards Been. The sturdy mountain oak, and the towering; pine, frequently (altc the desperate leap, and forever disappear. E di ■>■*• Vna. T. 1»ESCR1PTIVE PIECES. 7d 6 " We had as yet seen but a few of the wondei's of tlie place; and we were uitroduced only into the portico of thi?* amazing temple. In one corner of this half illuminated re- cess, there appeared an opening of about three feet wide, which seemed to lead to a place totally dark, and which one of the natives assured us contunied nothing more than a reser- voir of water. Upon this information, we made an experi- ment, by throwing down some stones, .which rumbling along the sides of the descent for some time, tlie sound seemed at last quashed in a bed of water. 6 In order, however, to be more certain, we sent in a Le- vai;itme mariner, who, by the promise of a good regard, ventured, with a flambeau in his hand, into this narrow aper- ture. After continuing within it for about a quarter of an hour, he returned, bearing in his hand some beautiful pieces of white spar, which art could neither equal nor imitate. — Upon beiiv'!^ informed by bun that the place was full of these beautiful incrustations, I ventured- in with him, about fifty paces, anxiously and cautiously descending, by a steep and dangerous way. 7 Finding, however, that we came to a precipice which led into a spacious amphitlieatre, (if I may so call it,) stll! deeper than any other part, we returned, and being provided with a ladder, flambeau, and other things to expedite our de- scent, our whole company, man by man, ventured into the same opening; and, descending one after another, we at last saw ourselves all together in the most magnificent part ©f the cavern." SECTION IV. The Grotto of AntiparoSj continued, *' OUR candles being now all lighted up, and the whole place completely illuminated, never could the eye be pre- sented with a more glittering, or a more magnificent 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 sides were regularly formed with spara; and the whole presented the idea of a magnificent theatre, illuminated with an immense profusion of lights. 2 The floor consisted of solid marble; and, in several places, magnificent columns, thrones, altars, and other ob- jects, appeared, as if nature had designed to mock the curi- osities of artv ©ar voices, upon speaking f>v singing, were THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. redoubled to an astonishing loudness ; and upon the firing of a gun, the noise and reverberations were almost deafening. 3 In the midst of this grand amphitheatre rose a concretion of about fifteen feet high, tliat, in some measure, resembled an altar ; from which, taking the hint, we caused mass to be celebrated tliere. The beautiful columns that shot up round the altar, appeared like candlesticks; and many other natural objects represented the customary ornaments of this rite. 4 Below even this spacious sr«»tto, there seemed another cavern ; down which t ventured with my former mariner, and descended about fifty paces by means of a vope. I at last arrived at a small spot of level ground, where the bottom' appeared different from that of the amphitheatre, being com- posed of soft clay, yielding to the pressure, and into which I thrust a stick to the depth of six feet. In this, however, as above, numbers of the most beautiful crystals were formed; one of which, in particular, resembled a table, 5 Upon our egress from this amazing cavern, we perceived a Greek inscription upon a rock at the mouth, but so oblitera- ted by time, that we could not read it distinctly. It seemed io import, that one Antipater, In the time of Alexander, had come hither ; but whether he penetrated into the depths ot the cavern, 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. goldsmitk. SECTION V. Earthquake at Caianea, ONE of the earthquakes most particularly described in his- tory, is that which happened in the year 1693; the damages of which were chiefly felt in Sicily, but its motion was per- ceived in Germany, France, and England. It extended to a circumference of two thousand six hundred leagues; chiefly aftecting the sea coasts, and great rivers ; more perceivable also upon the mountains than in the valleys. 2 Its motions were so rap'd, that persons who lay at their length, were tossed from side to side, as upon a rolling bil- low. The walls were dashed from their foundations; and no fewer than fifty-four cities, with an incredible number of villages, were either destroyed or greatly damaged. The cify of Catanea, in particular, wiie utterly overthrowo. A traveller who was on his way thither, perceived, at the dis- tance of some miles, a black cloud, like night, hanging over the places Chaf. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 81 3 The sea, all of a sudden, began to roar ; mount Mtn^, to send forth great spires of flame ; and soon ader a shock ensued^ with a noise as if all the artillery in the world had been at once discharged. Our traveller being obliged to alight in- stantly, felt himself raised a foot from the ground; and turning his eyes to the city, he with amazement saw nothing but a diick cloud of dust in the air. 4 The birds flew about astonished ; the sun was darkened ; the beasts ran howling from the hills ; and although the shock did not continue above three minutes, yet nearly nineteen thousand of the inhabitants of Sicily, perished in the ruins. Catanea, to which city the describer was travelling, seemed the principal scene of ruin , its place only was to be found ; and not a footstep of its former magnificence was to be seen remaining. goldsmith. SECTION VI. ^ Creation. IN the progress of the Divine works and government, there arrived a period in which this earth was to be called into existence. When the signal moment, predestined from all eternity, was come, the Deity arose in his might, and, with a word, created the world. What an illustrious mo- ment was that, when, from non-existence, there sprang at once into being, this mighty globe, on which so many mil- lions of creatures now dwell ! 2 No preparatory measures were required. No long cir- cuit of means was employed. *< He spake ; and it was done : he commanded ; and it stood fast. The earth was at first without form, and void ; and darkness was on the face of the deep." The Almighty surveyed the dark abyss; and fixed bounds to the several divisions of nature. He said, "Let there be light; and there was light." 3 Then appeared the sea. and the dry land. The moun- tains rose ; and the rivers flowed. The sun and moon, began their course in the skies. Herbs and plants clothed the ground. The air, the earth, and the waters, were stored with their respective inhabitants. At last, man was made afler the image of God. 4 He appeared, walking with countenance erect; and re- ceived 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 new accession of existence. " The morning stars sang to* gether ; and all the sons of God, shouted for joy." — ^blair. 'f J 82 THE ENGLISH READER. Part. L 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 affections which we ought to bear towards one another. It consists not in speculative ideas of general benevolence, floating in the head, and leaving the heart, as speculations too often do, untouched and cold. Neither is it confined to that indolent good nature, which makes us rest satisfied with being free from inveterate malice or ill-will to our fellcw-creatures, without prompting us to be of service to any. 2 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, for- bearance, generosity, compassion, and liberalit!^ flow, as so many native streams. From general good-will to all, it extends its influence particularly to those with whom we stand in nearegt connexion, and who are directly within the sphere of our good offices. 3 From the country or community to which we belong, lit descends to the smaller associations of neighbourhood, ren lations, and friends ; and spreads itself over the whole cii^cle of social and domestic life. J mean not that it imports a pro- miscuous undistinguished affection, which gives every man an equal title to our love. Charity, if we should endeavour to carry it so far, would be rendered an impracticable virtue ; and would resolve itself into mere words, without affecting the heart. 4 True charity attempts not to shut our eyes to the dis- tinction between good and bad men ; nor to warm our hearts equally to those who befriend, and those who injure us. It reserves our esteem for good men, and our complacency for our friends. Towards our enemies it inspires forgive- ness, humanity, and a solicitude for their welfare. It breathes universal candour, and liberality of sentiment. It forms gentleness of temper, and dictates aflability of manners. 5 It prompts corresponding sympathies with them who re- joice, and them who weep. It teaches us to slight and de- spise no man. Charity is the comforter of the afflicted, the protector of the oppressed, the reconciler of differences, the intercessor for ofl'enders. It is faithfidness in the friend, Jiublic sj)irit in the magistrate, e? t! 84 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. the midst of an inhabited country^ which to some affords iriendly shelter, to others fruit ; wiiich is not only admired by all for its beauty ; but blessed by the traveller for the shade, and 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 anil sorrows of life ; its share of them frequently bears a me- lancholy proportion to its exaltation. This the monarch of Israel experienced. He sought in piety, that peace which he could not find in empire ; and alleviated the disquiet uUes of state, with the ex€rcise of devotion. His invaluable Psalms convey those comforts to others which they afforded to himself. 2 Composed upon particular occasions, yet designed for general use ; delivered out as sendees for Israelites under the Law, yet no less adapted to the circumstances of Christians under the Gospel ; they present religion to us in the most engaging dress ; communicating truths which philo!st»phy could never investigate, in a style which poetry can never equal ; while history is made the vehicle of prophecy, and creation lends all its charms to paint the glories of redemption. 3 Calculated alike to profit and to please, they inform the understanding, elevate the affections, and entertain the ima- gination. Indited under the influence of him, to whom all hearts are known, and all events foreknown, they suit man- kind in all situations; grateful as the manna which descend- ed from above, and conformed ijself to every palate. 4 The fairest productions of human wit, after a few peru- sals, like gathered flowers, wither in our hands, and lose their fragrancy ; but these unfading plants of paradise become, as we are accustomed to them, still more and more beautiful ; their bloom appears to be daily heightened ; fresh odours aie emitted, and nevs^ sweets extracted from them. He who has once tasted their excellences, will desire to taste them again ; and he who tastes them oftenest, will relish them best. 5 And now, could the author flatter himself, that any one wo7ald take half the pleasure in reading his work, which lie has taken in writing it, he would not fear the loss of his la- bour. The employment detached him from the bustle and hurry of life, the din of politics, and the noise of folly. Vani- ty and vexation flev/ away for a season ; care and disquie- tude came not near his dweliiner. U(^ arose, fje^^h as the sm^ Cka». V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 86 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. 6 Every psalm improved infinitely upon his acquaintance with it, and no one gave him uneasiness but the la^^t ; for then he grieved that his work was done. Happier hours th^n those which have been spent in these meditations on the sonji-s of Sion, he never expects to see in this world. Very ple;i- santly did they pass ; they moved 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 remembrance of them is sweet. houne. SECTION X. Character of Alfred, King of England. THE merit of this prince, both in private and public life, may, with advantage, be set in opposition to that of any mo- narch or citizen, which the annals of any age, or any na- tion, can present to us. He seems, indeed, to be the com- plete model of that perftxt character, which, under the de- nomination oi' a sage or wise man, iite philosophers have been fond of delineatinij, rather as a fiction of their imagina- t* i, than in hopes of ever seeing it reduced to practice ; so iiappily were all his virtues tempered together ; so justly were they blended ; and so powerfully did each prevent the other from exceeding its proper bounds. 2 He knew how to conciliate the most enterprising spirit, with the coolest moderation ; the most obstinate perseve- rance, with the easiest flexibility ; the most severe justice, with the greatest lenity^ ; the greatest rigour in command, with the greatect affability of deportment ; the highest capa- city and inclination for science, with the most shining talents for action. 3 Nature also, as ii desirous that so bright a production of Ifer skill should be set m the fairest light, had bestowed on him all bodily accomplisr ments ; vigour of limbs, dignity of shape and air, and a pleasant, engaging, and open countenance. By living in that barbarous age, he was deprived of histori- ans worthy to transmit his fame to posterity ; and we wish to see him delineated in more lively colours, and with more particular strokes, that we might at least perceive some of lii038 small specks and blemisht^s, from which, as a man, it is impoEsible he could be entirely exempted. iixjme ^'U V; :ivine 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 esta- blishment of mind, is truly free. 5 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 rendered the appendage of external thin^^s, and the sport of fortune ? 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 from the casualties of the world 1 6 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 respect 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 ? 7 Believe it, no chains bind so hard, no fetters are so hea- vy, as those which fasten the corrupted heart to this treache- rous world ; no dependence is more contemptible than that under which the voluptuous, the covetous, or the ambitious Chap. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 8^ man, lies to the means of pleasure, gain, or power. Tet this is the boasted liberty which vice promises, as the recom- pense of setting us free from the salutary restraints of virtue. BLAIR. SECTION XIII. The man of Integrity, 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 follow 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 atfections, which may sometimes give the colour of virtue to a loose and unstable character. 2 The upright man is guided by a fixed principle of mind, which determines him to esteem nothing but what is honoura- ble ; and to abhor whatever is base or unworthy, in moral con duct. Hence we find him ever the same ; at all times, the trusty friend, the afl'ectionate relation, the conscientious man of bu- siness, the pious worshipper, the public spirited citizen. 3 He assumes no borrowed appearance. He seeks no mask to cover him : for he acts no studied part ; but he is in- deed what he appears to be, full of truth, candoKr and hu- manity. In ail his pursuits, he knows no path but the fair and direct one ; and would much rather fail of success, than attain it by reproachful means. 4 He never shows us a smiling countenance, while he me- ditates evil against u» 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 unaf- fected ; in all his proceedings, open and consistent. — llair. SECTION XIV. Gentleness. I BEGIN with distinguishing true gentleness from passive tameness of spirit, and from unlimited compliance with the manners of others. That passive tameness, which submits, without opposition, to every encroachment of the violent and assun»ing, forms no part of christian duty; but, on the con- trary, 13 destructive of general happiness and order. That unlimited complaisance, which on every occasion, falls in with ' the opinions and manners of others, is so far from being a virtue, that it is itself a vice, and the parent of many vices. n 90 Tin: KNGLisrr ucaue;:. Paut i. 2 It overthrows nil stondmrss of priiici|»ie ; aiid producer that sinful confomiity witli the world, wliich tr.lnts tlie >vhoj«; character. In the present corruj>tf(l slnlc oi" liumrui inaiuiers, always to assent, ojkI to comply, is llie very worst niuxlni wo can adopt. It is lnipos>i!>le lo support (In; purity luid iliy;- nity of rhnstian niorfJs, \Titlioiit opposing tiie world oa vju'i- ous occasions, even thnut^li we sliould st.iiid aK)i4e. 3 That i^entleness thei'efore which h^ioiii;;; to virtue, is to be carefully distin^ulslied Iron; tlie mean spirit of cowards, and the fawning assent of s} cophants. It rer.ounces no just right from fear. It gives up no impoiiant tnitli from Hattery. It is indeed not onlv consistent with a ♦trni mind, but it necesrtarlly requires a manly spirit, and a i'm^' piinc'ple, in or attentions, studies to alleviate the burden of common misery'. Its office, tlierefore, is extensive. It is not, like some other virtues, called forth only on peculiar emergencies ; hut it !s continually in action, when we are engaged in intercourse \> ith men. It ought to form our address, to regidate our speech, and to diffuse itself over our whole behaviour. 6 We must not^ however, confound this gentle " wisdom * which is from above," wikh that artificial courtesy, that studied smooUmess ofmannei's, wnich is learned in tJie school of the world. Such accomplishments, the most frivolous and empty may possess. Too often they are employed by lae artful, as a snare ; too often affected by the hard and unfeeling, as a cover to the^br ieneas of their miiui« We caitTTot, at the same time, avoid observing the homr which, 'even in sucu m- stances, the world is constraine*, lo p>y to virtue. 7 In order to ret-der society p;;reeablp, it is found necessary, to assume somewhat, that may at lev.st carry its aj)pearajiCe. Virtue is the universal chann. Evtn its shadow is courted, when the substance is wanting. The imitation of its form Chap. V. DESCUIPTIVE PIEOKS. 01 hafl been reduced iuto an art ; and in the commerce of life, the first study of ull who would either sjain the esteem, or win the hearts of others, is to h»nrn the s|)rech, and to adopt the manners, of candour, 4fentleness, and iuimanity. 8 But that pentleneSH nhich is the ciinrarteristic of a pood man, has, like every other virtue, its seat in the lieart ; and, let me «(U1, nothini? except whM flows from the heart, caR render even external manner ly pleasing. For no assumed behaviour can at all times 1 the real character. In that unaffected civility which sprln^^g from a ijenlle mind, there is a charm infinitely more powerful, than in all the studied man- ners of the most finished courtier. 9 True gentleness is r>ur.ded on a sense of what we owe to HIM who made us, and to the common natni# of which we all share. It arises from reflections on our own tailings and wants; and from just views of the condition, and the duty of man. It is native feelinjj, heiglitened and improved by prin- ciple. It is the heart which easily relents; which fcel'=5 fbr every thing that is human; and is backward and slow to inflict the least wound, 10 It is affable in its dress, and mild in ifs demeanour; ever ready to oblige, and willing to be obliged by othersfg breath- ing habitual kindness towards friends, courte^- to strangers, long-suflTerinff to enemies. It exercises authority with mode- ration ; adminislei's reproof with tendernejs ; confers favours with ease and moflesty. It is unassuming in opinion, and temp«"ate in zeal. It contends not eagerly about trifles; slow to contradict, and still slower to blame ; but prompt to allay dissention, and restore peace, 11 It neither intermoiled ; to be pitiful and Cfsuiteous; to support tlie weak, and to be patient towarfl all men." blaiii ■.■■'v.,- *,■>. iH' '■ t ' f w% O ft. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) A :/j 1.0 I.I 122 BOO t 1^ 12.0 18 - 1.25 1.4 III 1.6 =s ^= iiiii^ ^ 6" ► '/ Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) 873-4503 Ld> vV ►^ READER. Part I, ^ CHAPTER VI. ' " PATHETIC PIECES. SECTION I. Trial and execution of the Earl af Strafford, who fell a sacrifice to the violence of the times jin the reign 0/ Charles the First, THE earl of Strafford defended himself against the accu- sations of the house of Commons, with all th« 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 bis royal master. Afler he had, in a long and eloquent speech, de- livered without premeditation, confuted all the accusations of nis enemies, he thus drew to a conclusion. 2 " But, my lords, I have troubled you too long : longer than I should have done, but for the sal^e of these dear pledges which a saint in heaven has left me." Upon this he paused ; dropped a tear ; looked upon his children, and pro- ceeded. — "What I forfeit for myself is a trifle ; that my indis- cretions should reach my posterity, wounds me to the heart. 3 Pardon my infirmity. — Something I should have added, but I am not able ; and therefore I let it pass. And now, my lords, for myself. I have long been taught, that the affliciioris 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 judgment, whether that judgment be life or death : not my will, but thine, O God, be done !" 4 His eloquence and innocence induced those judges to pity who were the most zealous to condemin him. The king himself went to the house of lords, and spoke for some time in his defence ; but the 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 condemned by both houses of parliament ; and nothing re- mained but for the king to give his consent to the bill of at- tainder. 5 But in the present commotions, the consent of the king would very easily be dispensed with; and imminent danger might attend his refusal. Charles, however, who loved Strafford tenderly, hesitated, and seemed reluctant ; trying Chap. VI. PATHETIC PIECES. 93 eveiy expedient to put off so dreadful an office, as that of signing the warrant for his execution. While he continued In this agination of mind, and state of suspense, his doubts tvere at last silenced by an act of great magnanimity in tlie condemned lord. 6 He received a letter from that unfortunate nobleman, desiring that his life might be made a sacrilice to obtain recon- ciliation between the king and the people ; adding, that he was prepared to die ; and that to a willing mind, there could be no injury. This instance of noble generosity was but ill repaid by his master, who complied with his request. He consented to sign the fatal bill by commission ; and Strafford was beheaded on Tower-hill ; behaving with all that com- posed dignity of resolution, which was expected from his :^haracter. goldsmith. ' SECTION II. Jin eminent insfance of true Fortitude. ^ ALL who have been distinguished as servants of God, or benefactors of men ; all who, in perilous situations, have acted their part with such honour as to render their names il- lustrious through succeeding ages, have been eminent for for- titude of mind. Of this we have one conspicuous ex{>mple m the apostle Paul, whom it will be instructive for us to view m a remarkable occurrence of his life. 2 Afler having long acted as the apostle of the Gentiles, his mission called him to go to Jenisalem, where he knew that he was to encounter the utmost violence of his enemies. Just before he set sail, he called together the elders of his favourite church at Ephesuf ; and, in a pathetic speech, which joes great honour to his character, gave them his last fare- tvell. Deeply affected by their knowledge of the certain dangers tv> which he was exposing himself, all the assembly were fitted with distress, and melted into tears. 3 The circumstances were such, as might have conveyed dejection even into a resolute mind ; and would have totally overwhelmed the feeble. " Thej 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 lan- guage, of this great and good man? Hear the words which spoke his firm and undaunted mind. 4 *< Behold, I go bound in the spirit, to Jerusalem, not knowing the things tliat shall befall me there ; save that the »4 THE ENGLISH READER. pAttT f. Holy Spirit witnesseth in every city, saying, that bonds and afflictions abide me. But none of these tliin<^ move Die ; neither count I my life dear to myself, so that I mi^ht finish my course with joy, and the ministry which I hnve received of the Lord JesuS, to testify the goppel of the grace of God.'* / 6 There was iitt(*red the Toice, there breathed the spirit, of a brave and virtuous man. Such a man knows not what It is to shrink from danger, wlien conscience points out his path. In that path he is determined to walk, let the conse- quences be what they may. This was the magnanimous be- haviour of that great apostle, when he had persecution and distress full in view. 6 Attend now to the sentiments of the same excellent man, when the time of his last suffering approached ; and remark the majesty, and the ease, with which he looked on death. " I am now ready to be otTered, and the time of my departure is at hand. I have fought the good fight. I have finished my course. I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness." 7 How many years of life does such a dying moment over- balance ! Who would not choose, in this manner, to go oflf the stage, with such a song of triumph in his mouth, rather than prolong his existence through a wretched old age, stain^ ed with sin and shame 1 blair SECTION III. The scood Man^s comfort in *iijjliction. THE religion of Christ not only arms us with fortitude against the approach of evil; but, supposing evils to fall upon us with their heaviest pressure, it lightens the load, by many consolations to which others are strangers. Wiiile bad men trace, in the calamities with which they are visited, the hand of an offended Sovereign, Christians are taught to view them as the well-intended chastisements of a merciful Fathei. 2 They 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 am thy God." 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. J3 In the mean time, devotion opens to them its blessed fld holy sanctuary ; that sanctuary in which the wounded §%xX is healed^ and the ^eary uilud is at rest, where thf gay; Chap. VI. PATHETIC PIECES. %& cares of the world are forgotten, where its tumults are hush- ed, and its miseries disappear; where greater objects open to our view than any which the world presents ; where a more serene sky shines, and a sweeter and calmer light beams on the afflicted heart. 4 In those moments of devotion, a pious man, pouring out his wants and sorrows to an Almighty Supporter, feels that he is not left solitary and forsaken in a vale of wo. God is with him ; Christ and the Holy Spirit are with him and though he should be bereaved of every friend on earth, he can look in heaven to a Friend that will never desert him. - CLAIR. SECTION IT. The close of Life, WHEN we contemplate the close of life; the termination of man's designs and hopes ; the silence that now reigns among those v\'ho, a little while ago, were so busy, or so gay; who can avoid being touched with sensations at once awful and tender ? What heart but then v»'arms with the glow of humanity ? In whose eye does not the tear gather, on re- volving the fate of passing and shoit-lived man ? 2 Behold the poor man, who biys down at last the burden of his wearisome life. No more shall he jjiroan under the load of poverty and toil. No more shall he hear the insolent calls of 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 un- dergo the repeated labours of the day. 3 While his humble grave is preparing, 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 Abraham's bosom. 4 At no great distance from him, the gi'ave fe opened to receive the rich and proud man. For, as it is said with em- phasis in the parable, *' the rich man also died, and uas bu- ried." He also died. His riches prevented not his sharing the same fate with the poor man ; perhaps, through luxury, they accelerated his doom. Then, indeed, " the moui'ners go about the streets ;" and while, in all the pomp and mag- nificence of wo, his funeral is preparing, his heirs, impatient to examine his will, are looking on one another with jealous f 96 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. eyes, and already beginning to dispute about the division of his substance. 6 One day, we see carried along, the coffin of the smiling infant ; the flower just nipped as it began to blossom in the parent's view ; and the next day, we behold the youn^^ man, or young woman, of blooming form and promising hopes, laid in an untimely grave. While the funeral is attended by a numerous unconcerned company, who are discoursing to one another about the news of the day, or the ordinary aflairs of life, let our thoughts rather follow to the house of mourn- ing, and represent to themselves what is passing there. 6. There we should see a disconsolate family, sitting in silent grief, thinking of the sad breach that is made in their lit- tle society ; and, with tears in their eyes, looking to the cham- ber that is now left vacant, and to every memorial that pre- sents itself of their departed friend. By such attention to the woes of others, the selfish hardness of onr hearts will be gradually softened, and melted down into humanity. 7 Another day, we follow to the grave, one wlio, in old age, 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 changes which such a person has seen during the course of his life. He has passed, it is likely, through varieties of fortune. He has experienced prosperity, and adversity. He has seen families and kindreds rise and fall. He has seen peace and war succeeding in their turns ; the face of his country undergoing many alterations ; and the very city in which he dwelt, rising, in a manner, new around him. 8 After all 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 passes the world away. Throughout all ranks and conditions, " one generation passeth, and another generation cometh ;'' and this great inn is by turns evacuated and replenished, by troops of succeeding pilgrims. 9 O vain and inconstant world ! O fleeting and transient life. When will the sons of men learn to think of thee as they ought? When will they learn huniaijiiy from the afflic- tions of their brethren; or moderation and wisdom, from the sense of their own fugitive state 1 blair. i * Ghaf. VI. PATHETIC PIECES. 97 ' SECTION V. Exalted Society , and the reneival of virttioua ConnexioiMj two sources of future Felicity BESIDES the felicity whicii springs from perfect love, there are two circumstances which particularly enhance the blessedness of that " multitude who stand before the throne;" these are, access to the most exalted society, and renewal of the most tender connexions. The former is pointed out in the Scripture, by "joining the innumerable company of angels, and the general assembly and church of the first- born; by sitting down with Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, in the kingdom of heaven ;" a promise which opens the sublimest prospects to the human mind. 2 It allows good men to entertain the hope, that, separated from all the dregs of the human mass, from that mixed and polluted crowd in the midst of which they now dwell, they shall be permitted to mingle with prophets, patriarchs, and apostles, with all those great and illustrious spirits, who have shone in former ages as the servants of God, or the benefac- tors of men ; whose deeds we are accustomed to celebrate ; whose steps we now fo|lovv at a distance; and whose names we pronounce with veneration. 3 United to this high assembly, the blessed, at the same time, renew those ancient connexions w ith virtuous friends, which had been dissolved by death. The prospect of this awakens in the heart the most pleasing and tender sentiment that perhaps can fill it, in this mortal state. For of all the sorrows which we are here doomed to endure, none is so bitter as that occasioned by the fatal stroke which separates ns, in appearance for ever, from those to which either nature or friendship had intimately joined our heai^. 4 Memory, from time to time, renews the anguish ; opens the wound which seemed once to have been closed ; and by recalling joys that are past and gone, touches every spring of painful sensibility. In these agonizing moments, how relieving the thought, that the separation is only temporary, not eter- nal; that there is a time to come of re-union with those with whom our happiest days were spent ; whose joys and sor- rows once were ours ; whose piety and virtue cheered and encouraged us; and from whom, afler we shall have landed on the peaceful shore where they dwell, no revolutions of nature -shall ever be able to part us more ! Such is the society of the blessed above. Of such are the multitude composed who ** stand before the throne." blair. (.■■:■ .\ '■> < fr ti":'^:^ ^y ■; 98 THE ENGLISH READER. Pari f. SECTION VI. The clemenctj and amiable character of Ike Painarc/t Joseph. NO human character exhihlteJ in the records of Scripture, is more remarkable and instructive than that of the patriarch Joseph. He is one whom we hcljold tried in all the vicissi- tudes of fortune ; from the condition of a slave, risinu^ to ha ruler of the laud of 1 4','yj)t ; and in every station acquiring, hy his virtue and wisdom, i'avour with God and man. VVhcn overseer of Potiphar's house, his fidelity was proved by strong temptations, which he honotn^ahly resisted. ' 2 When thrown into prison by the artifices of a false wo- man, his integrity and prudence soon rendered liim conspiai- ous, even in that dark mansion. When called into the p e- sence of Pharaoh, the wise-and extensive plan which he form. ed for saving the kingdom from the miseries of impending fa- mine, justly raised him to a high station, wherein his abili- ties were eminently displayed in the public service. 3 But in his wiiole history, there is no circumstance so striking and interesting, as his behaviour to his brethren who had sold him into slavery. The moment in which he made himself known to them, was the most critical one of his Ufe, and the most decisive of his character. It is such as rarely occurs in the course of human events; and is calculated to draw the highest attention of all who are endowed with any degree of sensibility of heart. 4 From the whole tenor of the narration, it appears, that though Joseph, upon the arrival of his brethren in Egypt, made himself strange to them, yet, from the beginning, he intended to discover himself; and studied so to conduct the discovery, as might render the surprise of joy complete. For this end, by affected severity, he took measures for bringing down into Egypt all his father's children. 6 They were now arrived there ; and Benjamin among the rest, who was his younger brother by the same mother and was particularly beloved by Joseph. Him he threatened to detain; and seemed willing to allow the rest to depart. Tl is incident renewed their distress. They all knew their father's extreme anxiety about the safety of Benjamin, and with what difficulty he had yielded to his undertaking this journey. 6 Should he be prevented from returning, they dreaded that grief would overpower the old man's spirits, and prove fatal to his life. Judah, therefore, who had particularly urged the necessity of Benjamin's accompanying his brothers, and had solemnly pledged himself to their father for his safe return Chap. VI. PATHETIC PIECES. 99 craved, upon this occasion, an audience of the governor; and gave him a full account of the circumstj % Jacob's family. pathetic than this 7 Nothing can be more interesting^ a discourse of .Judah. Little knowing to whom he spoke, he paints in all the colours of simple and natural eloquence, the distressed situation of the aged patriarch, hastening to the close of life ; long afflicted for the loss of a favourit* sou, whom he supposed to have been torn in pieces by a beast of prey ; labouring now under anxious concern about his young- est son, the child of his old age, who aloue was letl aiive of his mother, and whom nothing but the calamities of severe famine could have moved a tender father to send from home, and expose to the dangei's of a foreign land. 8 " If we bring him not back with us, we shall bring down the gray hairs of thy servant, our father, witii 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 Benjamin not with me? lest ! • « the evil that shall come on my father." 9 Upon this relation, Joseph could no longer restrain him- self. T he tender ideas of hi? father, and his father's house, of his ancient home, his country, i nd his kindred of the distress of his family, and his own exaltation, all rushed too strongly upon his mind to bear any farther concealment. " He cried, Cause every man to go out from me ; and he wept aJoud." 10 The tears which he shed were not the tears of grief. They were the burst of affection. They were the effusions of a heart oveflowing with all the tender sensibilities of na- ture. Formerly he had been moved in the same manner, when he first saw his brethren before him. " His bowels yearned upon them ; he souglit for a place where to weep. He went into his chamber ; and then washed his face and re- turned to them." 11 At that period, his generous plans were not completed. But now, when there was no farther occasion for constraining himself, he gave free vent to the strong emotions of his heart. The first minister to the king of Egypt was not ashamed to show, that he felt as a man and a brother. ** He wept aloud ; and the Egyptians, and the house of Pharaoh heard him." 12 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 yrt live ?" — What could he, what ought he, in that impassioaed moment, to have said more ? This is the voice of nature her- self, speaking her own language ; and it penetrates the heart : 'With' C N*;^:-^- ii h':>" So much the worse. — *Tis lost ! Joflt ! — Heaven is to me the severest part of hell !" Sooft PUBl-IC Chaf. TI. PATHETIC PIFXES. 101 after, I proposed prayer, — " Prny you that can, I never pray- ed. I cAnnot pray — nor need I. la not heaven on my side already ? It closes with my conscience. Its severest 8trok(r> but second my own." 5 Observing t!i :>t his friend was much touched at this, even to tears— (who could forlicar? 1 could not) — with a most ai- I'ectionate look, he s.wd, " Keep those tears for thyself. X have undone thee. — Dost thou weej) for me ? That is cruel. * What can pain me more ?-' 6 Here his friend, too much affected, would have left ^ him. — " No, stay — ^thou still mawst hope ; therefore hear me. How madly have I talked ! How madly hast thou listened and believed ! but look on my present state, as a full answer to thee, and to myself. This body is all weakness and pain ; but my soul, as if stung up by torment to greater strength and .<:plrit, is full powerful to reason ; full mighty to suffer. And that which thus triumphs within the jaws of immortality, is, doubtless, immortal — And, as for a Deity, nothing less than an Almighty could inflict what I feel.'' 7 I was about to congratulate this passive, involuntary con- fessor, on his asserting the two prime articles of his creed, extorted by the rack of nature, when he thus, very passion- ately 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. 8 Remorse for the past, throws my thought on the future. . Woi'se dread of the 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 hia stake ; and bless Heaven for the flames! — ^that is not an ever- lasting flame ; that is not an unquenchable fire." . 9 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 unkindness has murdered my wife ! — And is there another hell ? Oh ! thou blasphem- ed, yet indulgent LORD GOD ! Hell itself is a refuge, if it hide me from thy frown !" 10 Soon after, his understanding failed. His terrified ima- gination uttered horrors not to he repeated, or ever forgotten. And ere the sun (which, I hope, has se^ni few like him) arose, 4he gay, young, noble, i age n I ous, accomplished, and moot wretched Altamont, expired ! 11 If this is a man of pleasure, what is a man of painK How quick, how total, is the transit of 0uch pertongl in what 12 ?;■ IM THE ENGLISH llEADEll. Part !. a (Hsmal gloom they sot for ever ! How, short, alaa ! tlje day of their rejoicing ! — I'\)r a ir.onu'iit, they ^HiUt — thcv been the dawn of an immoital day. His name mii;ht have been gloriously enrolled in the records of eternity. His memory might have left a sweet fraj^ranee hehind it, grateful to the surviving friend, salutary to the sueeeedinii* generation. 13 With what capacity was he endowed ! w'(h wliat ad- vantages, for being greatly good ! But with *lie talents of an angel, a man may be a fool. If he judges amiss in the su- preme point, judging right in all ejye, hut aggravates his folly; as it shows him wrong, though * 'essed with the hest capacity ol" being right. dh. young. ;h\pti:k, vh. section i. HEMOCRITUS AND IIERACMTITS.* ' ^fie vicet and follies of Men should excite Compassir>" rather than Ridicule. Vemocrihfs. I FIND it impossible to^ reconcile myself to a melancholy philosophy. Heraclitus. And I am equally unable to approve of that vain philosophy which teaches men to despise and ridicule one another. To a wise and feeling mind, the world ap- pears in a wretched and painful light. Dem, Thou art too much affected with the state of things ; aitid this is a source of miserv to thee. ffer. And I think thou art too little moved by it. Thy tnirth and ridicule bespeak the huiibon, > ritlier than the phi- losopher. Does it not excite tliy eompassion to see mankind go frail, so blind, so far departeil from the rides o) virtue I Dmn. I am excited to laughter, when I see so much im- pertinence and folly. Her, And yet^ after all, tiiey who are the objects of thy ♦ Deoioeritus and Heracliuis were two aiicin'ui uhilusitjthers, the former of wboa lai/ghM, and the hrner wept, at tli« «nr«ra and Swim tf mankind. Chap. VII. DIALOaUES. 103 ridicule, include, not only mnnkliul in general, but the per- sons with whom thou livest, ti»y fiieii(ls, tliy laniHy, nuy, even tiiyaelf. Dern. I cnre very Utile for all the silly persons [ meet with; yml think I am justiliulile in (iiveitin^nnyHeiruilh their folly. Iler. If they are weak and foolish, it m:irks neither wis- dom nor humanity, to insult rntlier than pity them. Uul is it certain, that thou art not aa extravugvnt us they are ? Vem. I presume tliat I am not ; since, in every point, my sentiments are llie very jv^'t'iFc of their;!. \ Iler. There are follies of ditVtrent kinds. Ry constantly fimusing thyself with the errors and misconthict of othei>!, tiiou mayst render thyself ecjually ridicuhnis and culpable, Vem. Thou art at liherty to indulge eucli sentiments; and to weep over me too, if thou hr^at any tears to spare. For my part, I cannot refrain from pleasing myself with the le- vities and ill conduct of the world about me. Are not all men foolish or irrcji-ular in their lives? Her. Alas ! there is but too much reason to believe they are so; and on this ground, I pity and deplore tlieir condi- tion. We agree in this poiul, tliat men do not conduct themselves according to reasonable and just principh.'s ; but I, who do not sul^l'er myself to act as tlu'y do, must yet re- gard the dictates of my understanding and feelings, which conjpel me to love them ; and that love fdls me \fith com- passion for their mistakes and irrei;uhritie3. Canst thou condemn me for pitying my own species, my lurethien, per- sons born in the same condition of life, and destined to the same hopes and privileges? If thou shouldst enter a hospital, where sick and wounded persons reside, would their w oundd and distresses excite thy mirth ? And yet, the evils of the body bear no comparison with those of the mind. Thou wouldst certainly blush at thy barbarity, if thou hadst been so unfeeling as to laugh at, or despise a poor miserable being who had lost one of his legs : and yet tliou are so destitute of humanity, as to ridicule those who appear to be deprived of the noble powers of the understanding, by the little regard which they pay to its dictates. Dern, He who has lost a leg is to be pitied, because the loss is not to be imputed to himself ; but he who rejects the dictates of reason and conscience, voluntnrily deprives him- self of their aid. The loss originates in his own folly. Her. AW so much the more is he to be pitied ! \ furloug maniac who should pluck out Ids own eyes, would desei-ve more compassion than an ordinary blind man. ■ I, ;; ''it i% f. ''^1 ■ y^M ■b \ ■- '■ !■#;! ;*'• r !:' '')■■■ 1 '■ I'-''' »> Viti- '1 M- ■ ♦. mt 104 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. 7 Dem, Come, let us accommodate the business. There is something to be said on each side of the question. There is every where reason for laughing, and reason for weeping. The world is ridiculous, and I laugh at it ; it is deplorable, and thou lamentest over it. Every person views it in bis own way, and according to his own temper. One point is unquestionable ; that mankind are preposterous : to think right, and to act well, we muible. He is come to die, and to redeem his friend ! Pythias. Yes, it is Pythias. I left the place of my con dement, 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 tranquil and satisfied. Dio. But why 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 suflTer, though I have not deserved death. £very principle of honour and goodness forbids me to al- low 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 deatii which was designed not for him, but for me ordy. 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 i0 equally unjust to make either of us suffer. Chap. TII. DIALOGUES. 2t6 Dio. Why dost thou then assert, that it were injustice to put him to death, instead of thee ? Py, It is uriust, in the same degree, to inflict death either on Damon or on myself; but Pythias were highly culpable to let Damon suffer that death which the tyrant had prepar- ed for Pythias only.'-*; Dio. Dost thou then return hither, on the day appointed, with no other view than to save the life of a friend by los- ing thy own ? Py. I return in regard to thee, to suffer an act of injus- tice which it is common for tyrants to inflict ; and, with re- spect to Damon, to perform my duty, by rescuing him from the danger 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 returif ; and that thou wouldst be put.to death on his account? Da. I was but too well assured that Pythias would punc- tually return ; and that he would be more solicitous to keep his promise, than to preserve his life. Would to heaven that his relations and friends had forcibly detained him ! He would then have lived for the comfort and benefit of good men ; and I should have the satisfaction 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 ! Thou shalt see him no more. I wiQ order thee to be put to death immediately. Py, Pardon the feelings of a man who sympathizes witll his dying friend. "But remember it was Pythias who was devoted by thee to destruction. I come to submit to it, thai 1 may redeem my friend. Do not refuse me this consola- tion in my last hour. Dio. I cannot endure men who despise death, and 8tt 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 pleft- i^ure, has merited his life, and deserved thy favour ; but I h»v% excited thy Indignation, by resigning myseU 1w tby i» I? 11! t'",''' '■h *1 its THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. power, in order to save him ; be satisfied, then, with thig saerifice, and put me to death. Py. Hold, Dionysius ! remember it was Pythias alone' who offended thee ; Damon could not Dio. Alas! what do I see and hear! where am I? How miserable ; and how woitliy to be so! I have hithei'to known nothiiijy^ of true virtue. I have spent my lite in darkness and error. All my power aiul honours are insufficient to produce love. I cannot boast of havinj^ acquired a single friend in the course of a reign of thirty years. And yet these two persons, in a private condition, love one another tender- ly, unreservedly confide in each other, are mutually happy, and ready to die for each other's preservation. Py, How couldst thou, w^ho hast never loved any person, expect to have ^riends? If thou hadst loved and respected men, thou wouldst have secured their love and respect. Thou hast feared ma ik'id, and they fear thee; they detest thee. Dio. Damon, Pythias, condescend to admit me as a third friend, in a connexion so perfect. I give you your lives, and I will load you with riches. Da, We have no desire to be enriched by thee ; and, in regard to thy friendship, we cannot accept or enjoy it, till thou become good and ju^t. 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 minds, thou must be virtuous, affectionate, dis- interested, beneficent ; and know how. to live in a sort oi equality with those who share and deserve thy friendship, Fenelon, Archbishop of Cambray, SECTION HI. LOCKE AND BAYLE. Christianity defended ao;ainst the cavils of Scepticism, Baylc, YES, we both were philosophers; but my philo- sophy was the deepest. You dogmatized ; I doubted. Locke. Do you make doubting a proof of depth in philoso- phy ? It may be a good beginning of it ; but it is a bad end. Bayle. No : — the more profound our searches are into the nature of things, the more uncertainty we shall find ; and the most subtle minds, see objections and difRculties in every system, which are overlooked or undiscovered by or- dinary understandings. Locke, It would be better then to be no philosopher, and to continue in the vulgar herd of mankind, that oiu; may hl^Te the coAveuence of thinking that one knows something Chap. Vlf. DIALOGUES. 107 I find that the eyes which nature has given me, see mauy things very clearly, thoui^h some are out of tlieir reach, or riiscerned hut dimly. What opinion ought I to have of a physician, who sliould oHer me an eye-water, the use o£ which would at first so sharpen my sight, as to carry it far- ther than ordinary vision ; but wouhl in the end put them out? Your philosophy is to the eyea of the mind, what 1 have supposed the doctor's nostrum to he to those of the body. Ifa actually brought your own excellent understanding, which was by nature quick-sighled, and rejidered moi*e so by arfc and a subtility of logic peculiar to yourself — it brought, I say, your very acute underj^tanding to see notliing clt'arly ; and enveloped all the gi*eat truths of reason aiid religion ia mists of doubt^.. Bayle, I own it did ; — out your comparison is no» just. I did not see well, belbre I used my philosophic eye-ivater; I only supposed T saw well ; hut I was in an error, witil all the rest of mankind. The blindness was real, the percep- tions were imaginary. 1 cured r Jyself first of those false ima- ginations, and then I lauda])ly endeavoured to cure other men. Locke. A great cure indeed ! — and do not you think that, in return for tiae. service you did them, they ought to erect you a statue ? Bayle. Yes ; it is good for human nature to know its own weakness. When we arrogantly presiune on a strength we have not, we are always in great danger of hurting our- selves, or at least *of deserving ridicule and contempt, by vain and idle efforts. Locke. I agree with you, that human nature shouM kno^r its own weakness ; hut it should_ al-o ftti its strengih, and try to improve It. This was my e!np',»vijient as a philoso- pher. I endeavoured to discover the real powers of the mind, to see what it could do, and what it could not ; to re- , strain it from efforts beyond its ability ; but to teach it how to advance as far as the faculties given to it by nature, with the utmost exertion and most proper culture of them, would . allow it to go. In the vast ocean of philosophy, I bad the line and the plummet always in my hands. Many of its depths I found myself unable to fathom ; but, by caution in sounding, and the careful ohservatlons T m-rde iii the course of my voyage, I found out some truths of so much use to man- kind, that they acknowledge nio to have been their bonciactor. JJayle, Their ignorance mukes them think so. i-ome other philosopher will come hereafter, and ^^how those trutlu Lo he fahehoods. He will pretend t» disfovtr ether trtit1is» •!* 109 THE JJNGLISH READER. Part I. 6qual importance. A later sage will arise, perhaps among men now barbarous and unlearned, whose sagacious disco- veries will discredit the opinions of his admired predecessor. In philosophy, as in nature, all changes its form, and one thing exists by the destruction of another. Locke, Opinions taken up without a patient investigation, depending on terms not accurately defined, and principles begged without proof, like theories to explain the phsenome- na of nature, built on suppositions instead of experiments, must perpetually change and destroy one another. But some opinions there are, even in matters not obvious to the com- mon sense of mankind, which the mind has received on such rational grounds of assent, that they are as immoveable as the pillars of heaven ; or (to speak pliilosophically) as the great laws of Nature, by which, under God, the universe is sus- tained. Can you seriously think, that because the hypothe- sis of your countryman, Descartes, which was notiilng but an ingenious, well-imagined romance, has been lately exploded, the system of Newton, wr*."ch is built on experiments and geometry, the two most certain methods of discovering truth, will ever fail ; or that, because the whims of fanatics and the divinity of the schoohron, cannot now be supported, the floctrines of that religion, which 1, the declared enemy of all enthusiasm and false reasoning, firmly believed and maui- tained, will ever be shaken t Bayle. If you had asked Descartes, w'hile he was in the height of his vogue, whether his system Vould ever be con- futed by any other philosophers, as that of Aristotle had been hy his, what answer do you suppose he w6uld have returned? Locke* Come, come, you yourself know the difference be- tween the foundations on which tlie credit of those systems, and that of Newton, is placed. Your scepticism is more af- fected than real.. You found it a shorter way to a great re- putation (the only wish of your heart,) to object, than to de- fend ; to piHl down, than to set up. And your talentr were admirable for that kind ot work. Then your huddling to« gether in a Critical Dictionary, a pleasant tale, or obscene jest, and a grave ai'gument against the (-hristian religion, a witty confutation of some absurd author, and an artful sophism to impeach some respectable truth, was particularly commo- dious to all our young smarts -and smatterers in free-think- ing. But what mischief have you not done to human socffety? Tou have endeavoured, and with some degree of success, to shake those foundations on which the whole moral world, p6A die great fajinrtc of social happiness, entirely rest. Horr Chap. YII. ©lALOGUKS. 1^ / could you, as a philosopher, in the sober hours of reflection, answer for this to your conscience, even supposing you had doubts of the truth of a system which trives to virtue its sweet- est hopes, to impenitent vice its greatest (ears, and to true penitence its best consolations ; which restrains even the leasfc ;vhich 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 free- dom. That governor is reason. Bayle, Yes: — but reason, like other governors, has 3 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 implicitly to it, but desires that the same respect should be paid to it by all the rest of mankind. Now I hold tliat any man may lawfully oppose this depire in another, nnd 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? Do we not often take a plea-. sure in showing our own power, and gratifying our own pride, by degrading the notions set up by other men, and generally respected? Bayle, I believe we do ; and by this means it often hap- pens, that, if one man builds and consecrates a temple to (olS iy, another pulls it down. '^ 'Locke, Do you think it beneficial to human society, fo have all temples pulled dow n? Bayle. I cannot say that I do. Locke. Yet I fmd not in your writin^^rs any mai*k of dts- ti action, to e^liow us whicli you mean to save. Bayle. A true philosopher, like an impartial historiatt, iTUist be of no sect. Locke, Is tliere no medium between the blind zeal of a sectary, and a total hiditrereiicc to all religion? "^^aiz/e. With regard to morality, 1 was not indhferent. Locke, How could you then be indifferent with regard Co the sanctions religion pves to mor.dity ' How could you pub- lish what tends so directiy and apparently tt weaken In nOEff- mn m ii: ^1 ' 1 .. .' i ^ s • 110 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I kind the belief of those sanctions ? Was not this sacrificing the great interests of virtue to the little motives of vanity? Baijle. A man may act indiscreetly, but he cannot do wrong, by declaring that, which, on a full discussion of the question, he sincerely thinks to be true. Locke. An enthusiast, who advances doctrines prejudicial 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 nlleviation of his fault. But your cool head and sound judgment can liave no such excuse. I know very well there are passages in all your works, and those not few, where you t-^lk like a rigid moralist. I have also heard that your charac- ter was irreproachably good. But when, in the most laboured parts of your writings, you sap the surest foundations of all uiorn,] duties, what avails it that in others, or in the conduct of your life, you appeared to respect them ? How many, who have stj onger passions than you had, and are desirous to get rid of the curb that restrains them, will lay hold of your sceptic'sm, to set themselves loose from all obligations of vir- t'le ! What a misfortune is it to have made such a use of such talents ! It would have been better for you and for mankind, if you bad been one of the dullest of Dutch theolo^ans, or the most credidous monk in a Portuguese convent. The r'clics of the mind, like those of fortune, may be employed «o perversely, as to become a nuisance and pest, instead of an ornament and support to society. Baijlc. You are very severe upon me. — 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- si Jer liow much mischief these have done to the world! Even in the last age, what massacres, what civil wars, what convulsions of government, what confusion in society,, did they produce! Nay, in that we both lived in, though much more enlightened than the former, did I not see them occa- sion a violent persecution in my own country ? and can you blame me lor striking at the root of these evils? Locke, The root of these evils, you well know, was false religion ; but you struck at the true. Heaven and hell are not more difl'erent, 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 diligent attention, than ordinary readers have, to sepa- rate thena again, and to make th^ proper distinctions? This, Chat. Till. PUBLIC SPEECHES. Ill indeed, is the great art of the most celebrated free-thinker^!. They recommend themselves to warm and ingenuous minds, by lively strokes of wit, and by arguments really strong, against superstition, enthusiasm, and priestcraft. But, at the same time, they insidiously throw the colours of tlicse upon the fair face of true religion ; and dress her out in their garb, with a malignant intention to render her odious or despicable to those who have not penetration enough to discern the im- pious fraud. Some of tliem may have thus deceived* them- eelves, as well as others. Yet it is certain, no book that ever was written by the most acute of these gentlemen, is so re- pugnant to priestcraft, to spiritual tyranny, to all absurd superstitions, to all that can tend to disturb or injure society, as that gospel they so much affect to despise. Bayle. Mankind are so made, that, when they have been over-heated, they cannot be brought to a proper temper again, till they have been over-cooled. My scepticism might be ne- cessary to abate the fever and phrenzy of false reli^on. Locke. A wise prescription, indeed, to bring on a paraly- tica! state of the mind, (for such a scepticism as yours is a palsy, which deprives the mind of all vigour, and deadens its natural and vital powers,) in order to take off a fever, whicli temperance, and the milk of the evangelical doctrines^ vould probably cure! Bayle, I acknowledge that those medicines have a great power. But few doctors apply them untainted with the mix- ture of some harsher dnig^s, or some unsafe and ridiculous nostrums of their own. Locke. What you now say is too true. God has given us a most excellent physic for the soul, in all its diseases ; but bad and interested physicians, or ignorant and conceited quacks, administer it so ill to the rest of mankind, that much of the benefit ©f it is unhappily lost. lord lyttleton. CHAPTER VJII. PUBLIC SPEECHES, SECTION L Cicero against Verreb. THE time is come, fathers, when that which has long been wished for, towards allaying the envy your order has been subject to, and removing the imputation against trial?, is effectually put in your power. An opinion has long pre- vailed, not Only here at home, but likewise in foreign count /■It ■ ■ ■ ik THE ENGLISH READER. Part !. p tfies, both dangerous to you, and pernicious to the state — that, in prosecutions, men of wealth are always safe, liovv- •ver clearly convicted. 2 There is now to be brought upon his trial before you, to the confusion, i hope, of the propagatoi*s of tliis slanderuud imputation, one whose lile and actions condemn him in the opinion of impartial persons ; hut who, according to hid own reckoning, and declared dependence upon his riches, is already acquitted ; 1 mean (Jaius Verres. 1 demand justice of you, fathers, upon the robber of the public treasury, the oppressor of Asia Minor and Paniphylia, the invader of the rignts and |xrivileges of Romans, tiie scourge and curse of Sicily. 3 If thai sentence is passed upon him which his crimes de- Serve, your authority, falliers, will be venerable and sacred in the eyes of the public : but if his great riches should bias you in his favour, I shall still gain one point — to make it apparent to all the world, that what was wanting in this case, was nor a criminal nor a prosecutor, but justice and adequate punish- ment. 4 To pass over the shameful irregularities of his youth, what does his quaestorship, the first, public employment he iield, what does it exliibit, but one continued scene of villa- nies? Cneius Carbo, plundered of the public money by hi own treasurer, a consul stripped and betrayed, an army de- serted and reduced to want, a province robbed, the civil and Teligious rights of a people violated. • 6 The employment he held in Asia Minor and Pamphylia, ivhat did it produce but the ruin of those countries? In which liouses, cities, and temples, were robbed by him. What was his conduct in his pra^torship here at home? Let the f)lundered temples, and public works neglected, that he might embezzle the money intended for carrying them on, \)ear witness. How did he discharge the office of a judge? Let those who sufiered by his injustice answer. 6 But his praetorship in Sicily crowns all his works of wick- edness, and furnishes a lasting monument to his infamy. The mischiefs done by him in that unhappy country, during the three years of his iniquitous administration, are such, that many frears, under the wisest and best of praetors, will not be suffi- cient to restore things to the condition in which he found them : for it is notorious, that, during the time of his tyranny, the Si- cilians neither enjoyed the protection of their own original laws ; of the regulations made for their benefit by the Roman senate, u^on their coming under the protection of the com VElcmwealth; nor of the natural and unalienable rights of men ■^- !'•»• Chaf. Vm. PUBLIC SPEECHES. lid .^7 His nod has decided all causes in Sicily for these three years. And his decisions have broken all law, all prece- dent, all right. The sums he has, by arbitrary taxes and unheard of Impositions, extorted from the industrious poor, are not to be computed. 8 The most I'aithful allies of the commonwealth have been treated as enemies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been put to death with tortures. The most atrocious criminals^ for money, have been exempted from the deserved punishments ; and men of the most unexceptionable characters, condemned and banished unhealed. 9 The harbours, though sufficiently fortified, and the gates of strong towns, have been opened to pirates and ravagers. The soldiery and sailors, belonging to a province under the protection of the commonwealth, have been starved to death ; whole fleets, to the great detriment of the province, suHered to perish. The ancient monuments of either Sicilian or Ro- man greatness, the statues of heroes and princes, have been carried off; and the temples stripped of their images. 10 Having by his iniquitous sentences, filled the prisons with the most industrious and deserving of the people, he then proceeded to order numbers of Roman citizens to be strangled in the gaols; so that the exclamation, ^* I am a citi- zen of Rome !" which has often, in the most distant regions and among the most barbarous people, been a protection, was of no service to them ; but, on the contrary, brought a speedier and a more severe punishment upon them. 11 I ask now, Verres, what thou hast to advance against this charge? Wilt thou pretend to deny it? Wilt thou pre- tend that any thing false, that even any thing aggravated, is alleged against thee? Had any prince, or any state, commit- ted the same outrage against the privilege of Roman citizens, should we not think we had sufficient ground for demanding satisfaction ? 12 What punishment ought, then, to be inflicted" upon a tyrannical and wicked praetor, who dared, at no greater dis- tance than Sicily, within sight of the Italian coasit, to put to the infamous death of crucifixion, that unfortunate and iunO' cent citizen Publius Gavius Cosanus, only for his having as- serted his privilege of citizenship, and declared liis intention of appealing to the justice of his country, against the cruel oppressor, who had unjustly confined him in prison at Syra- cuse, whence he had just ma^ his escape 1 13 The unhappy man, arrested as he was going to embark for his native country, is brouL'-lt before the wicked praetor. K2 / \\ ■Li^. ^1^ 'liM' SM'" r<^ 114 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. With eyes darting fury, and a countenance distorted with cruelty, he orders the lielpleas victim of his rage to be strip- f)ed, and rods to be brought ; accusing him, but without the east shadow of evidence, or even of suspicion, of having come to Sicily as a spy. 14 It was in vain that the unhappy man cried out, " I am R Roman citizen; I have served under Lucius Pretius, who In now at Panormus, and will attest my innoce;nce." Thf» blood-thirsty praetor, deaf to all he could urge in his own de- fence, ordered the infamous punishment to be inflicted. 15 Thus, fathers, was an innocent Roman citizen publicly mangled with scouririni^ ; whilst the only words he uttered, amidst his cruel suffcrinj^, were, " T am a Roman citizen !" With these he hoped to defend himself from violence and infa- my. But of so little seivice was thi3 privilege to him, that, while he was thus asserting his citizenship, the order was given for his execution — for his execution upon the cross ! 16 () liberty ! — () sound once delightful to every Roman ear! — O sacred priviloije of Roman citizenship ! — once «acred !-now trampled upon ! — But what then? Is it come to this? Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his whole power of the Roman people, in a Roman provMnco, ^vithin sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture with fire and red-hot plates of iron, and at last put to the Infamous death of the cross, a Roman citizen ? 17 Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony, nor the tears of pitying spectatoi's, nor the majesty of the Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the licentious and wanton cruelty of a mori- ffer, who, in confidence of his riches, strikes at the root of liberty, and sets mankind at defiance? 18 I conclude with expressing my hopes, that your wis- dom and justice, fathers, will not, by suffering the atro- cious and unexampled insolence of Caius Verres to escape due punishment, leave room to apprehend the danger of a total subversion of authority, and the introduction of general anarchy and confusion. cicero's orations. SECTION n. Speech of knHERB at. to the Roman SenatCy 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- ^nctly with my unfortunate brother Hiempsal and myself, T I. Chap. YIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 115 the children of his own body, the adminstration of the kinji- doin of Numidia, directing us to conf^idcr tlie sennteiind peo- ple of Rome uh proprietors of it. lie charged uh to use liur best endeavoiirs to l)e serviceable to the Romnn com- inouvvealth; assurlncf us, tiiat your protection would prove n defence against all enemies; and would he instead of nr> rules, fortifications, and treasures. 2 ^Vllile my brother and I were thinkinjr of nothing hut liow to regulate ourselves according to the directions of our de- ceased father — Jugurtha — the most infamous of mankind ! — breaking through all ties of gratitude and of common hn- manity,^and trampling on the authority of the Roman com- monwealth, procured the murder of my unfoiliinate brother; and has driven me from my throne and native country, tlioiiyh he knows I inherit, from my grandfather Massinissa, and my father Micipsa, the friendship and alliance of the Roman*. 3 For a prince to be reduced, by villany, to my distress- ful circumstances, is calamity enough ; but my misfortunes are heightened by the consideration — that I find myself ohlii^ed to solicit your assistance, fathers, for the services done you by my ancestors, 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. " -«' 4 And yet, if I had no plea, but my undeserved misery — a once powerful prince, the descendant of a race of illustrious monarchs, now, without any fault of my own, destitute* of every suppoi*t, and reduced to the necessity of begi^ing fo- reign assistance, against an enemy who has seized my throne and my kingdom — if my unequalled distresses were all I hjtd to plead — it would become the greatness of the Roman com- monwealth, to protect tlie injured, and to check the triumph of daring wickedness over helpless innocence. 6 But, to provoke your resentment to the utmost, Jufjur- tha has driven me from the very dominions which the se- nate and people of Rome gave to my ancestors; and from which my grandfather, and ray father, under your umbra ji^e, expelled Syphax and the Carthagenians. Thus, fathers^,- your kindness to our family is defeated; and Jugurtha, in- injuring me, Uirovs contempt upon you. 6 O wretched prince ! Oh cruel reverse of fortune ! Oh father Micipsa! Is this the conse;(uence of thy irenerosity ; that he whom thy goodness raised to an equality \\\\)\ thy «nvn fhildren, should be the murderer of thy children? >\\%A^ % <: ■i i Y 146 TO» WNSLISri REABKR. Paut 1. flkeOf the r^yal house of Nutnidia always be a scene of havoc and blood? 7 While Carthage remained, we suffered, as was to be ' ejected, all sorts of hardships from their hostile attacks ; 0ur enemy near ; our only powerful ally, the Roman com- monwealth, at a distance. When that scourge of Africa was no more, we congratulated ourselves on the prospect of es- tablished peace. But, instead of peace, behold the king- dom o( Numidia drenched with royal blood ! anv» tlie only surviving son of its late king, flying from an adopted mui-- dfcrer, and seeking that safety in foreign p/ii*ts, which he c&nnot command in his own kingdom. f7 ..' 8 Whither— Oh! whither shall I fly ? 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, taose iisnds which arc now reeking 'with my brother's? If I were td fly for refuge, or for assistance to any other court, from wliat prince can I hope for protection, if the Roman com- Ijt^nwealth give me- up ? From my own family or friends ) have no expectations. 9 My royal father is no more. He is beyond the reach of violence, and out of hearing of the complaints of his un- happy son. Were my brother alive, our mutual sympathy would be some alleviation. But he is hurried out of life, in lUS early youth, by the very hand v\ hich should have been the Imt to injure any of the royal family of Numidia. " 10 The bloody Jugurtha has butchered all whom he sus* |H9cted to be in my interest. 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, l^cy are shut up in dungeons, there to drag out a life more Intolerable than death itself. 11 Look down, illustrious senators of Rome! from thai Ixeight of power to which you are raised, on the unexampled Stresses of a prince, who is, by the cruelty of a wicked jn- touder, become^ an outcast from all mankind. Let not the crafty insinuations of liini who returns murder for adoption, prejudice your judgment. Do not listen to the wretch who Ipas butchered the son and relations of a king, who gave him gipwer to sit on the same throne with his own sons. 12 I have been informed that he labours by his emissaries tp prevent your determining any thing against him in his ab- M^c^; pretOi4i«g that I msigmfy my distress, and might. Chap. VIII. PTTBLIC SPEKCHKS. Ill lor him, have staid in peace in my own kingdom. But, if ever the time comes, when tiie due vengeance from Hhove ^llail overtake him, he will then dissenihle as I do. Then iie who, now hanlenetl in wickedtwss, tnimiphs over thosH whom hia violence has laid low, will, in hi^ turn, feel dis- tr«'ss, and anfler for his impious ingratitude to my father, ujkI his blood-thii*9ty cruelty to mv hrother. 13 Oh murdered, butchered hrother! Oh, dearest to mv iieart— now gone for ever from my sight ! — hut why shnuhl i lament his death ? He is, indeed, deprived of the blessed li;;ht of heaven, of life, and kingdom, at once, by the very p«M's()n who ought to have been the first to hazard his own liie, in defence of any one of lVlicipsa*s family. But, an tilings are, my brother is not so much deprived of these com- jurls, as delivered from terror, from flight, from exile, and the endless train of miseries which render life to me a burden. 14 He lies full low, gored with wounds, and festering in Mm own hlood. But he lies in peace. He feels none of tiie miseries which rend my soul with agony and distraction, while I am set up a spectacle to all mankind, of the uncer- tainty of human affairs. So far from havinir it in my powei to punish his murderer, I am not master of the means of se- curing my own life. So far from being in a condition to de- fend my kingdom from the violence of the usurper, 1 am ob- liged to apply for foreign protection for my own person. 15 Fatliers ! Senators of Borne! the arbiters of nations! to you I fly for refuge from the murderous fury of Jugur- Iha. By your affection for your children ; by your love for vour country ; by your own virtues ; by the majesty of the ) Ionian commonwealth ; by all that is sacred, and all that is dear to you— deliver a wretched prince from undeserved, unprovoked injury ; and save the kingdom of Numidla, which is your own property, from being the prey of violence, usurpatio()i, and cruelty. sallust. SECTION HI. 7%e Apostle Paul's defence before Festus arid Agrippa. AGRIPPA said unto Paul, thou art permitted to speak for thyself. Then Paul stretched forth his hand, and answered for himself. I think myself happy, king Agrippa, because I shall answer for myself this day before thee, concerning all the things whereof I am accused by the Jew^s ; especial- ly, as I know thee to be expert in all customs and questiorn which are among the Jews. Wherefore I beseech thee to bear ire ptitiently. i f.Mtfm f ill ■ %i 118 THE ENGLISH READER. Part h 2 My manner of life from my youth, which was at the kirst among my own nation at Jerusalem, know all the Jews, who knew me from the beginning, (if they would testif),) that after the straitest sect of our religion, I lived a Pharisee. And now I stand and am judged for the hope of the promi^e made by God to our fathers ; to which promise our twel\ «^ tribes, continually serving God day and night, hope to come ; and, for this hope's sake, king Agrippa, I am ac- cused by the Jews. 3 Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, that God should raise the dead ? I verily thought with my- self, 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 1 shut up in prison, having received authority from the chief priests ; and when they were put to death, I gave my voice against them. And I often punished them in every synagogue, and compelled them to blaspheme ; and being exceedingly mad against them, I persecuted them even unto strange cities. 4 But as I weint to Damascus, with authority and coni- n^ission from the chief priests, at mid-day, O king ! I sau^ in the way a light from heaven, above the brightness of the sun, shining round about me, and them who journeyed wilh me. And when we were all fallen to the earth, I heard a voice speaking to me and saying, in the Flehrew tongue, Saul, Saul, wliy persecutest thou me ? It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks. And I said, who art thou, Lord? And he replied, I am Jesus whom thon persecutest. 5 But rise, and stand upon thy feet: for I have appeared to thee for this purpose, to make thee a minister, and a wit- ness botli of these things which thou hast seen, and of those things in which I will appear to thee ; delivering thee from the people, and from the 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 ants, and inheritance amongst them who are sanctified by faith that is in me. 6 Whereupon, O king Agrippa ! I was not disobedient to the heavenly vision ; but showed first to them of Damascus, and at Jerusalem, and through all the coasts of Judea, ajid 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 tcmpie, a: id went about to kill me. Ilaviiig, hov\evrr, obtained help from God, I con- tijaiie to this diiy, wilne?'?'Ing both to surall and great, say rftg no ou IV ',V1 ships, cjiap. yui. public speeches. 119 ii;> other things than those which the prophets juid ]Mo h'« (\clarecl should come : that Christ should suflTer ; th^l \\c n.)ulcl be the first who should rise from the dead ; a:;d laut ht? would show light to the people, and to the Gentiles. 7 Aud as lie thus spoke for himself, Festus said, will) a 1 'ud voice> " Paul, thou art beside thyself; much hurnlr,:;- ].,i(.ii made thee mad." But he replied, I am not m.ul, luost noble Festus ; but speak the words of truth and sob(M - 1 cvss. For the king knoweth these things, before whom [ a!so speak freely. I am persuaded that none of these things ui e hidden from him ; for this thing was not done in a coi*- iier. King Agrippa, believest thou the prophets ? I know tvat thou believest. Then Agrippa said to Paul, '' AinK^st ttiou persuadest me to be a Christian." And Paul replied " I woidd to God, that not only thou, but also all that hear mc this day, were both almost, and altogether, such as I am, except tliese bonds."* acts xxvi. SECTION IV. LfMin BTansfield's Si^eech in the House of Peers, 1770, on l.'w Bill for preventing' the delays of Justice, by claiming ihe Privilege of Parliament. MY Lonus, VI IE 'si 1 consider the iinportance of this bill to your lord- si ilps, I ain not surprised it has taken up so much of your ( (I'lsideration. It is a bill, indeed, of no common magni- tude ; it is no less than to take away from two thirds of the legislative body of this great kingdom, ceilain privileges and imnuinities of which they have been long possessed. Per- haps tiiere is no situation the human mind can be placed in, that is so difficult and so trying, as when it is made a judge ill its ov*n cause. 2 There is something implanted in the breast of man so altaclied to self, so tenacious of privileges once obtained, that in such a situation, either to discuss with impartiality, or decide with justice, has ever been held the summit of all human virtue. The bill now in question puts your lord- ships in this very predicament; and 1 have no doubt the wis- dom of your decision will convince the world, that where self-interest and justice, are in opposite scales, the latter ^vill e\er preponderate with your lordships. * How liappy wns this grrat Apn«?Ie, ev^'ii in tJie iiiosit porUons circiiiiii^tancrfl Ti oil!";!! luulcr bonds himI opprt'snion, hip iiiiml was I'rov, and raiwart I have taken, in this hill, [t has been said, by a nol»le ord on my left hand, that I likewise am rdnninjr the race of popularity. If the noble lord means by popularity, that ap- plause bestowed by after ages on good and virtuous actions, I have long been struggling in that race : to what purpose, all-trying time can alone determine. 12 But if the noble lord means that mushroom popularity, which is raised without merit, and lost without a crime, he is much mistaken in his opinion. I defy the noble lord to point out a single action of my life, in which the popularity of the times ever had the smallest influence on my determinations. I thank God I have a more permanent and steady rule for my conduct — ^the dictates of my own breast. 13 Those who have foregone that pleasing adviser, and given up their mind to be the slave of every popular impulse, I sincerely pity : I pity them still more, if their vanity leads them to mistake the shouts of a mob for the trumpet of fame. Experience might inform them, that many, who have been saluted with the huzzas of a crowd one day, have received their execrations the next; and many, who, by the popular- ity of their times, have been held up as spotless patriots, have, nevertheless, appeared upon tiie historian's page, when truth has triumphed over delusion, the assassins of liberty. 14 Why then the noble lord can think I am ambitious of fl^sent popularity, that echo of folly, and shadow of renown, am at a loss to determine. Besides, I do not know that the bill now before your lordships will be popular : it depends much upon the caprice of the day. It may not be popular to compel people to pay their debts ; and, in that case, the pre- sent must be a very unpopular bill. 15 It may not be popular either to take a^vay any of the pri- vileges of parliament ; for 1 very" well remember, and many of your lordships may remember, that, not long ago, the po- pular cry was for the extension of privilege ; and so far did they carry it at that time, that it was said, the privilege pro- tected members even in criminal actions; nay, such was^ the power of popular prejudices ovei' weak mind ], that the very decisions of some of the courts were tinctured with that doc- trine. It was undoubtedly an abominaSlc doctrine. I thought so then, and I think so still: but, nevertneless. it was a po- pular doctrine, and came immediately fiom those who are called the friends of liberty ; how deservedly, time will show. 16 True liberty, in my opinion, can only exist when jus- Chap. VIII. PUBLIC SPKKCHES. 123 Ir tice is equally administered to all ; to the king and to tne beg gar. Where is the justice then, or where is the law, that protects a member of parliament, more than any other man, irom the punishment due to his crimes? The laws of this coun- try allow of no place, nor any employment, to be m sanctuary for crimes ; and where I have the honour to sit as judge, neither royal favour, nor popular applause, shall protect the guilty. 17 I have now only to beg pardon for having employed so much of your lordships' time ; and T am sorry a bill, fraught with so many good consef|uence«i, has not met with an abler advocate : but I doubt not your lordships* determination will convince the world, that a bill, calculated to contribute so much to the equal distribution of justice as the present, re- quired with your lordships but very little support. SECTION V. An Mdress to Young Persons. 1 INTEND, in this address, to show you the importance of beginning early to give serious attention to your conduct. As soon as you are capable of reflection, you must perceive that there is a right and a wrong in human actions. You see, that 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 w ise 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 ad- vantages of their hii ill ; involve themselves inmuch misery ; and end in being a disgrace to their lnends,and a burden on society. 2 Early, then, may you learn, that it is not on the external condition in which you find yourselves placed, but on the part which you are to act, that your welfare or unhappiness, your honour or infamy, depends. Now, when beginning to act that part, r/hat can be of greater moment than to regulate your plan of conduct with the most serious attention, before you have yet committed any fatal or irretrievahle errora ? 3 If, instead of exerting reflection for this valuable purpose, yo« deliver youreelvep up, at so critical a time, to sloth and pleasures ; if you refuse to listen to any counsellor but hu- mour, or to attend to any pursuit except that of amusement j if you allow yourselves to float loose/ and careless on the tide^ of life, ready to receive any direction which the cun^ent oi fashion may chnnce to give you ; what cm you expect to follow from such beginnings ? 4 Wliile so many around you are undergoing the sad con- sequences of a like indiscretion, for what reason shall not those Si$ H m 1 .-.j^.. ..A, ENGLISH READER. Part I ronsequences extend to you 1 Shall you attain success with- out that preparation, and escape danirerp without that precau- tion, which are required of others ? Shall happiness prow up to you, of its own accord, and solicit your acceptance, when, to the rest of mankind, it is the fruit of long cultivation, and the acquisition of lahour and care ? 5 Deceive not yourselves with those arrojrnnt hopes.-What- ever be your rank. Providence will not, for your sake, reverse its established order. The Author of your being hath enjoin- ed you to "take heed to your ways; to ponder the paths of youi feet; to remember your Creator in the days of your youth." 6 He hath decreed, that they only " who seek after wisdom, shall find it ; that fools shall be afflicted, because of their transgressions ; and that whoever refnseth instruction, shall destroy his own soul." By listening to these admonitions, and tempering the vivacity of youth with a proper mixture of seri- ous thought, you may ensure cheerfulness for the rest of life; hut by delivering yourseWes up at present to giddiness and levity, you lay the foundation of lasting heaviness o heaii;. 7 When you look fonvard to those plans of life, which either your circumstances have suggested, or your friends have proposed, you will not hesitate to acknowledge, that in order to pursue them with advantage, some previous discipline is re- quisite. Be 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 uni- versal preparation for every character, and every station in life. 8 Bad as the world is, respect is always pa,id to virtue. In the usual course of human affairs, it will be found ,^-that a plain understanding, joined with acknowledged worth, contributes more to prosperity, than the brightest p. rts witlicut probity or honour. Whether science or business, or public life, be your aim, virtue still enters for a principal share, into all those great departments of society. It is connected with eminence in every liberal art ; with reputation, in every branch of fair and useful business ; with distinction, in every public station. 9 The vigour which it gives the miiid^ and the weight which it adds to character; the generous sentiments which it breathes; the undaunted spirit which it inspires ; the ardour of diligence wi^ich it quickens ; the freedom which it procures from per- nicious and dishonourable avocations ; are the foundaUjl&s of all that is highly honourable, or greatly successful an^f^Ag men. 10 Whatever ornamental or engaging endowments* you now possess, virtue is a necessary requisite, in order to their shin- ing with proper lustre. Feeble are the attractions of the fair- Chap. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 125 Wth. pcnii- [hen, and ^hat- [erse join- |th." lorn. est form, if it lie suspected that nothingf within corresponds to the pleasing appearance without. Short are the triumphs of wit, when it is supposed to he the vehicle of malice. 11 By whatever means you may at first attract the atten- tion, you can hold the esteem, and secure the hearts of othere, only by amiable dispositions, and the accomplishments of the mind. These are the qualilies whose influence will last, when the lustre of all that once sparkled and dazzled has passed away. 12 Let not then the season of youth be barren of improve- ments, so essential to yoivr future felicity and honour. Now ia the seed-time of life ; and according to " what you sow, you shall reap." Your character i^ now, under Divine As- sistance, of your own forming ; your fate is in some measure, put into your own hands. 13 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 time to contract and debase your affections. All your powers are more vigorous, disembarrassed, and free, than they will be at any future period. 14 Whatever impulse you now give to your desires and passions, the direction islikely to continue. It will form the ?hannel in which your life is to run ; nay, it may determine its everlasting issue. Consiph)yed in myrrli and spices for her luneral! 6 He is a man of i;reat learuini; and good sense, ulio hn«< applied himseli', from his earhesl youtli, to tlie nohh^st and most elevated studies: hut all the maxims of fortitude uliicii he has received from hooi^s, or advanced iiiniself, he now ah- solutely rejects; and every other virtue ol' tiis iu-art ^ives place to all a parent's tenderness. We shall excui-ie, w « shall even approve his sorrows when we consider wliat lie has lost. He lias lost a daughter, who resendtled h m in his manners, as well as his person; and exactly coj?ied out all l.cj lather. 6 it his friend Marcellinus shall think proper to write to him, upon the suhject of so reasonahle a giiel, let nu' remind him not to use the rougher arguments of c(Mis.>lution, and such as seem to carry a sort of rej)roof with them ; hut those of kind and sympathizing Immanity. 7 Time will render him more open to the dictates of r< ason. for as a fresh wound shrinks hack from tlie hand of tin 8ur-« geon, buthy degrees submits to, and even reipiin ii the • cans ot its cure ; so a mind, under the Hrst impressions o n mis- fortune, shuns and rejects all arguments of consolation ; but at length, if applied with tenderness, cahnly and uiliijigly acquiesces in them. Farewell. Melmotu's Plinv. SKCTION IV. On Disr.reiion, 1 HAVE often thouglit, if the minds of men were laid open, we should see but little crHtterence between that of a wise man, and that of a fool. There are infinit reveries, numberless extravagances, and a succession of vanities, which pass through both. The great difference is, that the hist knows how to pick and cull his thoughts for conversation, by sup- pressing some, and communicating othcrt; whereas ti.e other lets them !ill ind'^ferently n such occasions, the nicest men very often talk like the weakest ; for, inaeed, talkuig with ^ friend is noth'-'tr eho than thi:'king aloud. 2 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 loom to become Hu fr^'ort/^ • «»r»J '*U jjig friend in such •» •" '* '^ W ^* i 132 THE ENGLISH READER. Part f. lie became his enemy, it should not be in his power to hurt him. The first part of this rule, which regards our behaviour towards an enemy, is indeed very reasonable, as well as very prudential ; but the latter part of it, which regards our be- haviour towards a friend, savours more of cunning than of dis- cretion ; and would cut a man off from the greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of conversation with abosom friend. Besides that, when a friend is turned into an enemy, the world is just enough to accuse the perfidiousness of the friend, ra- ther t an the indiscretion of the person who confided in him. 3 Discretion does not only show itself in words, but in all the circumstances of action ; and is like an under-agent of Providence, 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 advantage of the person who is possessed of them. With- out it, learning is pedantry, and wit impertinence ; virtue it- self looks like weakness ; the best parts only qualify a man to be more spiightly in errors, and active to his own prejudice, 4 Discretion does not only make a man the master of hii own parts, but of other men's. The discreet man finds out the talents of those he converses with, and knows how to apply them to proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into particular communities and divisions of men, we ma)'^ observe, that it 13 the discreet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor the brave, who guides the convei*sation, and gives measures to society. A mai: with great talents, but void of discretion, is like Po- Ij-phem IS in the fable, strong and blind ; endued with an ir- resistible force, which, for want of sis^ht, is of no use to him. 5 Though a man has all other perfections, yet if he wants discretion, he will be of no great consequence in the world ; on the contrary, if he has this single talent in perfection, and l>nt a common shave of othei'S, he may do what he pleases in his particular station of life. 6 At the same time that I think discretion the most useftil talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discre« tlon points out the noblest ends to us, and pursues the most proper and laudable methods of attaining (hem cunning has only pr'vnte, selfish aims, and sticks at nothing which may make them succeed. ^4,^ 7 . iscretion has large and extended views ; and, like a " well-iormed eye, commands a wiiole horizon : cunning is a Chap. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 433 kind of short-sightedness, that discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, but is not able to discern things at 9 distance. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the person who possesses it : cuunin^r* when it is once detected, loses its force, and makes a man incapable of bringing about even those events which lie might have done, had he passed only for a plain man. 8 Discretion is the perfection of reason, and a guide to us in all the duties of life : cunnir>q: is a kind of instinct, *' t only looks out after our immediate interest and welfare. Dis- cretion is only found in men of strong sense and good un- derstandings : cunning is often to be met with in brutes them- selves ; and in peraons who are but the fewest removes from them. In short, cunning is only the mimic of discretion ; and it may pass upon weak men, in the same manner as viva- city is often mistadcen for wit, and gravity for wisdom. 9 The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet m^n, makes him look forward into futurity, and consider what will he his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at jiresent. He knows that the misery or happiness which is reserved for him in another world, loses nothing of its real- ity by being placed at so great a distance from him. The objects do not appear little to him because they are remote. Ke considers, that those pleasures and pains which lie hid in eternity, approach nearer to him every moment; and willl;.'. present with him in their full weight and measure, as mucli as those pains and pleasures which he feels at this very in- stant. For this reason, he is careful to secure to himself thnt which is the proper happiness of his nature, and the ultimate design of his being. *«. -vt^ 10 He carries his thoughts to the end of every action, and considers the most distant, as well as the most immediate ef- fects of it. He supersedes every little prospect of gain and advantage which offers itself here, if he does not find it con- sistent 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. addisoiN. SECTION V. On the Government of our Thoughts. A MULTITUDE of cases occur, in which we are no less accountable for what we thi»\k, than for what we do. As, first, when the introduction of any train of thought depends upoji ourselves, and is our voluntary act, by turning our attentiofi towards such objects, awakening such passions, or encjaging ia M >■ '■" - - » >■ :- u. ''- ' '■' /".t ■ ^-.^ 134 THE ENGLISH READER Part f. ' 8uch employments, as we know must give a peculiar deternifu- ation to our thoughts. Next, when thoughtis, by whatever ac- cident they may have been originally auggested, are indulgeil with deliberation and complacency. 2 Though the mind has been passive in their reception, and, therefore, free from blame ; yet, if it be active in their continu- ance, the guilt becomes its own. They may have intruded at 6rst, like unbidden guests; but if, when entered, they aie made welcome, and kindly entertained, the case is the same as if they had been invited from the beginning. sJ 3 If we are thus accountable to God for thoughls/eithev voluntarily introduced, or deliberately indulged, we are no less so, ill the last place, for those which find admittance into our hearts from supine negligence, from total relaxation of attention, from allowing our imagination to rove with entire license, "like the eves of the fool, towards the ends of the earth." • 4 Our minds are, in this case, thrown open to folly and van- ity. They are prostituted to every evil thing which pleases to take possession. The consequences must all be charged to our account; and in vain we plead excuse from human infirmity. Hence it appears, that the great object at which we are to aim in governing our thoughts, is, to take the most efiectual mea- sures for preventing the introduction of such as are sinful; and for hastening their expulsion, if they shall have introduced themselves without consent of the will. 4*^ 5 But when we descend into our breasts, anc|examine how far we have studied to keep this object in view, who can tell ** how oft he hath offended V^ In no article of religion or mo- rals are men more culpably remiss, than in the unrestrained indulgence they give to fancy ; and that, too, for the most part, without remorse. Since the time that reason began to exert her powers, thought, during our waking hours, has been ac- tive in every breast, without a moment's suspension or pause. 6 The current of ideas has been always flowing. The wheels of the spiritual engine have circulated with perpetual motion. Let me ask, what has been the fruit of this incessant activity, with the greater part of mankind? Of the innumerable hours that have been employed in thought, how few are m?irkcd with any permanent or useful efl*ect? How many have either passed away in idle dreams; or have been abandoned to anxious discontented musings, to unsocial and malignant passions, or to irregular and criminal desires? 7 Had I power to lay open that storehouse of iniquity, which the hearts of too many conceal ; could I draw out and read to them a list of all the imaginations they have devised, and all the Chap. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 135 passions they have indulged in secret ; what a picture of men should I present to themselves ! What crimes would they ap- pear to have perpetrated in secrecy, which, to their most in- timate companions, they dui'st not reveal ! 8 Even when men imagine their tiioughtsto be innocently employed, they too commonly suffer them to run out into ex- travagant imaginations, and chimerical plans of what they would wish to attain, or choose to be, if they could frame the course of things according to their desire. Though such em- ployments of fancy come not under the same description with those which are plainly criminal, yet wholly unblamable they seldom are. Besides the waste of time which they occasion, and the misapplication which they indicate of those intellectual powers that were given to us for much nobler purposes, such romantic speculations lead us always into the neighbourhood of forbidden regions. 9 They place us on dangerous ground. They are for the most part connected with some one bad passion ; and they al- ways nourish a giddy and frivolous turn of thought. They un- fit the mind for applying with vigour to rational pursuits, or for acquiescing in sober plaiiS of conduct. From that ideal world in which it allows itself to dwell, it returns to the com- merce of men, unbent and relaxed, sickly and tainted, averee to discharging the duties, and sometimes disqualified even for relishing the pleasures, of ordinary life. '\J ^ SECTION VI. /%s On the evils which flow from unrestrained Passions, WHEN man revolted from his Maker, his passions rebelled against himself; and from being originally the ministers of reason, have become the tyrants of the soul. — Hence; in treating of tliis subject, two things may he assumed as princi- ples : first, that tlirough the present weakness of the under- standing, our passions ai*e often directed towards improper objects ; and next, that even when their direction is just, and ' their objects are innocent, they perpetually tend to run into excess; they always hurry us towards their gratification, with a blind and dangerous impetuosity, ^n tliese two p^ints^ then, turns the whole government of our passions : first, to ascertain the proper objects of their pursuit ; and next, to restrsun them in that pursuit, when they would caiTy us be- yond the bounds of reason. 2 If there is any passion which intrudes itself unseasonably into our mind, which darkens and troubles our judgment, or habitually discomposes our temper ; which unfits us for pro- perly discharging the duties, or disqualifies us for cheerfullj 136 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. enjoying the comforts of life, we may ceiitainly conclude it to have gained a dangerous ascendant. The great object which we ought to propose to ourselves, is, to acquire a firm and steadfast mind, whicn the infatuation of passion shall not se- duce, nor its violence shake ; which, resting on fixed princi- ples, shall, in the midst of contending emotions, remain free, and master of itself; able to listen calmly to the voice of con- science, and prepared to obey its dictates without hesitation. 3 To obtain, if possible, such command of passion, is om 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, beyond doubt, the misrule of passion. It is this which poi- sons the enjoyment of individuals, overturns the order of so- ciety, and strews the path of life with so many miseries, as to render it indeed the vale of tears. 4 All those fifreat scenes of public calamity, which we be- hold with astonishment and horror, have originated 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 copiou| materials for the orator's pathetic decla- mation, and for the poet's tragical song. 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. 5 I need not mention the black and fierce passions, such as envy, jealousy, and revenge, whose effects are obviously noxious, and whose agitations are immediate misery ; but take any of the licentious 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 engages 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 miseries in which it has involved him, with the coTicludirjg pangs of bitter remorse. Throui>h all the stages of th's fatal course, how many have heretofore run 1 What multitudes do we daily behold pui^uing it, with blind and headlong steps? blair. SECTION VII. On the proper state of our Temper tvith respect to one another, IT is evident, in the general, that if we consult either pub- lic welfare or private happiness, Christian charity ought te CHiP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PFECES. 13T regulate our disposition in mutual intercourse. But as thl» great principle admits of several diversified appearances, lot us consider some of the chief forms under which it ought to show itself in tlie usual tenor of life. 2 What first presents itself to he recommended, is a peaceahle temper; a disposition averse to ^Ive oiTence and desirous of cultivating harmony, and amlculile intercourse in society. This supposes yielding and cnndesceiKiinif niarniers, unwillingness to contend with others ahout trifles, and, in contests that are unavoidable, proper moderation of spirit. 3 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 Ijane of society. They seem destined to blast the small share of comfort w hich nature has here allotted to man. But they cannot disturb the peace of others, more than they break their own. The hurricane rages first in their own bosom, before it is let forth upon the world. In the tempests which they raise, they are always tost; and fre;thrir minds; of aiding their interest; of prornotintj^ their clieorinliifss or ease. Such occasions may relate to the snraller incl 'entso!'! -e. 7 But let us remember, that of small iiu-ideii's the system of human life is chiefly composed. Ti»e atttmtio iS '.vhich re- spect these, when suggested hy real betdmi-^v of teir.j)er- arc often more material to the happiness of those aror.mi us, tiiiMi actions which carry the appearance of gieali r d utility usl splendour. No wise or good man, ought to arrount a ,y rules of behaviour as below his regard wtrch teiid to ecu .iit the great brotherhood of mankind in comfortwhlj' iinlon. Par- ticularly amidst that familiar intercourse whrli hi !o.!<];s to domestic life, all the virtues of temper liiid an wmple r.uiiJts 8 It is very unfortunate, that within that circle, men loo often think themselves at liberty to give unrestrained vesit to the caprice of passion and humour. Whereas there, on the contrary, more than any where else, it concerns them to at- tend to the government of their heart ; to check wliat is violent in their tempers, 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, dis- ^ise men when abroad. But within his own family, every man is known to be what he truly is. 9 In all our intercourse then with others, particularly in tbat which is closest and most intimate let us cultivatn a {>eaceable, a candid, a gentle, and friendly temper. This h the temper to which, by repeated injunctions, our holy re- ligion seeks to form us. This was the temper of Chrlot. \ux\B is the tamper of Heaven. blair. SECTION VIII. Excellence of the Holy Scriptures, IS it bigotry to believe the sublime truths of the Cosjifl, lyith full assurance of faith? I glory in such bigotry. 1 ^v(>ill(i uot part with it for a thousand worlds. [ conuTatulnt(^ (ho p$^n mho is possessed of it ; for amidst all th<' vicis^;'! id-^s and cahunities pf the present state, that man enjoys an inexhaui^li- Chap. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 139 61e fund of consolation, of which it is not in the power of fortune to deprive him. 2 There is not a book on earth so favou ruble to all the Ivind, and all the sublime affections; or so unfriendly to hatred and persecution, to tyranny, to injustice, and every sort of ni.devolence, as the Gospel. It breathes nothinu throughout, but mercy, benevolence, and peace. 3 Poetry is sublime, when it awakens in the mind any jiijreat and good ariecLion, as piety or patriotism. Ttiis is one oi' the iioltlest ertects of the art. The Psahiis are remnrkahle, beyond all other writings, for their power of inspiring devout t-nuilions. IJut it is not in this respect only, that they are sid)hme. Of ihe divine nature, they contain the most mau;tiilict'ul descrip- tions, that the soul of man can comprehend. The hui'.dred and fourth Psalm, in particular, displays the power and goodness of Providence, ui creating and preserving die wute of admiration. Caled, the son of the viceroy of Egypt, entered every day early, and re- tired late. He was beautiful and eloquent: Omar admired his wit, and loved his docility. " Tell me," said Caled, " thou to Chap. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 141 whose voice nations have listened, and whose wisdom is known to the extremities of Asia, tell me how I may resemble Omar the prudent. The arts by which thou hast gained power and presei'ved it, are to thee no longer necerjsary or usenil ; i^ipart to me the secret of thy conduct, and teach me the plan upon which thy wisdom has built thy fortune." 4 " Young man," said Omar," it is of little use to form plans of life. When I took my first survey of the world, in my twen- tieth year, having considered the various conditions of mankind, in the hour of solitude I said thus to myself, leaning against a cedar, which spread its branches over my head : ** Seventy years are allowed to man ; I have yet fifty remaining. 5 " 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 arrival, and every student will solicit my friendship. Twenty years thus passed, will store my mind with images, which I shall be busy, through the rest of my life, in combining and comparing. I shall revel in inexhaustible accumulations of intellectual riches ; I shall find new pleasures for every mo- ment, and shall never more be weary of myself. 6 ^* 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 Zobeide ; with her •! will live twenty years within the suburbs of Bagdat, in every pleasure that wealth can purchase, and fancy can invent.. 7 *' 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 resolution, that I will never depend upon the smile of princes ; that I will never stand exposed to the artifices of courts ; I will never pant for public honours, nor disturb my quiet with the affairs of state." Such was my scheme of life, which I impressed indelibly upon my memory. 8 " The first part of my ensuing time was to be spent in search of knowledge, and I know not how I was diveited from my de- sign. I had no visible impediments without, nor any ungovern- able passions within. I regarded knowledge as the highest ho- nour, 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. 9 " I now postponed my purpose of travelling ; for why should I go abroad, while so much remained to be learned at home ? I immured myself for four years, and studied the laws of the empire. The fame of my skill reached the judges • 1 ^ I ^1,1 142 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. 'Il- I { was found able to speak upon doubtful questions ; and was commanded to stand at the footstool of the calif. I was heani with attention; I was consulted with confidence; and the love of praise fastened on my heart. 10 *< 1 still wished to see distant countries ; listened witli rapture 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 the stream of busmets hurried me along. SomPtinries I was afraid lest I should be charged with ingratitude ; but I still proposed to travel, and therefore would not confine myself by marriage. 11 << In my fiflieth year, I began to suspect that the time of travelling was past ; and thought it best to lay hold on the fe- licity yet in my power, and indulge myself In domestic plea sures. But at nfly no man easily finds a woman beautiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide. I inquired and rejected^ consulted and deliberated, till the sixty-second year made me ashamed of wishing to marry. I had now nothing lefl but retirement ; and for retirement I never found a time till dis- ease forced me from public employment. 12 '* Such was my scheme, and such has been its conse> quence. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge, I trifled away the years of improvement ; with a restless desin of see- ing diiTerent countries, 1 have always resided in U ;.» same city ; wit! the highest expectation of connubial felicity, I have lived unmarried; and with unalterable resolutions of coii- templative retirement, I am going to die within the walls of Bagdat," DR. JOHNSON. SECTION XI. The Pleasures of virtuotis Sentibility, THE good effects of true aensibility, 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 plea- sures to which it gives him access. If he is master of riches or influence, it affords him the means of increasing his own en* joyment, by relieving the wants, or increasing the comforts ot ouiers. If he commands not these advantages, yet all the com- forts which he sees in the possession of the deserving, become In some sort his, by his rejoicing in the good which they enjoy. 2 Even the face of nature, yields a satisf ion to him which the insensible can never know. The profusion of goodness, which he beUolds poured forth on the universe, dilates his heart with the thought;, that innumt ^^ble multitudes around him are folest and happy. When he sees the labours of men appeariuj^ to prosper, and views a country flourishing in wealth and iu Chap. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. HB dustry ; when he beholds the spring coming forth in its beau- ty, and reviving the decayed face of nature ; or in autumn beholds the fields loaded with plenty, and the year crowned with all Hs fruits ; he lifts his affections with gratitude to the great Father of all, and rejoices in the general felicity and joy. 3 It may, Indeed, be objected, that the same sensibility lays open the heart to be pierced with many wounds, from the dis- tresses which abound in the world ; exposes us to frequent suf- fering from the participation which it communicates of the sor- rows, as well as of the joys of friendship. Rut let it be consider- ed, that the tender melancholy of symphathy is accompanied with a sensation which they who feel it would not exchange for the gratifications of the selfish. When the heail is strongly moved by any of the kind affections, even when it pours itaeljf forth in virtuous sorrow, a secret attractive charm mingles witH the painful emotion : there is a joy in the midst of grief. 4 Let it be farther considered, that the griefs which sensibi- lity introduces, are counterbalanced by pleasures which floir from the same source. Sensibility heightens in general the human powers, and is connected with acuteness in all our feel- ings. If it maices us more alive to some painful sensations, in return, it renders the pleasing ones more vivid and animated* 5 The selfish man languishes in his narrow circle of plea- sures. They are confined to what affects his own interest. He is obliged to repeat 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. Number- less occasions open to him of indulging his favourite taste, by conveying satisfaction to others. Often it is in his power, in one way or other, to sooth the afflicted heart, to carry some consolation into the house of wo. 6 In the scenes of ordinary life, in the domestic and social intercourses of men, the cordiality of his affections cheers and gladdens him. Every appearance, every description of in- nocent happiness, is enjoyed by him. Every native expres- sion of kindness and affection among others, is felt by hun, even though he be not the object of it. In a circle of friends enjoying one another, he is as happy as the happiest, 7 In a word, he lives in a different sort of world, from that which the selfish man inhabits. He possesses a new sense that enablss him to behold objects which the selfish cannot see. At the same time, bis enjoyments are not of that kind whkh remain merely on the smrface of the mind. They pe- Qetrate the heart. They enlarge and elevate, they renile 144 THE ENGLISH READER. Paut 1. and ennoble it. To all the pleasin*' emotions of aflTectioa Ihey add the dignified consciousness of virtue. 8 Children of men ! men formed by nature to live and to feel as brethren! how long will ye continue to rstrange your- selves from one another by competitions and j« alousies, when in cordial union ye might be so much more Itlest ? How long will ye seek your happiness in selfish {^fratifications alone*, ncg, lecting those purer and better sources of joy which flow from the affections and the heart ? blaik. SECTION XH. On the true Honour of Man. THE proper honour of man arises not from some of those splendid actions and abilities which excite lilgh jidniiratiuii Courage and prowess, military renown, signal victories and conquests, may render the name of a man famous vvltliout rendering his character truly honourable. To many brave men, to many heroes renowned in story, we look up with vronder. Their exploits are recorded. Their praise3 are Bung. They stand, as on an eminence, above the rest of man- kind. Their eminence, nevertheless, mav not be of that sort before which we bow with inward esteem and respect. Sonic- thing more is wanted fDr that purpose, than the conquering arm, and the intrepid mind. 2 The laurelsof the warrior must at all times be dyed in blood, and bedewed with the tears of the widow ami the orphnn. But if they have been stained by rapine and inhumanity; if sordid avarice 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, be- comes mean, peiiiaps odious, when we examine it more close- ly. It is like the Colossal statue, whose immense size struck the spectator afar off with astonishment ; lilft when nearly viewed, it appears disproportioned, unshapely, and rude. 3 Observations of the same kind may be applied to all the reputation derived from civil accomplishments ; from the re- fined politics of the statesman, or the literary efforts of geniuj and erudition. These bestow, and within certain bounds ought to bestow, eminence and distinction on men. They discover talents which in themselves are shining; and vh 4ii become highly valuable, when employed in advancing the good of man- kind. Hence they frequently give rise to fame. But a dis- tinction is to be made between fame and true honour. 4 The statesman, the orator, or the poet, may be famous ; wlule yet the msA himseU* is far from being honoured. We uigs ; c Tl WH calms ? votion spires < the pail means, placid 2 B^ votion eAtire ; CiiAf. IX. PROMISCUOIS PIECES. 1*1^ envy his abilities. We wish to rival them. But we woulJ not choose to be classed with him who possesses them. In- stances of t\us sort are too often found in every record of an- cient or modern history. 6 From all this it follows, that in order to discern where man's true honour lies, we must looic, not to any adventitioui» cupcumstances of fortune; not to any single sparkling quality i but to the whole of what forms a man ; what entitles him aa( such, to rank high among that class of iieings to wbich ha be^ laiigs; in a word, we must look to the mind and the soul. 6 A mind superior to fear, to selfish interest and corruption i a mind governed by the principles of uniform rectitude and in- tegi'ity; the same in prosperity and advei*sity ; which no hnhe cunseduce, nor terror ovei-awe; neither by pleasure melted inta eifeminacy, nor by distress sunk into dejection : sudi is the' mind which forms the distinction and eminence of nr.ni, 7 One who, in no situation of life, is either ashamed or afraiJ of discharging his duty, and acting his proper part with firm- ness and constancy; true to the God whom he worships, knd tiue to the faith in which he professes to believe ; lull of al- fectlon to hi3 brethren of mai.kind ; faithfid to his friends, gen-- erous to his enemies, warm with compassion to the unfortu" nate; Ifelf-denying to little prvate interests and plj'asnres, but zealous for public interest and happiness; magnanimous, with- out being proud; humble, without being mean; just, without being harsh ; simple in his manners, but manly in his feeU iiigs ; on whose word we can entirely rely ; whose counten- ance never deceives us ; whose professions of kij)dness are th^ effusions of his heart : one, in fine, whom, independently of any views of advantage, we should clioose for a superior^ could trust in as a friend, and could Ifjve as a brothei* — this is the man,' whom, in our heart, above all others, we do, W0 must honour. Blair* SECTION XIII. The influence of Devotion on the happiness of Life, WHATEVER promotes and strengthens virtue, whatevei* calms ymd regulates the temper, is a sourre of happiness. De- votion produces these effects m a remarkable degree. It in- spires composure of spirit, miklness, and benignity; weakens^ the painful, and cherishes the pleasing emotions ; and, by these? means, carries on the life of a pious man in a smooth anj placid tenor. 2 Besides exerting this habitual influence on the mind, de- votion opens a field of enjoyments, to which the vicious are entire strangers ; enjoyments the noiore valuable, as they peru- ''-'X 146 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. liarly belong to retii'ement, when the world leaves us ; and to advei'sity, when it becomes our foe. These are the two sea- sons for which every wise man would most wish to provide some hidden store of comfort. 3 For let him be placed in the most favourable situation which the human state admits, the world can neither always amuse him, nor always shield liim from distress. There will be many hours of vacuity, and many of dejection, in his 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! 4 But for those pensive periods, the pious man has a relief prepared. From the tiresome repetition of the common vani- ties of life, or from the painful corrosion of its cares and sor- rows, devotion transports him into a new region; and surrounds him there with such objects, as are the most fitted to cheer the dejection, to calm the tumults, and to heal the wounds of his heart. 5 If the world has been empty and delusive, it gladdens him with the prospect of a higher and better order of tilings, about to arise. If men have been ungrateful and base, it displays before him the faithfulness of that Supreme Being, who, tliough every other friend fail, will never forsake him. , , ,,vjf 6 Let us consult our experience, and we shall find, that the two greatest sources of inward j'jy, are, the exercise of love directed towards a deserving object, and the exercise of hope terminating on some high and assured happiness. Both these are supplied by devotion ; 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. 7 The refined pleasures of a pious mind are, in many re- gpects, superior to the coai'se gratifications of sense. They are pleasures which belong to the highest powers and best affec- tions of the soul ; whereas the gratifications of sense reside in the lowest region of our nature. To the latter, the soul stoops below its native dignity. The former, raise it above itself. The latter, leave always a comfortless, often a mortifying, remem- brance behind them. The former are reviewed with applause and delight. , 8 The pleasures of sense resemble a foaming torrent, which, after a disorderly course, speedily runs out, aud leaves an empty and offensive channel. But th? 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. t^^ CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 14" 9 To thee, O Devotion! we one the highest improvement of our nature, and much of the enjoyment of our life. Thou art the support of our virtjue, and the rest of our souls, in this turbulent world. Thou composest the thoughts. Thou calm, st the passions. Thou exaltest the heart. Thy communications, and thine only, are imparted to the low, no less than to the high ; to the poor, as well as to the rich. 10 In thy presence worldly distinctions cease ; and, under thy influence, worldly sorrows are forgotten. Thou art the balm of the wounded mind. Thy sanctuary is ever open lo the miserable; inaccessible only to the unrighteous and impure. Thou beginnest on earth the temper of heaven. In thee the nosts of angels and blessed spirits eternally rejoice, blaiu. SECTION XIV. The planetary and terrestrial Worlds comparatively considered . TO us, who dwell on its surface, the earth is by far the most extensive orb that our 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 specta- tor placed on one of the planets, it wears a uniform aspect ; looks all luminous ; and no larger than a spot. To beings who dwHU at still greater distances, it entirely disappears. 2 That which we call alternately the morning and the even- ing 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 accom- modations for animal subsistence, and are supposed to be th.e abodes of intellectual life ; all which, together with our earth- ly habitation, are dependent on that grand dispenser of Divitie munificence, the sun ; receive their light from the distributian of his rays, and derive their comfort from his benign agencj . 3 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 more than a million times larger than this whole earth, on which so many lofty mountains rise, and such vast oceans rolK A line extending from side to side through the centre of that resplendent orb, would measure more than eight hundred thou- sand miles : a girdle formed to go round lis circumference, ■'jy ■ ' ■ .,•-*■ 14S THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. would require a length of millions. Were its solid contents to be estimated, the account would overwhelm our understand- ing, and be almost beyond the power of language to express. Are we startled at these reports of philosophy ! 4 Are we ready to cry out in a transport of surprise, " How mighty is the Being who kindled so prodigious a fire ; ami keeps alive, from age to age, so enormous a mass of flame !" let us attend our philosophical guides, and we shall be brought Acquainted with speculations more enlarged and more in- flaming. 5 This sun, with all its attendant planets, is but a very little part of the grand machine of the universe : every star, though m appearance no bigger than the diamond that glitter? u^ m u lady's ring, Is really a vast globe, like the sun in size r glory ; no less spacious, no less luminous, than the rj^i* < li 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 in- fluence, all which are lost to our sight in unuieasurable wilds of ether. 6 Tha^ the stars appear like so many diminutive, and scarce- ly distinguishable points^ is owing to their immense and incon- ceivable distance. Immense and inconceivable indeed it is, since a ball shot from the loaded cannon, and flying with un- abated rapidity, must travel, at this impetuous rate, almost Beven hundred thousand years, before it could reach the near- est of these twinkling luminaries. 7 While beholding this vast expanse, I learn my own ex- treme meanness, I would also discover the abject littleness of nil terrestrial things. What is the earth, with all her ostenta- tious scenes, compared with this astonishing grand furniture of the skies ? What, but a dim speck, hardly perceivable in the map of the universe. ' 8 It is observed by a very judicious i^riter, that ii the sun himself, which enlightens this part of the creation, were ex« tinguished, 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 exceed- ingly little in comparison of the whole, that their loss would scarcely leave a blank in the immensity of God's works, 9 If then, not our globe only, but this whole system, bo 90 very diminutive, ^hat is a kingdom, or a country 1 What B|9 a few lordships, or the lo much admired patnmomes or Chap. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 149 those who are styled wealthy ? \^^len I measure them with my own little pittance, they swell into proud and bloated di- mensions : but when I take the universe for my standard, how scanty is their size ! how contemptible their figure ! They shrink into pompous nothings. addison. SECTION XV. Onthe power of Customy and the usestotchtchtt maybeapplierf, 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 him inclinations and capacities altogether different from tho«e he was born with. 2 A person who is addicted to play or gaming, though he took but little delight in it at first, by degrees contracts so strong an inclination towards it, and gives himself up so entirely to it, that it seems the only end of his being. The love of a retired or busy life will grow upon a man insensibly, as he is conver- sant in the one or the other, till he is utterly unqualified for re- lishing that to which he has Iieen for some time disused. 3 Nay, a man may smoke, or drink, or take snuff, till he is unable to pass away his time without it ; not to mention hov/ our delight in any particular study, art, or science, rises ajui improves, in proportion to the application which we bestow upon it. Thus, what was at first an exercise, becomes at length an entertaiiunent. Our employments are changed into diver- sions. The mind grows fond of those actions it is accustomed to ; and is drawn with reluctancy from those paths in which it' has been used to walk. 4 If we attentively consider this property of human nature, It may instruct ui in very fine moralities. In the first place, I would have no man discouraged with that kind of life, or series of action, in which the choice of othei*s, or his own necessities, may have engaged him. It may, perhaps, be ver}' disag***»eahIo to him, at first; but use and application will certainly rendt-i it not only less painful, but pleasing and satisfactory. 5 In the second place, I would recommend to every one, the admirable precept, which Pythagoras is said to have given to bis disciples, and which that philosopher must have drawn from the observation I have enlarged upon . " Pitch upon that course of life which is the most excellent, and custom will reu* der it the most delightful.'' 6 Men, whose circumstances will permit them to choo.^e their own way of life, Tire inexcusable if they do not pui*sue that whichtheir judgment tells them is the most laudable. The 150 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I. voice of reason is more to be regarded, than the bent of anj present inclination ; since by the rule above mentioned, inchna- tion will at length come over to reason, though we can never force reason to comply with inclination. 7 In the third place, this observation may teach the most sensual and irrelijjious man, to overlook those hardships and difficulties which are apt to discourage him from the prosecii tion of a virtuous life. " The gods,'* said Hesiod, **have placea labour before virtue; the way to her is at first rough and dilFw cult, but grows more smooth and easy the fartlier we advance in it." The man who proceeds in it with steadiness and reso- lution, will, in a little time, find that " her ways are ways of pleasantness, and that all her paths are peace." 8 To enforce this consideration, we may further observe, that the practice of reliijion "will not only be attended with that pleasure which naturally accompanies those actions to which we are habituated, hut with those supernumerary joysof heart, that rise from the consciousness of such a pleasure ; fi'om the satisfaction of actinsr up to the dictates of reason; and from the prospect of a happy immortality. 9 In the fourth place, »we. may learn from this obsen'^ation, which we have made on the m?.ud of man, to take particulrii' care, when we are once settled in a regular course of life, how we too frequently indulge ourselves in even the most innocent diversions and entertainments ; since the mind may insensibly fall off from the relish of virtuous actions, and by degrees, ex- change that pleasure which it takes in the performance of its duty, for delights of amuch inferior andau unprofitable natuie. 10 The last use which I shall make of this remarkable pro perty in human nature, of being delighted with those actions to which it is accustomed, is, to show how absolutely necessaiy it is for us to gain habits of virtue in this life, if we 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 qualified for it ; we must, in this world, gain a relish for truth and virtue, if we would be able to taste that knowledge and perfec- tion, which are to makeus happy in the next. Theseedsoftho.se spiritual joys and raptures, which are to rise up and flourish in the soulto all eternity, must be planted in itduring this its present state of probation* In short, heaven is not to be looked upon only as tiie reward, but as the natui^al eflect of a religious liie. SECTION XVI. The pleasures resulting from a proper use of our Faculties, HAPPY that man, who, unembarrassed by vulgar cares inaster of himself, his time, and fortune, spends his time in Chap. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 151 waking himself wiser; and his fortune^ in making others (and therefore himself) happier; who, as the will aiui un- derstanding are the two ennobling faculties of tiie soul, thinks himself not complete, till his understanding is beautified with the valuable furniture of knowledge, as well as his will en- riched 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 false glare of greatness, but to be beloved for the gentle and sober lustre of his wisdom and goodness. 2 The greatest minister of state has not more bualness to do, in a public capacity, than he, and indeed every other man may find in the retired and still scenes of life. Even in his private walks, everything that is visible convinces him, there is present a Being invisible. Aided by natural philoso- phy, 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 manner : and when he sees him^ he adores him with the tri- bute of a grafceful heart. seed. SECTION XVII. Description of Candour, TRUE candour is altogether differeirt from that guarded, inoflfensive language, and that studied openness oi' 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 others. That candour which is a Christian virtue, consists, not in fairness of speech, but in fairness of heart. 2 It may want the blandishment of external courtesy, but supplies its place with a humane and generous liberality of sen- timent. Its manners are uiraffected, and its proftssions cor- dial. Exempt, on one hand, from the dark jealousy of a suspicious mind, H is no less removed, on the other, from that easy credulity which is imposed on by every specious pretence. It is perfectly consistent with extensive knowledge of the world, and with due attention to our own safety. 3 In that various intercourse, which we are obliged to carry on with persons of every different character, suspicion, to a certain degree, is a necessai'y guard. It is only when it ex- ceeds the bounds of prudent caution, that it degenerates into vice. There is a pr »per mean between undistinguished cre- dulity, and universa jealousy, which a sound uuderstaading V^ ml, **^si! ifl; :i ■ tr 152 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I C'llM** tiiscerns, and ^}Jch the man of candour studies to pre- serve. 4 He makes allowance for the mixture of evil with good, tvhich is to be fou.d in every human character. He expects none to he faultless, and he is unwilling to believe that there is kny without some commendable qualities. In the midst of many defects, he can discover a virtue. Under the inilucnce of personal resentment, he can be just to the nn^ni of an enemy. 5 He never lends an open ear to those defamatory reports and dark suggestions, which, among the tribes of the ce!iso- rious, circulate with so much rapidity, and meet with so ready acceptance. He is not hasty to judge ; and he re(|uires full evidence before he will condemn. 6 As long as an action can be ascribed to different motives, he holds it as no mark of sagacity to impute it always to the fTorst. Where there is just ground for doubt, he keeps his judgment undecided ; and, during the period of suspense, leans to the most charitable construction which an action can bear* When he must condemn, he condemns with regret ; «nd without those aggravations which the severity of others adds to the crim€. He listens calmly to the apology of the of- fender, and readily admits every extenuating circumstance, lyhich equity can suggest. 7 How niuch soever he may blame the principles of anv 0^t or party, he nevor confounds, under one general censure,'' stll who belong to that party or sect. He charges them not with such consequences of their tenets, as they refuse and disavow. From one wrong opinion, he does not infer the •ubversion of all sound principles ; .nor from one bad action conclude that all regard to conscience is overthrown. 8 When he " beholds the mote in his brother^s eye," he remembers " the beam in his own." He commiserates hu- man frailty, and judges of others according to the principles, by which ht would think it reasonable that they should judge of him. In a word, he views men and actions in the clear BUnghine of charity and good nature; and not in that dark and •ullcn shade which jealousy and party spirit throw over all iJbwcters. BLAIR. SECTION XVIII. On the imperfection of that Happiness which rests solely on worldly Pleasures, ' THE vanity of human pleasures, is a topic which might be embellbhed with the pomp of much description. But I shall mndlowilj wM exaggeration, and only point out a threefold ClI^^. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 153 vanity in human life, which every impartial observer cannot Imt atlrnit; disappointment in pursuit, dissatisfaction in enjuyment, uncertainty in possession. 2 Fii'st, disappointment in pursuit. When we look around us on the world, we every where beht , a busy multitude, in- tent on the prosecution of various designs, which their wanls or desires have suggested. We behold them employing every method which ingenuity can devise ; some the patience of in- dustry, some the boldness of enterprise, others the dexterity of stratagem, in order to compass their ends. 3 Of this incessant stir and activity, what is the tVuIt ? in comparison of the crowd who have toiled in vain, how small Is the nu mber of the successful ! Or rather, where is tlie man who will declare chat in '^very point he has completed his plan, and attained his utmost wish ? 4 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 alwajrs to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor riches to men of understanding." We may form our plans with the most profound sagacity, and with the most vigilant caution may guard against dangers on every side. But some unforeseen occurrence comes across, which baffles our wisdom, and lays our labours in the dust. « 5 Were such disappointments confined to those who aspiro at engrossing the higher departments of life, the misfortune would be less. The humiliation of the mighty, and the fall of ambition from its towering height, little concern the bulk of mankind. These are objects on which, as on distant me- teors, they gaze frorfi afar, without drawing personal instruc- tiich is not perfect? Let us survey our state with an impsyilrar eye, and be just to the various gifts of Heaven. 2 How vain soever this life, considered in itself, may be, the comforts and hopes of religion are suHicient to give soli. dity to the enjoyments of the righteous. In the exercise of good affections, and the testimony of an approving con- science ; in the sense of peace and reconciliation witii God, through the great Redeemer of mankind ; in the firm conlj- dence of being conducted«through all the trials of life, by in- finite Wisdom and Goodness ; and in the joyful pro.-jpect of arriving, in tiie end, at immortal felicity, they possess a hap- piness which, descending from a purer aid more perfect re- gion tlian tliis world, partakes not of its vanity. 3 Besides the enjoyments peculiarto religion, there are other pleasures of our present state, uhich, though of an inferior or- der, must not be overlooked in the estimate of human life. It ia necessary to call the attention to these, in order to check that repining and unthaukiul spirit to which man is always too prone. 4 Some degree of importance must be allowed to the com- forts of health, to the innocc^t gratifications of sense, and to the entertainment afibrded us by all the ijeautiful scenes of na- ture ; some to the pui*suits and harmless amusements of 'Social life ; and more to the internal enjoyments of thought and re- flection, aiul to the pleasures of affectionate intercourse with those whom we love. These comforts are often held in too low estimation, merely because they are ordinary and com- mon; although tiiat is the circumstance which ought, in rea* son, to enhance their value. They lie open, in some degree, to all; extend through every rank of life ; and fill up agreeably many of those spaces in our present existence which are not occupied with higher objects, or with serious cares. 6 From this representation, it appears, that notwithstand- ing the vanity of the world, a considerable degree of comfort is attainable in the present state. Let the recollection of this serve to reconcile us to our condition, and to repress tiie arro- gance of complaints a^id murmurs. — What art thou, O son of man! who, having sprung but yesterday out of the dust, darest to lift up thy voice against thy Maker, and to arraign his Providence, because all things are not oi'dered according to thy wish? 6 What title hast thou to find fault with the order of tlie universe, whose lot is so much beyond what thy virtue or me* rit gave thee ground to claim! Is it nothing to thee to hav^ Chap. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 167 been introduced into this magnificent world ; to have been ad« mitted as a spectator of the Divine wisdom and works ; and ta have had access to all the comforts which nature, with a boun- tiful hand, has poured forth around thee? Are all the hours for* rotten which tliou hast passed in case, in cmnplacency, or joy ? 7 Is it a small favour in thy eyes, that tlie hand of Divine Mercy has been stretched forth to aid tliee ; aad, if thou re- ject not its profl'ered assistance, is ready to conduct thee to a happier slate of existence ? VVhen thou comparest thy condi- tion with thy desert, blush, and be ashamed of thy con»plaint»<. Be silent, be grateful, and adore. Receive with thankfulness the blessings which are allowed thee. Revere tliat govern- ment which at present refuses thee more. Rest in this con- clusion, that though there are evils in the world, its Creator is wise and good, and has been bountiful to thee. ulair. SECTION XX. Scale of Beings, Tf lOUGH there is a great deal of pleasure in contemplathig 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. 2 If we consider Uiose parts of the material world, which lie the nearest to us, and are therefore subject to our observation, and inquiries, it is amazing to consider the infinity of animals with which they are stocked. Every part of matter is peopled ; every green leaf swarms with inhabitants. There is scarcely a single humour in the body of a man, or of any oilier animal, in which our glasses do not discover myriads of living creatures. We find, even in the most solid bodies, as in marble itself, m» numerable cells and cavities, which are crowded with imper- ceptible inhabitants, too little for the naked eye to discover. 3 On the other hand, if we look into the more bulky parts of nature, we see the seas, lakes, and rivers, teeming witK numberless kinds of living creatures. We find every moun- tain and marsh, wilderness and wood, pfentifulh stocked witjk birds and beasts; and every part of matter aHording proper necessaries and conveniences, for the livelihood of the qm^«^ tudes which inhabit it. | 4 The author of "the Plurality of World3,»* much desei*ves our par- ticular attention, as man ; who fills up the middle space be- tween the animal and the intellectual nature, the visible and the invisible world ; and w ho is that link in the chain of being, which forms the connection betw een 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 re- spect, say to "corruption, thou art my lather," and to the worm, "thou art my ny)therand my sister." addison. SECTION XXI. Trust hi the care of Providence recommended, MAN, considered in himself, is a very helpless, and a very wretched bcir.v. He is subject every moment to the greatest calamities anJ misfortunes. He is beset with dangers on all Bides; and may become unhappy by numberless casualties, Mr |.4 • 4 I , il 3* j 160 THE ENGLISH READER. Paut I. M '.'' Ijlji H! i^Mi: V u ir! which he could not foresee, nor have prevented had he Ture- seen them. 2 It is our comfort, while we areohnoxious to so many acci- dents, that we are under the care of one who diiects contin- gencies, and has in his hands the management of every tiling' niat is capable of annoying or offending us ; who knows the assistance we stand in need of, and is always ready to bcdtow it on those who ask it of him. 3 The natural homage, which such a creature owes to so infinitely wise and good a Being, is a firm reliance on him for the blessings and conveniences of life ; and an habitual trust ia him, for deliverance out of all such dangers aiid dlHicultius ud may befal us. 4 The man who always lives in this disposition of mind, hiia not the same dark and melancholy views of human nature, aj 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 comfoits himself with thtt^m^ntemplation of those divine attributes, which are em- ployed for his safety, and his welfare. He finds his want of foresight made up, by the omniscience of him who is his sup- port. He is not sentrt-ie of his own want of strength, when he knows that his helper is Almighty. 6 In short, the person who has a firm trust in the Supremo Being, is powerful in his power, wise by his wisdom, happy 1 v his happiness. He reaps" tlie benefit of every divine attii- bute; and loses his own insufficiency in the fulhiCcS of infinite perfection. To make our lives more easy to us, we are com- manded to put our trust in him, who is thus 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. 6 Among several motives, which might be made use of to recommend 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, contribute very much to the getting clear of any affliction, or to the bearing of it manfully. 7 A person who believes he has his succour at hand, and jthat he acts in the sight of his friend, oilen exerts himself be- yond his abilities; and does wonders, that are not to be matched by one who is not auunated with such a confidence of success- Chap. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 161 Trust in the assistance of an Almightf Being, naturaRy pro- duces patience, liope, cheerfulness, and all other dispoaitions of mind, which alleviate those calamities that tve are not able to remove. 8 The practice of this virtue administers great comfort to the mind of man, in times of poverty and alHiction; but most of all, in the hour of death. When the soul is hovering, in the last moments of its separation; when it is justentcring on ano- ther state of existence, to converse with scenes, and objects, and companions, that are alto^rethei* new ; what can 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 addisok. SECTION XXII. Piety and Gratitude enlivtn Prosperity. PIETY, and gratitude to God, contribute, in a high degree, to enliven prosperity. Gratitude is a pleasing emotion. Tho sense of being distinguished by the kindness of another, glad- dens 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. 2 But nothing of this kind can affect 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 Benefactor, who aims at no end but the happiness of those whom he blesses, and who de- sires 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 causes ; and, oflen, of mean or trifling incidents, which occasionally favoured their de* signs ; with what superior satisfaction does tlie servant of God remark the hand of that gracious Power whach Intfl raised him up; which hath happily conducted him duroufth the various steps of life, and crowned him with the most &• vourable distinction beyond his equals? 3 Let us farther consider, that not only gratitu^te for die past, but a rheerins: sense of divine fnvnnr at th»* present, en- 03 ■Ti- I ^ m i^-^i 162 THE ENGLISH READER. Paict 1. I' I >M ters into tne pious emotion. Tiiey are only the virtuous, who in their prosperous clays hear this voice addressed to them, "Go thy way, eat thy hread with joy, and drink thy wine with a cheerful heart ; for God now accepteth thy works." He who is the author of their prosperity, gives them a title to enjoy, with complacency, his own gift. 4 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, un- der the smile of approving heaven. No guilty fears damp their joys. The blessing of God rests upon all that they pos- sess ; his protection surrounds them ; and hence, "in the ha- bitations of the righteous, is found the voice of rejoiciuir and salvation." A lustre unknown to others, invests, in their sight, the whole face of nature. 6 Their piety reflects a sunshine from heaven upon tlie prosperity of the world ; unites in one point of view, the smiling aspect, both of the powei's above, and of the objects below. Not only have they as full a relish as others, for tlie in- nocent pleasures of life, but, moreover, in these they hold communion with their divine Benefiictor. In all that is good 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 aflectiSn to the source of all the happiness which surrounds them; and thus widen the sphere of their pleasures, by adding intellectual, and spiritual, to earthly joys. 6 For illustration of what I have said on this head, remark that cheer^l enjoyment of a prosperous state, which king David had when he wrote the twenty-third psahn ; and com- pare the highest pleasures of the riotous sinner, ^vitli the happy afid satisfied spirit which breathes throughout that psalm. — In the midst of the splendour of royalty, with what amiable sim- plicity of gratitude does he look up to the Lord as "his Shep- herd ;" happier in ascribing all his success to Divine favour, than to the policy of his councils, or to the force of his arms!* 7 How many instances of divine goodness arose before him in pleasing remembrance, when with such relish, he speaks of the " green pastures and still waters, beside which God had led him ; of his cup which he had made to overHow ; and of the table which he had prepared for him in the presence of his enemies!" With what perfect tranquillity does he look forward to the time of his passing through "the valley of the shadow of death ;" unappalled by that spectre, whose most distant appearance blasts the prosperity of sinners ! -He fears no evil, as long as " the rod and the staff" of his Divine Hhep- Chap. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 163 who herd are with him ; and, throujyh 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 follow me all the days of my life ; and I aliall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever." 8 What a purified, sentimental eiijoyment of prosperity is here exhibited !. How different from that gross relish of world- ly pleasures, which belongs to those who behold only the ter- restrial side of things ; who raise their views to no higher ob- jects than the succession of human c~ontingenries, and the weak eflbrts of human ability ; who have no protector or pa- tron in the heavens, to enliven their prosperity, or to warm their hearts with gratitude and trust ! blaiu. SECTION XXIII. Virtue, when deeply rooted, is not subject to tha influence of Fortune. THE city of Sidon having surrendered to Alexander, he. ordered Hephestion to bestow the crown on him whom the Si- donians should think most worthy of that honour. Hephestion being at that time resident with two young men of distinction, offered them the kingdom; but they refused it, telling him that it was contrary to the laws of their country, to admit any one to tliat honour, who was not of the royal family. 2 He then, having expressed his admiration of their disin- terested spirit, desired them to name one of the royal race, %vho might remember that he had received the crown through their hands. Overlooking many, who would have been ambi- tious of this high honour, they made choice of Abdolonymus, whose singular merit had rendered him conspicuous, even in the vale of obscurity. Though remotely related to the roy- al family, a series of misfortunes had reduced him to the ne- cessity of cultivating a garden, for a small stipend, in the suburbs of the city. 3 While Abdolonymus was busily employed in weeding his garden, the two friends of Hephestion, bearing in their hands the ensigns of royalty, approached him, and saluted him king. They informed him that Alexander had appointed liim to that 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 admonishetl 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 liad been raised. 4 All this, at the first, appeared to Abdolonymus as an illu- sion of the fancy, or an insult oHlered to his poverty. He re- quested them not to trouble him farllier wilU tiielr iiapfrtinent v., W;! Il K lb m I II i > iii 164 THE ENGLISH READER. Pakt I. jests; and to find some other way of amusing themselves, which might leave him in the peaceable enjoyment of his ob. scure habitation. — At length, however, they convinced him, that they were serious in their proposal; and prevailed upon him to accept the regal office, and accompany them to the palace. 5 No sooner was he in possession of the government, than pride and envy created him enemies ; who whispered their murmurs in every place, till at last they reached the ear of Alexander. He commanded the new-elected prince to be sent for; and inquired of him, with what temper of mind he had borne his poverty. " Would to Heaven," replied Abdo- lonymus, " that I may be able to bear my crown with equal moderation . for when I possessed little, I wanted nothing : these hands supplied me with whatever I desired." From this answer, Alexander formed so high an idea of his wisdom, that he confirmed the choice which had been made ; and an- nexed a neighbouring province to the government of Sidon. QUINTUS CURTIUS. SECTION XXIV. The Speech of FabriciuS; a Roman ambassador^ to king Pyrrhus, who attempted to bribe him to his interesfSj by the offer of a great sum of money, WITH regard to my poverty, the king has, indeed, been justly informed. My whole estate consists in a house of but mean appearance, and a little spot of ground ; from which, by my o wn labour, I draw my support. But 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 unhappy, thou art greatly deceived. 2 I have no reason to complain of fortune : she supplies me with all that nature requires j and if I am without superfluities, I am also free from the desire of them. With vhese, I con- fess I should be more able to succour the necessitous, the only advantage for which the wealthy are to be envied ; but small as my possessions are, I can still contribute something to the support of the state, and the assistance of my friends. 3 With respect to honours, my country places me, poor as I nm, npon a level with the richest : for Rome knows no qjialiiications for great employments, but virtue and ability. She appoints me to officiate in the most august ceremonies of religion ; she intrusts me with the command of her armies ; she confides to my care the most important negociations. My poverty does not lessen the weight and influence of my counsels In the senate. 4 The Roman people honour rr.r for that very poverty. Chap. IX PROMISCUOUS PI£C£S. 165 which king Pynrhus considers as a disgrace. They know the many opportunities I have had to enrich mj'self, without cen- sure; they are convinced of my disinterested zeal for tlieir prosperity : and if I have any thing to complain of, in the re- turn they make me, it is only tlie excess of their applaust?. What value, thfen, can I put upon thy gold and silver? What king can add any thing to my fortune? Always attentive to discharge the duties incumbent upon me, I have a mind free from self-reproach ; and I have an honest fame. SECTION XXV. Character o/ James I. Icing of England, NO prince, so little enterprising and so inoiTensive, wns evci bo much exposed to the opposite extremes of calumirr and flattery, of satire and panegyric. And the factions wlii h began in his time, being still continued, have made his clta- lactto* be as much disputed to this day, as is coramoniy that oi' princes who are our contempomrlcs. 2 Many virtues, however, it must be owned, he was poi- sebsed of ; but not one of them pure, or free C:om the conta- gion of the neighbouring vices. Ilia generosity bordered on profusion, his learning on pedantry, bis pacific disposition o>n pusillanimity, his wisdom on cunning, bis friendship on light fancy and boyish fondness. 3 While he imagined that he was only maintaining his own authority, he may perhaps be suspected in some of his ac- tions, and still more of bis 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 preserve fully the esteem and regard of none. His capacity was considerable, but fitter to discourse on gene- ral maxims, than to conduct any intricate business. 4 His intentions were just, but more adapted to the con« duct of private life, than to the government of kingdoms. Awkward in his person and ungainly in bis manners, he was ill qualified to command respect: partial and undiscerning in his afiections, he was little fitted to acquire general love. Of a feeble temper, more than of a frugal judgment ; exposed to our ridicule from his vanity, but exempt from our hatred by his freedom from pride and arrogance. 5 And, upon the whole, it may be pronounced of his cha- racter, that all his qualities were sullied with weakness, and embellished by humanity. Political courage he was certain- ly devoid of; and from theiice chiefly is derived the strong prejudice, v'licii prevails agahkst his personal bravery : an Iv 166 THE ENGLISH READER. Part I, h ' ^i; ( inference, however, which must be owned, from general ex perience, to be extremely fallacious. hume. 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 king- doms ; and to withdraw entirely from any concern in business or the affairs of tliis world, in order that lie might spend the remainder of his days in retirement and solitude. 2 Though it requires neither deep retlection, nor extraor- dinary discernment, to discover that the state of royalty is not exempt from cares and disappointments; though most of those who are exalted to a throne, find solicitude, and satiety, and disgust, to be their perpetual attendants, in that envied pre-eminence; yet, to descend voluntarily from the supreme to a subordinate station, aiid to relinquish the possession of power in order to attain the enjoyment of happiness, seems to be an effort too great for the human mind. 3 Several instances, indeed, occur in history, of monarchs who have quitted a throne, and have ended their days in re- tirement. But they were either weak princes, who took this resolution rashly, and repented of it 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 reluctance into a private station. 3 Dioclesian is, perhaps, the only prince capable of hold- ing the reins of government, who ever resigned them from deliberate choice; and who continued, duiing many years'; to enjoy the tranquillity of retirement, without fetching one penitent sigh, or casting back one look of desire, towards the power or dignity which he had abandoned. 5 No wonder, then, that Charleses resignation should fill all Europe with astonishment ; and give rise, both among his contemporaries, and among the historians of that period, to various conjectures concerning the motives which determined a prince, whose ruling passion had been uniformly the love of power, at the age of fifty-six, when objects of ambition operate with full force on the mind, and are pursued with the greatest ardour, to take a resolution so singular and unexpected. 6 The emperor, in pursuance of his determination, having assembled the states of the Low Countries at Brussels, seated himself, for the last time, in the chair of state . on one side of which was placed his soil, and on the other his sister the ease, an< Chap. IX. PllOMISCUOUS PIECES. 1&7 queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlantfs, with a splen- did retinue of the grandees of Spain and princes of the em- pire standing behind him. 7 The president of the council of Flanders, by his com- mand, explained, in a few words, his intention in calling this extraordinary meeting of the states. He then read the instru- ment of resignation, by which Charles surrendered to his sou Philip all his territories, jurisdiction, and authority in the Low Countries; absolving his subjects there from their oath of allegiance to him, which he required them to transfer to Phi- lip his lawful heir ; and to serve him with the same loyalty and zeal that they had manifested, during so long a course of years, in support of his government. 8 Charles then rose fron» his seat, and leaning on the shoul- der of the prince of ()rar>ge, i)ecanse he was unable to stand without support, he addressed himself to the audience ; and, from a paper which he held in his baud, in order to assist his memory, he recounted, with digni^, but without ostentation, all the great things which he had undertaken and performed, since the commencement of his administration. 9 He obsei^ved, that from the seventeenth year of his age, he had dedicated all his thoughts and attention to public ob- jects, reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of hiij ease, and very little for the eiijoyment of private pleasure ; that either in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visited Ger- many nine times, Spain six times, France four times, Italy seven times, the Low Countries ten times, England twice, Af- rica as often, and had made eleven voyages by sea; that while hi* health permitted him to discharge his duty, and the vigour of his constitution was ecjual, in any degree, to the arduous of- fice of governing dominions so extensive, he had never shun- ned labour, nor repined under fatigue ; that now, when his health was broken, and his vigour exhausted by the rage of an incurable distemper, iiis growing infirmities admonished him to retire ; nor was he so foad of reigning, as to retain the sceptre in an impotent hand, which was no lonijer able to protect his subjects, or to render them happy; that instead of a sovereign worn out with diseases, and scarcely half alive^ he gave them one in the prime of life, accustomed already to govern, and who added to the vigour of youth, all the atten- tion and sagacity of maturer years ; that if during the course of a long administration, he had connnitted any material er- ror in government, or il, under the pressure of so many and great atfairs, and amidst the attention which he had been obliged to give to (l»«*m. he had eillier neglected or iniured any. ■•■■ v. II ESI f ■■ '-. j I IS. 168 THE ENGUSII READER. Part I. •ill!- L ,;■ ! of his subjects, h6 now implored their forgiveness ; that, for his part, he should ever retain a grateful sense of their tidelity und attachment, and would carry the remembrance of it along with him to the place of his i*etreat, as his sweetest consola- tion, as well as the best reward for all his services ; and in his last prayers to Almighty God, wouid pour forth his ar- dent wishes for their welfare. 10 Then tummg towards Philip, who fell on his knees ttnd kissed his father's hand, <* If," says he, '* I had left you, by my death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made such large additions, some regard would have been justly due to my memory on that account; but now, when I voluntarily resist to you what I might have still retained, I may well expect tiie warmest expressions of thanks on your part. Witli tliese, however, I dispense ; and shall consider your concern for the Welfare of your subjects, and your love of them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of your gratitude to me. It is in your power, by a wise |nd virtuous administration, to jus- tify the extraordinary proof which I give this day of my pa- ternal affection, and to denionstrAle that you are worthy of the confidence which I repose in you. Preserve an inviola- ble regard for religion ; maintain the Catholic faith in its pu- rity ; let the laws of your country be sacred in your eyes ; encroach not on the rights and privileges of your people ; and if the time shall ever come, when you shall wish to enjoy tlie tranquillity of private life, may you have a son endowed with such qualities, that you can resign your sceptre to him, witii as much satisfaction as I give up mine to you." 11 As soon as Charles had finished this long address to Lis subjects, and to then* new sovereign, he sunk into the chair, exhausted and ready to faint with the fatigue of so extraordi- nary an effort. During his discourse, tiie whole audience melted into tears; some from admiration of his magnanimity; others softened by the expressions of tenderness towards iils son, and of love to his people ; and all were affected with the deepest sorrow, at losing a sovereign, who had distin- guished the Netherlands, his native country, with particular marks of bis regard and attachment. SECTION XXVII. The same Subject continued, A FEW weeks after the resignation of the Netherlands, Charles, in an assembly no less splendid, and with a ceremo- nial equally pompous, resigned to his son the crowns of Spain, wiUi all the territories depending on them, both in the old ami in the new world. Of all these vast possessions, he resened Ciur. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 169 nothing for himself, but an annual pension of a hundred thousand crowns, to defray the charges of his family, and to afibrd him a small sum for acts of beneficence and charity. 2 Nothing now remained to detam him fk^om that retreat for which he languished. Every thing having been prepared some time for his voyage, he set out for Zuitburg in Zealand, where the fleet had orders to rendezvous. In his way thittier, he passed through Ghent : and after stopping there a few days, tp indulge that tender and pleasing melancholy, which arises in the mind of every man in the decline of life, on vbit- ing the place of his nativity, and viewing the scenes and ob- jects familiar to him in his early youth, he punued his jour« ney, accompanied by his son Philip, his daughter the arch- duchess, his sisters tlie dowager queens of France and Hun- gary, Maximilian his son-in-law, and a numerous retinue of the Flemish nobHity. Before he went on board, he dismissed them, with marl^s of his attention and regard ; and taking leave of Philip with all the tenderness of a father who em- braced his son for the last time, he set sail under convoy of a large fleet of Spanish, Flemish, aiid English ships. 3 His voyage was prosperous and agreeable ; and he arrived at Laredo in Biscay, on the eleventh day after he left Zealand. As soon as he landed, he fell prostrate on the ground ; and considering himself low as dead to the world, he kissed the earth, and said, ** Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked I now return to thee, thou common mother of man- kind." From Laredo he proceeded to Talladolid. There he took a last and tender leave of his two sisters ; whom he would not permit to accompany him to his solitude, though they entreated it with tears : not only that they might have the consolation of contributing, by their attendance and care, to mitigate or to sooth his sufferings, but that they might reap instruction and benefit,by joining with him in those pious exer- cises, to which he had consecrated the remainder of his da3rs. 4 From Yalladolid, he continued his journey to Plazencia in Estremadura. He had passed through that city a gre?.t many years before ; and having been struck at that time with the delightful situation of the monasteiy of St. Justus, belong- ing to iie order of St. Jerome, not many miles distant from that place, he had theu observed to some of his attendants, that this was a spot to which Dioclesian might have retired with pleasure. The impression had remained so stroni? on his nind, that he pitched upon it as the place of his retreat. 5 It was seated in a vale of no gi'eat extent, watered by a flmall brook, and surrounded by rising grounds, cohered with P •I 'P 170 THE ENGLISH READER. PartL V \U'\ lofty trees. From the nature of the soil, as well as the tem« perature of the climate, it was esteemed tlie most healthful and delicious situation in Spain. 6 Some months before his resignation, he had sent an archi- tect thither, to add a new apartment to the monastery, for his accommodation ; but he gave strict orders that tlie style of the bi'jClding should besuch as suited his present station, rather than his former dignity. It consisted only of six rooms, four of them in the form of friars* cells, with naked walls ; the other two, each twenty feet square, were hung with brown cloth, and fur- nished in the most simple manner. They were all on a level with the ground ; with a door on one side into a garden, of which Charles himself had given the plan, and had filled it with various plants, which he proposed to cultivate with his own hands. On the other side, they communicated with the chapel of the monastery, in which he was to perform his devotions. 7 Into this humble retreat, hardly sufficient for the comforta- ble accommodation of a private gentleman, did Charles enter, with twelve domestics only. He buried there, in solitude and si- lence, his grandeur, his ambition, together with all those vast projects, which, during hall acentury , liad alarmed and agitated Europe; iilHng every kingdom in it, by turns, with the terror of his arms, and the dread of being subjected to his power. 8 In this retirement, Charles formed such a plan of life for himself, as would have suited the condition of a private per- son ot 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, toge- ther with his deliverance from the burdens and cares of go- vernment, 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 hum- ble solitude, than all his grandeur had ever yielded him. 9 The ambitious thoughts and projects which had so long engrossed and disquieted him, were quite effaced from his mind. Far from taking any part in the political transactions of the princes of Europe, he restrained his curiosity even from any iaquiry concerning th^m ; and 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 df having dis- entangled himself from its cares, dr. Robertson, THE ENGLISH READER. his PART II. ^ILCES m POETRY. CHAPTER I. 8FXECT SENTENCES AND PARAGBAFB8. SECTION I. Slwrt and Easy Sentences, Education. Vl^IS education forms the common mind ; ■■- Just as the twig is bent, the tree 's inclined. Candour. With pleasure let us own our errors past • And make each day a critic on the last. Reflection. 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 eamly attained^ Our needful knowledge, like our needful food, Unhedg'd, lies open in lifers 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 ifs 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 flrst chapter tho rompiler has exhibited a considerable Varlt^ Of poetical construction., for ii»e yo»mg rpt»»*t;r'9 pre^mratory exercise. 172 THE EN6USH READER. Part If ill } Charity. In faith and hope the world will disagree ; But all mankino's concern is charity. The prize of Virtue, What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, The soul's csdm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, Is virtue's prize. Sense emd modesty connected. Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks; It still looks home, and short excursions makes ; But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks. Moral discipline salutary, Ileav'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, hidulgence, on the whole. Present blessings undervalued. Like birds, whose beauties languish, half conceaPd, Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes Expanded, shine with azure, green, and gold, How b^- ssings brighten as they take their flight ! Hope, Hope, of all passions, most benriends 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 aspect, and a smile at heart. True greatness. Who noble ends by noble means obtains. Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains, Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates, that man is great indeed. The tear of sympathy. No radiant pearl, which crested fortune wear?, No gem, that twinkling hangs from beauty's ears, Nor the bright stars, which night's blue arch adorn, CBir. L SELECT SENTENCES. 173 ^or rising suns that gild the vornal morn, Sliine witli such lustre, as the tear thut breaks, For others* wo, down Virtue's manly cheeks. SECTION II. VER8E8 IN WHICH THE LINES ARE OF DIPFERENT LClfOTV Blisa of cfiUatial Orifi^n, 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 num'rous crowd, Imperious, positive, and loud. Curb these licentious sons of strife ; Hence chiefly rise the storms of life ; l( they grow mutinous, and rave. They ai'e thy masters, thou their slave. Trust in Providence recommendeifi 'Tia Providence alone secures, In every change, both mine and youn. Safety consists not in escape Trom dangers of a frightful shape : An earthquake may be bid to spare The man that's strangled by a hair. Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oit'nest in what least we dread Frowns in tiie storm with angry brow. But in the sunshine strikes the blow. Epitaph, How lov'd, how valu'd once, avails thee uotj To whom related, or by whom begot : A heap of dust alone remains of thee; 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall hi. Fame, All fame is foreign, but of true desert ; Plays round the heud, but comes uot to Aie heart. One self-approving hour, whole years outweighs Of stupid starerg, and of loud hu/z.^j; And moi'e true joy Marccrllus exilM C^^^% Than Cajsar with a sei.at:' ,c».' his hei'h. ■J; J, I, ^« T» r • ilfii If- fri THE ENGLISH READER. Part II III Virtue the Guardian of Youth. 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 takes her stand : but if too far He launches forth beyond discretion's mark, Sudden the tempest scowls, the surges roar, Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep. Sunrise, But yonder comes the powerful king of day, Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud, The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow, lUum'd with fluid gold, his near approach Betoken glad. Lo, now, apparent all Aslant the dew-bright earth, and coloured air. He looks in boundless majesty abroad ; And fheds the shining day, that burnished plays On rocks, and hills, and tow'rs, and wand'ring streams. High gleaming from afar. Self-government, May I govern my passions with absolute sway ; And grow wiser and better as life wears away. Shepherd. On a mountain, stretched beneath a hoary willow, lOLj a shepherd swain, and viewed the rolling billow, SECTION III. irliRSES CONTAINING EXCLAMATIONS, INTERROGATIONS, AND PARENTHESIS. Comtyetence A* COMPETENCE is all we can enjoy : Oh ! be content, where Heaven can give no more ! Reflection essential to Happiness, Much joy not only speaks small ha|ipiness, Uut happiness that shortly must ex)>ire. Can joy unbottom'd in reflection, stand ? JXodf in a tempest, can reflection live ? Friendship. I5an gold gain friendship? Impudence of hope! As well mere man an angel might beget. Love, and love only, is the loan for love. JjortfTOS^l {pHtde repress; nor hope to finlies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. Felling Trees in a Wood. ILoud-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, cntshing, thunder down. Sound of a Bow-string, - ■ ' ■ The string let fly Twang'd short and sharp, like the shrUl swallow's cry. ♦ Sensual Plensurc Cbaf. f. SKLECT SENTENCES. yr9 The Pheasant, See ! from the brake the whirrinsr pheasant eprings. And mounts exulting on triumphant wings. Scylla and Charybdis* Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms, And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms. When the tide rushes from her rumblinjir caves, The rough rock roars ; tumultuous boil the waves. Boisterous and 8!;enth Sounds, Two craggy rocks projecting to the main. The roarings winds tempestuous rage restrain : Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide; And ^hips secure without their halsers ride. Laborious and impetuous J^Iotion, 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; Reo;jdnr and sJoni JSTovemeiit, First march the heavy mules securely slow; O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go, JMotion slow and difftcult, A needless Alexandrine ends th^ song, That like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. A Rock torn from the Brou^ of a JVTountain, Still gath'ring force, it smokes, and uro'd ?imain. Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain. Extent and vlohn e of the JVai^es, The waves behind impel the waves before, Wide rolling, foaming high, and tumbling to the shore Pensive JVunibers, In those deep solitudes and awful cells, Whc'i heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwellj?, And ever-musing melancholy reigns. DaHle. Arms on armour clashing brayed Horrible discord ; and the madding wheels Of brazen fuiy ragV. _ * Sound imitating Rehictance, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a piev. This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd ; i 180 THE ENGLISH READER. Part II. M UP- Led the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind 7 SECTION VL PARAGRAPHS OF GREATER LENGTH. Connubial Jiffeclion. 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 ge^itle, delicate^ and kind. To f^,ults compassionate, or blind ; 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 of Flying insects. Thick in yon stream of light, a thousand ways, Upward and downward, thwarting and convolvM, 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 suii.^.er life, in fortune's shine, h 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 ifs oivn Reicard. My fortune (for I'll mention all, And more than you dare tell) is small ; Yet ev'ry friend partakes my store, Aind want goes smiling from m/ door. Will forty shillings warm the breast Of worth or induul y distress'd l This sukii I cheerfully inipart ; *Tis fourscore pleasures to my heart : And you may make, by means like these^ Five talents ten, whenever you please. *Ti8 true, my little purse grows light ; But then I sleep so sweet «t 4ghl I CilAP. I. SELECT SEiN'l'ENCES. 181 This grand specific will prevail, When all the doctor's opiates fail. Virtue the best TreasHre, Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul, I;! the best gift of Heaven: a happiness Thnt, even above the smiles and frowns of fate, Exalts great nature's favourites : a wealth That ne'er encumbers ; nor to baser hands Can be transferr'd. It is the only good Blan justly boasts of, or can call his own. Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn'd. But for one end, one much-neglectf d use. Are riches worth our care; (for natui'e's wants Are few, and without 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, Iiet me associate with the serious night. And contemplation, her sedate compeer; Let me shake ofl* th' intnisive cares of day, And lay the meddling senses all aside. Where now, ye lying vanities of life ! Ye ever tempting, ever cheating train! W^here are you now? and what is your amount Vexation, disappointment, and remorse. Sad, slck'ning thought ! And yet, deluded man? A scene of crude disjointed visions past. And broken slumbers, rises still resolv'd, V/ith new 6ush'd hopes, to run the giddy round. Pleamre of Piety* K. Deity believ'd, is joy begun ; V Deity ador'd, is joy advanc'd ; \ Deity belov'd, is joy matur'd. t^'ach branch of piety delight inspires : Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next, O'er death's dark gulf, and all its horror hides ; Praise, the sweet exhalation of our joy, That joy exalts, and makes it sv/eeter still ; Q ;♦ Ifill THE ENGLISH READER. Part V ifnij^r ardent opens heav'n, lets down a stream Of glory, on the consecrated hour Of man hi audience witli the Deity. CHAPTER H. H'ARIULTIVE PIECES. SECTION I. The Bears and the Bees, AS two young bears, in wanton mood, Forth issuing from a neighbouring wood, Came where the industrious bees had stor'd. In artful cells, their luscious hoard ; O'erjoy'd they seized, with eager haste, Luxurious on the rich repast. Alarm'd at this, the little crew About their ears vindictive flew. The beasts, unable to sustain The unequal combat, quit the plain : Half-blind with rage, and mad with pain, Their native shelter they regain ; There sit, and now disrreeter grown, Too late their rashness they bemoan ; And this by dear experience gain. That pleasure 's ever boughi with pain. So when the gilded baits of vice Are placcff before our longing eyes, With greedy haste we snatch our fill. 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. — merrick. SECTION n. The J^if!;htm^ale and the Glow-wonn, A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long Had cheer'd the village with his song. Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, n« well he might, Thb keen demands of appetite j Chap. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 183 When, looking eagerly around, He spied far off, upon the ground, A something 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 minstrelsy. You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song ; For 'twas the self-same Pow*r divine. Taught you to sing, and me to shine ; Ths^ you with music, I with light. Might beautify and cheer the night." The songster heard his short oration, And, warbling out his approbation Released him, as my story tells. And found a supper some where else Hence, jarring sectaries may learn, Their real intVest to discern ; That brother should not war with brother, And worry and devour each other: But sing and shine by sweet consent, Till life's poor transient night, is spent ; Respecting, in each other's case. The gifts of nature and of grace. Those Christians best deserve the nf»rne, Who studiously make peace their aim ; Peace, both the duty and the prize Of him that creeps, and him that flies. — cowvER. SECTION m. Tlie trials of Virtue, PLAC'D on the verge of youth, my mind Life's op'ning scene survey'd : I view'd its ills of various kind, Afflicted and afraid. But chief my fear the dangers mov'd, That virtue's path enclose : My heart the wise pursuit approv'd, But O, what toils oppose I ' I i#P ISA THE ENi>L!SH READER. Part IJ i 3 For see, ah see ! while yet her ways With doubtful step I tread, A hostile world its terrors raise, Its snares delusive spread. 4 O how shall I, with heart prepared, Those terroi*3 learn to meet ? How, from the thousand snares to guard My unexperieric'd feet ? 5 As thus I mus'd, oppressive sleep Soft o'er my temples drew Oblivion's veil. — The wat'ry deep, (An object strange and new,) 6 Before me rose : on the wide shore Obsen''ant as 1 stood. The gathering storms around me roar, And heave the boiling flood. 7 Near and more near the billows rise ; Ev'n now my steps they lave ; And death to my affrighted eyes, Approach'd in every wave. 8 What hope, or whither to retreat ! Each nerve at once unstrung ; Chill fear had fetter'd fast my feet. And chain'd my speechless tongue. I felt my heart within me die ; When sudden to mine ear A voice, descending from on high, Reprov'd my erring fear. 10 " What though the swelling surge thou see Impatient to devour ; Rest, mortal ; rest on God's decree. And thankful own his pow'r, 11 Know, when he bade the deep appear < Thus far,' the Almighty said, * Thus f-xTy no further rage ; and here * Le* proud waves be stay'd.' " 12 I heard ; and lo ! pt once controlPd, The waves, in wild retreat, Back on themselves reluctant roU'd, And murm'ring left my feet, 13 Deeps to assembling deeps in vain Once more the signal gave : 14 15 16 17 18 19 2 . *■?-*,. H'^^' T n Chap. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 166 The shores the mshing weight sustain, And check th' usurping wave. 14 Convinced, in nature^s volume wise, The imugM truth I read; And sudden from my waking ejes Th' instructive vision fled. 15 Then ' thus heavy, O my soul? Say, hy distrustful still. Thy thoughts with vain impatience roU 0*er scenes of future ill? 16 Let faith suppress each rising fear, Each anxious doubt exclude : Thy Maker's will hath plac'd thee here, A Maker wise and good ! 17 He to thy ev'ry trial knows Its just restraint to give : Attentive to behold thy woes, And faithful to relieve. 1 8 Then why thus heavy, O my soul ! Say, why distrustful still. Thy thoughts ivith vain impatience roll, O'er scenes of future ill 1 19 Though griefs unnumberM throng thee round, Still in thy God confide, Whose finger marks the seas their bound, And curbs the headlong tide. — Merrick. SECTION IV. The Youth and the Philosopher, A GRECIAN youth of talents rare, Whom Plato's philosophic care Had formM for virtue's nobler view, By precept and example too, Would often boast his matchless skill, To curb the steed, and guide the wheel ; And as he pass'd the gazing throng. With graceful ease, and smack'd the thong, The idiot wonder they express'd. Was praise and transport to his breast. At length, quite vain, he needs would show His ipaater what his art could do ; r*'^ i.li Q3 ,i&it'. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1^ 12.2 I4£ 2.0 llii. - L25 II u 1.6 = — < 6" — ► V 7 PhotDgraDhic Sdences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 145S0 (716)872-4S03 186 THE ENGLISH READER. Part n. Ca 6 And bade his slaves the chariot lead To Academus' sacred shade.* The trembling gi'ove confessed its fright, The wood-nymph started at the sight ; The muses drop their learned lyre, And to their inmost shades retire. Howe'er, the youth, with forward air, Bows to the sage, and mounts the car. The lash resounds, the coursers spring, The chariot marks the rolling ring ; And gath'ring crowds, with eager eyes, And shouts, pursue him as he flics. Triumphant to the goal return'd, With nobler thirst his bosom burn'd ; And now along th' indented plain, The self-same track he marks again; Pursues with care the nice design, Nor ever deviates from the line. Amazement seiz'd the circling crowd ; The youths with emulation glowed ; Ev'n bearded sages hail'd the boy ; And all but Plato gaz'd with joy. For he, deep-judging sage, beheld With pain the triumphs of the field: And when the charioteer drew nigh, ^ And, flush'd with hope, had caught his eye, " Alas! unhappy youth," he cry'd, " Expect no praise from me," (and sigh*d.) " W^ith indignation I survey Such skill and judgment thrown away : The time profusely squandered tliere, ^ On vulgar arts beneath thy care, If well employ'd, at less expense, Had taught thee honour, virtue, sense ; And rais'd thee from a coachman's fate. To govern men, and guide the state." WHITEHEAD SECTION V. Discourse between Adam and Eve, retiring to rest, NOW came still ev'ning on, and twilight gray f /' Had in her sober liv'ry all things clad. ,? Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird. They to their grassy couch, these to their nests. Chaf. U. NARRATIVE PIECES. }&7 Were sunk ; all but the wakeful nightingale. She all night long her amVous descant sung ; Silence was pleas'd. Now glowM the firmament With living sapphires : Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length. Apparent queen, unveil 'd her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. When Adam thus to Eve : "Pair consort, th' hour Of night, and all things now retired to rest, Mind us of like repose ; since God hath set Labour and rest, as day and night, to men Successive, and the timely dew of sleep. Now falling with soft slum*brous weight, inclines Our eye-lids. Other creatures all day long Rove idle unemployed, and less need rest : Man hath his daily work of body or of mind Appointed, which declares his dignity. And the regard of Heav'n on all his ways ; While other animals unactive range, And of their doings God takes no account. To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east With first approach of light, we must be risen, And at our pleasant labour ; to reform Yon flow'ry arbours, yonder alleys green. Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown. That mock our scant manuring, and require More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth; Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, That lie bestrown, unsightly and -unsinooth, * Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease. ' t Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest." To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorn'd : " My author and disposer, what thou bidst, v^ 'A Unargued, I obey ; so God ordains. With thee conversing, I forget all time ; All seasons and their change, all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sui\, ''' When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and (lowV, GlistVing with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth After soft show'rs ; and sweet the coming on - ^ i!f:t\- %,: ?•■>;% h ■:A: 10a THE ENGLISH READER. Part II Cha Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night, Wid^ this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, And these, the gems of heav'n, her starry train : 6 But neither breath of morn, when she ascends With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, iiowV, Glist'ring with dew ; nor fragrance after show*rs ; Nor (grateful evening mild ; nor silent niir'at. With this her solemn bird ; nor walk by moon, Or glittering star-light — without thee is sweet. But wherefore all night long shine these ? for whom This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes ?" 6 To whom our general ancestor reply*d : " Daughter of God and man, accomplished Eve ! These have their course to finish round the earth, By morrow ev'ning ; and from land to land, In order, though to nations yet unborn. Ministering light prepared, they set and rise ; Lest total darkness should by night regain Her old possession, and extinguish life In nature and all things ; which these soft fires Not only enlighten, but with kindly heat Of various influence, foment and warm. Temper or nourish ; or in part shed down Their gtellar virtue on all kinds that grow On earth, made hereby apter to receive Perfection from the sun's more potent ray. 7 These, then, though unbeheld in deep of night, Shine not in vain ; nor think, though men were none, That heav'n would want spectators, God want praise. If illions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep. All tfiese with ceaseless praise his works behold, Both day and night. How often, from the steep Qf echoing hill or thicket, have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, ^ole, or responsive each to others' note, Singing their great Creator ? Ofl in bands, While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk Witih beav'nly touch of instrumental sounds, In full harmonic number join'd, their songs Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heav'n, " • B Thus talking, hand in hand, alone they pass'd On to their blissful bow'r.— r — . - . S Chap. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. m -There arriv'd, both stood, Both turned ; and under open sky ador'd The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heav'i Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe, And starry pole. " Thou also mad'st the night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the day, Which we, in our appointed work employed. Have finished, happy in our mutual help. And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss Ordained by thee ; and this delicious place. For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promised from us two a race, w To fill the^arth, who shall with us extol Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of deep." milton SECTION VI. Religion and Death. LO ! a form, divinely bright. Descends, and burst? upon my sights A seraph of illuMrious birth ! (Religion was her name on earth;) Supremely sweet her radiant face, And blooming with celestial grace ! Three shining cherubs formed her train, Wav'd their light wings, and reached the plain : Faith, with sublime and piercing eye. And pinions iButt'ring for the sky ; Here Hope, that smiling, angel stands. And golden anchors grace her hands ; There Charity in robes of white. Fairest and fav'rite maid of light. The seraph spokt* — " *Tis Reason's pait To govern and to guard the heart; To lull the way v\ ard soul to rest. When hopes and fears distract the breast. Reason may calm this doubtful strife. And steer thy bark through various life: But when the storms of death are nigh, And midnight darkness veils the sky, Shall Reason Ux^n direct thy sail, Disperse the clouds, or sink the gale? ':'t 190 THE ENGLISH READER. Part H Stranger, this skill alone is mine, Skill that transcends his scanty line. 3 " Revere thyself — thou'rt near allied To angels on thy better side. How various e'er their ranks or kinds, Angels are but unbodied minds : When the partition-walls decay, Men emerge angels from their clay Yes, when the frailer body dies, The soul asserts her kindred skies. But minds, though sprung from heav'nly race. Must first be tutor'd for the place : The joys above are underatood. And relish'd only by the good. • Who shall assume this guardian care ; Who shall secure their birth-right there? Souls are my charge — to me 'tis giv'n To train them for their native heav'n." 4 " Know then — who bow the early knee, And give the willing heart to me ; Who wisely, when Temptation waits, Elude her frauds, and spurn her baits ; Who dare to own my injur'd cause, / Though fools deride my sacred laws ; Or scorn to deviate to the wrong, Though persecution lifts her thong ; Though all the sons of hell conspire To raise the stake and light the fire ; Know that for such superior souls. There lies a bliss beyond the poles : Where spirits shine with purer ray, And brighten to meridian day ; Where love, where boundless friendship rules ; (No friends that change, no love that cools ;) Where rising floods of knowledge roll. And pour, and pour upon the soul !" 6 " But where's the passage to the skies ? — The road through death's black valley lie@. Nay, do not shudder at my tale : Tho' dark the shades, yet safe the vale. This path the best of men have trod ; ' *'^ And who'd decline the road to God ! Oh ! 'tis a glorious boon to die ! This favour can't be priz'd too high." Chap. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 191 6 While thus she spoke, my looks expressM The raptures kindling in my breast ; My soul a fixM attention gave ; When the stern monarch of the grave, With haughty strides approached : — amazM I stood, and trembled as I gazM. The seraph calmM each anxious fear, And kindly wip*d the falling tear ; Then hastened, with expanded wing, To meet the pale, terrific king. 7 But now what milder scenes arise !^ The tyrant drops his hostile guise ; He seems a youth divinely fair ; In graceful ringlets waves his hair ; His wings their whitening plumes display, His burnished plumes, reflect the day ; Light flows his shining azure vest, And all the angel stands confessed. I view'd the change with s.weet surprise ; And, Oh ! I panted for the skies ; ThankM heav'n, that e'er I drew my breath. And triumphed in the thoughts of death.— -cotton. CHAPTER III. DIDACTIC PIECES, SECTION I. The vanity of Wealth, NO more thus brooding o'er yon heap, With av'rice painful vigils keep ; Still unenjoy'd the present store. Still endless sighs are breathM for more. Oh ! quit the shadow, catch the prize. Which not all India's treasure buys ! To purchase heav'n has gold the pow'r ? Can gold remove the mortal hour 1 In life, can love be bought with gold ] Are friendships pleasures to be sold ? No — ^all that *s worth a wish — a thought, Fair virtue gives unbrib'd, unbought. Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind : Let nobler views engage thy mind. — pr. joiinson. 192 THE ENGLISH READER. Part H. SECTION n. Nothing formed in vain. LET no presuming impious railer tax Creative wisdom, as if aufjht was formM In vain, or not for admirable ends. Shall little haughty ignorance pronounce His works unwise, of which the smallest part Exceeds the narrow vision of her mind? As if, upon a full-proportion'd dome. On swelling columns heaved, the pride of art, A critic-fly, whose feeble ray scarce spreads An inch around, with blind presumption bold, Should dare to tax the structure of the whole. 2 And lives the man whose universal eye Has swept at once th' unbounded scheme of things ; Mark'd their dependence so, and firm accord, As with unfault'ring accent to conclude, That this availeth nought ? Has any seen The mighty chain of beings, le«s'ning down From infinite perfection to the brink Of dreary nothing, desolate abyss ! From which agtonishM thought, recoiling, turns? Till then alone let zealous praise ascend, And hymns of holy wonder to that power. Whose wisdom shines as lovely in our minds, As on our smiling eyes his servant sun. — tho3IPSon. SECTION III. On Pride, OF all the causes, n-hich conspire to blind Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, Wliat the weadi head with strongest bias rules, Isjpride ; the never failing vice of fools. j^ Whatever nature has in worth deny*d, She gives in large recruits of needful pride ! For, as in bodies, thus in souls, we find What wants in blood and spirits, sweli'd witii wind. Pride, wher;- wit fails, steps in to our defence, And fills up all the mighty void of sense..- ;; 2 If once right reason drives that cloud away. Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. Trust not yourself; but, your defects to know, Make use of ev'iy friend— and ev*ry foe- K Chaf. III. DIDACTIC riECES. 93 3 A little learning 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 vvith what the muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, While, from the bounded level of our mind, Short views we take, nor see tlie lengths behind ; But more advanced, behold, with strange surprise, New distant scenes of endless science rise ! So, pleas'd at first the towVing Alps we try. Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky ; Th' eternal snows appear already past, Ai'd the first clouds and mountains seem the last : But, those attained, we tremble to sm-vey The growing labours of the lengthen'd way; Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'riug eyes ; Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise — »opk. SECTION IV. Cruelty to Bnites censured. I WOULD not enter on my list of friends, (Though gracM with polish'd manners and fine sense. Yet wanting sensibility,) the man ^Vho 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, forewarned, Will tread aside, ^d let the reptile live. The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight. And chargM perhaps with venom, tlKvt intrudes A visitor 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 held within their proper bounds, And guiltless of offence they range the air, Or taie their pastime in the spacious field. There they are privileged. And he that hunts Or harms them there, la guilty of a wrong; Disturbs th' economy of nature's realm, W'ho when she form'd, design'd them an abode The sum is this: if man's convenience, health, Or safety interfere, his rights and claims ^ a: 'I ^^ ■ ST '"n 194 THE ENGLISH READEtt. Fart 11 Are paramount, and must extinsruish tlieirn. Else tbey are all — the meanest things that are — As free to live and to enjoy that life, As God was free to form them at the first, Who, in his sovereign wisdom, made tliein all. 4 Ye, therefore, who love merry, teach your sons To love it too. The spring time of our years Is soon dishonour'd and deAl'd in mo»t, By budding ills that ask a prudent hand To check them. But alas ! none sooner shoots If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth, Than cruelty, most devMish of them all. 5 Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule And righteous limitation of its act, By which heav'n moves in pard'ning 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. — cowpek. SECTION V. tS. Paraphrase on the latter part of the 6lh 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. 2 " Think not, when all your scanty stores afford. Is spread at once upon the sparing board ; Think not, when worn the homely robe appears, While on the roof the howling tempest bears ; What further shall this feeble life sustain, And what shall clothe these shivering limbs again. 3 Say, does not life its nourishment exceed? And the fair body its investing weed ? Behold! and look away your low despair — See the light tenants of the barren air: To tben^, nor stores nor granaries belong; • Nought, but the woodland and the pleasing song ; Yet, your kind heav'nly Father bends bfs eye On \he 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 IB their music, nor their plaint in vain J Chap. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 196 He heai's the gay, and the distressful call ; And with unsparing bounty fills them all." 5 " Observe the rising lily's snowy grace ; Observe the various vegetable race : They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow ; Yet see how warm .Ley blush ! how bright they glow ! What regal vestments can with them compare ! What king so shining! or what queen so fair!" 6 "If ceaseless, thus, the 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?" — Thomson. SECTION VI. The death of a good Man a strong incentive to Virtue, THE chamber where the good man meets his fate, Is privileged beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heav*n. Fly, ye profane ! if not, draw near with awe. Receive the blessing, and adore* the chance, That threw in this Rethesda your disease : *If unrestorM by this, despair your cure. 2 For, here, resistless demonstration dwells ; A death-bed's a detector ot 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. 3 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 still, the more the tyrant frowns. — toumg. SECTION vn. Reflections on a Future State, from a review of Winter* 'TIS done ! 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 pictur'd life : pass some few years, % 190 THE ENGLISH READER. Part II. Cu- ll I I ^i| Thy flowering spring, thy summer's ardent strength, Thy sober autumn fading into age, And pale concluding winter comes at last. And shuts the scene. 2 Ah ! whither now are fled Those dreams of greatness ? those unsolid hopes Of happiness^ those longings a(ler fame? Those restless cares ? those busy bustling days ? Those gay-spent, festive nights? those veering thoughts, Lost between good and ill, that shar'd thy life ? 3 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 mom ! the second birth Of heav'n and earth ! awak'ning nature, hears The new-creating word, and starts to hfe. In ev'ry heightened form, from pain and death For ever free. The great etenial scheme, Involving all, and in a perfect whole Uniting as the prospect wider spreads. To reason's eye rfinn'd clears up apace. 4 Ye vainly wise ! Ye blind presumptuous ! now, Confounded in the dust, adore that Power And Wisdom, oft arraign'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-born truth. And moderation fair, wore the red marks Of superstition's scourge : why liceus'd pain, That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe, Imbitter'd all our bliss. 5 Ye good distress'd ! 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 ciiAF. in. DIDACTIC PIECES. 197 SECTION VIII. Adam's advice to fJre, io nroid temptation. ' " O WOMAN, best are all things as the will Of Goive no harm. 2 But God left free the will ; for w liat obeys Reason, is free, and reason he made light; But bid her well beware, and still erect, Lest, by some fair appearing good surprisM, 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. 3 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 warnM. Seek not temptation then, which to avoid Were better, and most likely if from me Thou sever not ; trial will come unsought. 4 ^''' /uldst thou approve thy constancy ? approve \ «rst thy obedience ; th* other who can know, Not seeing thee attempted, who attest? But if thou think, trial unsought may find Us both securer than thus warn'd thou seem'st, '^ Go ; for tliy stay, not free, a])3e!»t3 tliee more : Go in thy native innocence ; rely On what thou hast of vii*tue, suinuion all; For God towards th^e hath done his pail ; do thine." MILTOIi. SECTION TX. On Procrastination. 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, r^ '»* sr«i Year aller yeai' it steals, till all are fled, •'"' R2 M- ,,u Hi " . 'l I i i 198 THE ENGLISH READER. Part. U And, to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 2 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 diis 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. 3 All promise is poor dilatory man ; And that thro' ev'ry stage. When young, indeed, In full content we sometimes nobly rest, Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish. As duteous sons, our father's 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 pui-pose to resolve ; In all the flfiagnanimity of thought. Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same. 4 And why 1 Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal, but themselves ; Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread : But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air. Soon close ; where, 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 dies in human hearts the thought of death. J, Ev'n with the tender tear which Nature sheds O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. — young. SECTION X. 7.^hat Philosophy, which stops at Secondary Causes, repi^ovfid HAPPY the man who sees a God employ'd In all the good and ill that checker life ! .,-; i Resolving all events, with their effects And manifold results, into tlie will 37 Cf ■Hi -«T -aft \t * Chap. HI. DIDACTIC PIECES. 109 And arbitration wise of the Supreme. Did not his eye rule all things, and intend The least of our concerns ; (since from the least The greatest oft originate ;) could chance ' Find place in his dominion, or dispose One lawless particle to thwart his plan ; Then God might be surprised, and unforseeii Contingence might alarm him and disturb • ' The smooth and equal course of his aHairs. 2 This truth, philosophy, though eagle-ey'd In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks ; , ^ And having found his inst/ument, forgets Or disregards, or, more presum^jtuous still, Denies the pow'r that wields it. God proclaims ' His hot displeasure against foolish men That live an atheist life ; involves the heav'n In tempests ; quits his grasp upon the winds, And gives them all their fury ; bids a plague ! , Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin. And putrefy the breath of blooming health ; * . • . 3 He calls for famine, and the meagre fiend Blows mildew from between his shrivel'd lips, And taints the golden ear ; he springs his muies, 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 j., » By necessary laws their sure effects, J\ / Of action and re-action. ' / 4 He has found ^^'' /, The source of the disease that nature feels ; " " ; And bids the world take heart and banish fear.' Thou fool ! will thy discovery 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 ^ To drown it 1 What is his creation less ' '^' Than a capacious reservoir of means, ' Form'd for his use, and ready at his will ? Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve ; ask of him, Or ask of whomsoever he nas taught ; ' And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. co\ ;. »?. ^i f»*-i" ifr <>.. "'ji» X ''t i, 200 THE ENGLISH HEADER. Part H I SECTION XL Indignant Sentiments on JVationeU Prejudices, Slavery^ i^c. OH, for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity 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 evVy day's report Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filPd. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart ; It does not feel for man. The nat'ral bond Of brotherhood is severM, as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 2 He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not colour'd like his own ; and baring pow'r T' enforce the wrong, for such a woi 'by cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a jiarrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed, Make enemies of nations, who had else. Like kindred drops, been mingled into one. 3 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 a bleeding heart. Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 4 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 huve a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, ., ' And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth H^; That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. ,.'*, 5 No ; dear as freedom is, and in my heart's ^ ' ■ Just estimation priz'd above all price ; ' '^*^' I had much rather be myself the slave, , . /^ '■'"/ And wear the bond3, that fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home — then why abroad ? And they tliemselves once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. ^^ 6 Slaves cannot breathe in Ejigland : if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free , Tliey touch our country, aud llu;lr r^huckles f.il]. That's noble, aud bespeaks a natiou proud Chap. IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 201 And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through ev'ry vein Of all your empire ; that where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. — cowper. CHAPTER IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. SECTION I. Tlie JVlorninL!: in Summer, THE meek-ey'd morn appeal's, mother of dews. At first faint gleaming in the dappled east ; Till far o'er ether spreads the wid'ning glow ; And from before the lustre of her face White break the clouds away. TV^th quickened st«-. Brown night retires ; young day pours in apace. And opens all the lawny prospect wide. 2 The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top, Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn. Blue, thro' the dusk the smoking currents shine; And from the bladed field the fearful liare Limps awkward : while along the forest-glade Th^ wild deer trip, and often turning gaze At early passenger. Music awakes The native voice of undissembled joy ; And thick around the woodland hymns arise. 3 Rous'd by the cock, the soou-clad shepherd leaves His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells ; And from the crowded fold, in order, drives His flock to taste the verdure of the morn. Falsely luxurious, will not man awake ; And springing Trom the bed of sloth, enjoy The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour^ To meditation due and sacred song ? | > 4 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 th' enlighten'd soul! Or else to f.iverish vanity alive, Wilder'd, rmd tossing thro' distemper'd dreams? Who would in such a gloomy state remain Longer than nature craves ; when ev'ry muse And ev'ry blooming pleasure waits without. To bless the wildly devious morni^ig walk? — thom :« . 1 fl: -. 202 THE ENGLISH READER. Part II. Ch SECTION II. Rural Sounds, m well as Rural Sights, delightful. NOR rural sights alone, but rural sounds Exilarate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature. Mighty winds That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood, Of ancient growth, make music, not unlike The dash of ocean on his winding shore, And lull the spirit while they fill the mind ; Unnumbered branches waving in the blast, And all their leaves fast flutf ring all at once. Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods ; or on the softer voice Of neighboring fountain; or of rills that slip : Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length In matted grass, that, with a livelier green, Betrays the secret of their silent course. Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds ; But animated nature sweeter still ; To soothe and satisfy the human ear. Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The live-long night. Nor these alone, whose notes Nice finger'd art must emulate in vain ; But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime, In still repeated circles, screaming loud ; The jay, the 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. — cowpsr. < SECTION III. ^ The Rose, THE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a show'r, Which Mary to Anna conveyed ; The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flow'r, And weigh'd down its beautiful head. 2 The cup was all filPd, and the leaves were all wet, And it seemed to a fanciful view, To weep for the buds it had left with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew. 3 I hastily seiz'd it, unlit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drownM ; Li Chaf. IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECEJ. 203 And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! I snappM it — it fell to the ground. And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless pai*t, ■ Some act by the delicate mind ; Regardless of wringing and brealdng a heart, Already to sorrow resigned. This elegant rose, had I shaken it less. Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile ; And the tear that is wip'd with a little address. May be followed, perhaps, by a smile.— <;owpeiu A^ SECTION IV. Care of Birds for their Young;. AS thus the patient dam assiduous sits, Not to be tempted from her tender task. Or by sharp hunger, or by smooth delight, Tho* the whole loosen'd spring around her blows, Her sympathizing partner takes his stand High on th' opponent bank, and ceaseless sings The tedious time away ; or else supplies Her place a moment, while she sudden flits ^ To pick the scanty meal. — ' ;/^' I Th' appointed time With pious toil fulfilled, the calJow young, WarmM and expamled into perfect life, Their brittle bondage break, and come to light ; A helpless family, demanding food With constant clamour. O what passions then. What melting sentiments of kindly care, On the new parents seize ! Away they fly < Affectionate, and undesiring bear The most delicious morsel to their young ; Which equally distributed, again The search begins. Even so a gentle pair. By fortune sunk, but form'd of genVous mould. And charmed with cares beyond the vulgar breast, In some lone cot amid the distant womls. Sustained alone by providential Heaven, Off, as they weeping eye their inl'ant train, Check their own appetites and sfive them all. — Thomson. SECTION V. \ Liberty and Slavery contrasted. Part of a letter tnritlcn from Italy, by ,^ddison, H"OW has kind Henv'n adorn'd th?s happy land, And scattered blessings with a wasteful hand I li: i: IP S04 THE ExNCLLSll IU':\I)L:H. Tart II. But what avail her unexhausted stores, Her blooming mountains, and her sunny short**, With all the gifts that heav'n and earth Jnipjiit, The smiles of nature, and the charms of art. While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, And tyranny usurps her happy plains ? The poor inhabitant beholds in vain The reddening orrsnge, and tlie swelling grain ; Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, And in the myrtle's fragrant shade, repines. Oh, Liberty, thou pow'r supremely bright, Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight ! Perpetual pleasure;} ia thy presence reign ; And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train. Eas'd of her load, subjection grows more light; And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight. Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nnUire gay ; Giv'st beauty to the sua, and pleasure to tiie djy. On foreign mountains may the sun retlue The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to Vvhie ; With citron groves adoni a distant soil. And the fat olive swell with (lodds of oil : \Te envy not the warmer clime that lied In ten degrees of niore indulgent skies; Xor at the coarseness of our heav'n rej)iae, Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Plelaiis bliiue : 'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, [smile. And makes her barren roclcs, and her bleak mountains >r SECTION YI. ' ('harily. ./i Paraphrase on the I3th Chapter of the First Epistle to the Corinthians, DID sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue, rr- - 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 that knowledge birth, In all the speeches of the babbling earth ; -, Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspiro, To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire ; ■ ^^ ^ Or had I faith like that which Israel snw, . ;* When Moses g'ave them miracles, and law :* '■ Vj Yet, gracious charity, indulgent guest, Wore not thy power exerted in my biciis!; vP-t- -.V I : Chap. IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 205 Those speeches would send up unheeded prayV ; 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. I 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 forgives ; And much she suffers, as she much believes. Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives ; She builds our quiet as she forms our lives ; Lays the rough paths of peevish nature even ; And opens in each heart a little heaven. Each other gift, which God on man bestows, Its proper bounds, and due restriction knows ; To one fixM 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 ; But lasting charity's more ample sway. Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay, In happy triumph shall for ever live ; And endless good diffuse,. and endless praise receive. As through the artist's intervening glass, - Our eye observes the distant planets pass ; A little we discover ; but allow. That more remains unseen, than art can show ; So whilst our mind its knowledge 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 we are able only to survey, Dawnings of beams, and promises of day ; Heaven's fuller efHuence mocks our dazzled sight ; Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light. . But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispell'd ; . The sun shall soon be face to face beheld. In all his robes, with all his glory on, Seated sublime on his meridian throne. Then constant Faith, and holy Hope, shall die ; One lost in certainty, and one in joy : Whilst thou, more happy power, fair Charity, Triumphtut sister, greatest of the three, S ;y ^i 1 - '5n n i I I i 206 THE ENGLISH READER. Part IJ. Thy office, and thy nature still the same, Lasting thy lamp, and unconsum'd thy flame, Shalt still suiTive — Shalt stand before the hosts of heav'n confest. For ever blessing, and for ever blest.- Ca -PRIOR. SECTION VII. Picture oj a Good JMau, SOME angel 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 storm ; All the black cares, and tumults of this life. Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, Excite his pity, not impair his peace. 2 Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred, and the slave, A mingled mob ! a wand'ring herd ! he sees, Bewildered in the vale ; in all unlike ! His full reverse in all ! What higher praise I What stronger demonstration of the right ? The present all their care ; the future his. When public welfare calls, or private want. They give to fame ; his bounty he conceals. Their virtues varnish nature ; his exalt. Mankind's esteem they court ; and he his own. 3 Theirs the wild chase of false felicities ; His, the composed possession of the true. Alike throughout is his consistent piece, All of one colour, and an even thread ; While party-colour'd shades of happiness. With hideous gaps between, patch up for them A madman's robe ; each puff of fortune blows The tatters by, and shows their nakedness. 4 He sees with other eyes than theirs ; where they Behold a sun, he 'spies a Deity ; What makes them only smile, makes him adore. Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees ; An empire in his balance, weighs u grain. Tliey things terrestrial worship, as divine ; His hopes immortal blow them by, as dust, That dims his sight and shoitens his survey WTiich longs, in infinite, to lose all bound « T IJ. Chap. IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. ao7 5 Titles and honours (if they prove his fate) He lays aside to find his dignity; No dignity they find in aught besides. They triumpii in externals, (which conceal Man's real glory,) proud of an eclipse : Himself too much he prizes to be proud ; And nothing thinks so gv*eat in man, as man. Too dear he holds his interest to neglect Another's welfare, or his right invade ; Their interest, like a lion, lives on prey, o They kindle at the shadow of a wrong ; Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heav'n, Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe: Nought, bat what wounds his virtue, wounds his peace. A cover'd heart their character defends ; A cover'd heart denies him half his praise. 7 With nakedness his innocence agrees! While their broad folia^^e testifies their fall I There no joys end, where his full feast begins : His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss. To triumph in existence, his alone; ' And his alone triumphantly to think His true existence is not yet begun. His glorious course was yesterday, complete : Death, then, was welcome; yet life still is sweet.-Toui SECTION VIII. The pleasttrea of Retirement, KNEW he but his happiness, of men The happiest he ! who, far from public rage, Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired, Drinks the pure pleasures rf the rural life. 2 What tho' the dome be wanting, whose proud gate Each morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd Of flatterers false, and in their turn abus'd t Vile intercourse ! What though the glittVing robe, Of ev'iy hue reflected light can give, Or floated loose, or stiff with mazy gold, The pride and gaze of fools, oppress him not ? What tho', from utmost land and sea purveyed. For him each rarer tributary life Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps With luxury, and death 1 What tho' his bowl Flames not with costly juice ; nor sunk in beds Oft of*gay care, he tosses out the night. ', (| 208 ' rr^-^TW" -T.il^r'' THE ENGLISH READER. Part H Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state ? What tho' he knows not those fantastic jcys, That still amuse the wanton, still deceive ; A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain ; Their hollow moments undelighted all ? Sure peace is his ; a solid life estranged To disappointment and fallacious hope. 3 Rich in content, in nature's bounty rich, In herbs and fruits ; whatever greens the spring, MTien heaven descends in showers ; or bends tlie bough When summer reddens, and when autumn beams : Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies Conceal'd, and fattens with the richest sap : These are not wanting; nor the milky drove, Luxuriant spread o'er all the lowing vale ; Nor bleating mountaini3; nor the chide of streams, And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade, Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay ; Nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song, Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and fountains clear. 4 Here too dwells simple truth ; plain innocence ; Unsullied beauty ; sound unbroken youth, Patient of labour, with a little pleas'd ; Health ever blooming ; unambitious toil ; Calm contemplation, and poetic ease. — Thomson. SECTION IX. The Pleasvre and Benefit of an improved and well-directed Imagination, OH ! blest of Heav'n, who not the languid song's Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave Those ever-blooming sweets, which, from the store Of nature, fair imagination culls. To charm th' enliven'd soul ! What tho' aot all Of mortal offspring can attain the height Of envied life ; tho* only few possess Patrician treasures, or imperial state ; Yet nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasures, and an ampler state, Endows at large whatever happy man Will deign to use them. '!he rural honoui'& lik ^^ His the city's pomp. Chap. IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 20i) The princely dome, tho column, and the arch, The breathinjB^ marble and the sculptural ^old, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, Tlis tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring Distils her dews, and from the silken jrem Its lucid leaves unfolds : for him, the hand Of autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings ; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, , And loves unfelt attract him. 3 Not a breeze Flies o'er the meadow ; not a cloud imbibes The setting sun's effulgence ; not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade • Ascends ; but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure, unreprov'd. Nor thence partakes Fresh pleasure only ; for th' 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 seeks at home, To find a kindred order ; to exert Within herself this elegance of love. This fair inspired delight : her tempered pov> 'rs liefine at length, and every passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. 4 But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze On nature's form, where, negligent cS all These lesser graces, 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 barbarous growth Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear ? 5 Lo ! she appeals to nature, to the winds And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course, The elements and seasons : all declare For what the eternal maker has ordain'd The pow'rs of man : we feel within ourselves His energy divine ; he tells the heart, He mevit, ht made us to behold and lovt 92 '■I I- I y it 110 THE ENGLISH READER. Part II "^Vhat he brholds and lovps, the general orb Of life and being ; to be great like Him, Heneficent and active. Thus the men Whom nature's worku instruct, witli God himself Hold converse ; grow familiar, day by day, With his conceptions ; act upon his plan ; And form to his, the relish of their souls. — akf.nripf.. I CHAPTER V. FJiTHETW PIECES. SECTION T. The Hermit. A^ the close of the day, when the hamlet is stifl, • And mortals the sweets of forgelfulness prove ; When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in tiie grove ; 'Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar. While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit btgan No more with himself or with nature at war, ^ He thought as a sage, tho' he felt as a man. 9 " Ah ! why, all ahandon'd to darkness and ^vo •; Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay ; Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn ; O sooth him whose pleasures like thine pass away ; Full quickly they pass — but they never return. 8 *♦ Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The moon half extinguish'd her crescent displays ; But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.. Holl on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendour again : But man's faded gtory what change shall renew ! ^ii fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! "4 * 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more : I mourn ; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glitt'ring with dew JjFbr vet ior the ravage of winter I mourn ; Kind nature the embr}^ blossoni will save ; ^ART II Chap. V. PATHFTIC WFCES. 211 6 But when shall spring visit tlie mouldering urn ! O when shall day dawn on the ni:;ht of the grave ! *' 'Twas thus hy the glare of false science hetray'd, That leads, to bewilder, and dazzles, to blind ; My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shav ^ Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. pity, great Father of light, then 1 cried. Thy creature who fain wouhl not wander from thee Lo, humbled in dust, i relinquish my pride ; From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free. ♦' And darkness and dotibt are now Hying 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 ti iumph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's tirst bloom ! On the coW cheek of death smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." JJEATTIC. SECTION II. The lie^^ar^s Pelilion, PITY the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your dowi* ; Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ; Oh I give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak ; These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years ; And many a fun'ow 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 magnificent abode. Haivi is the fate of the infirm and poor ! Here, as 1 crav'd a morsel of their bread, A pamperM menial drove me from the door^ To seek a shelter in an humbler shed. Oh ! take me to your hospitable dome ; Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold ! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb ; For I am poor, and miserably old. Should I reveal the sources of my grief, If soft humanity e'er tonch'd your breast, ■ Your hands would not withhold thp kind reHef, And tears of pity, would not 43e represt. f:*' \ '11 r >l i m I ! i \ V 1 I''; 3 m 212 THE ENGLISH READER. Part II Ci 7 Heav'n sends misfortunes ; v'hy 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. 8 A little farm was my paternal lot ; Then, like tlie lark, I sprightly hail'd the morn ; But ah ! oppression forc'd me from my cot, My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. 9 My daughter, once the comfort of my age, LurM by a villain from her native home, Is cast abandoned on the world's wide stage, And doom*d in scanty poverty to roam. 10 My tender wife, sweet soother of my care ! Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair ! And left the world to wretchedness and me. 11 Pity the sorrows of a poor oM man, Whose tremblirjg limbs have born him to your door ; Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ; Oh ! give rehef, and Heav'n vvlil bless your store. SECTION HI. Unhappy close of Life. HOW shocking must thy summons be, O Death I To kim that is at ease in his possessions ! Who, counting on long yeai*s of pleasure here. Is quite unfurnished for the w orld to come ! In that dread moment, how the frantic soul Raves round the walls of her 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 ! 2 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 ev'ry 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 sinkg to everlasting ruin.-— blair Chap. V. PATHETIC iPlECES. 213 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 ble;js. 2 Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey From flow'ry meads, can with that sigh compare ; Not dew-drops glittering in the morning ray, Seem near so beauteous as that falling tear. 3 Devoid of fear the fawns around thee play ; Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies ; No blood- stain'd traces mark thy blameless way ; Beneath thy feet, no hapless insect dies. 4 Come, lovely nymph, and range the mead with me, To spring the partridge from the guileful foe : From secret snares the struggling bird to free ; And stop the hand uprais'd to give the blow. 5 And when the air with heat meridian glows. And nature droops beneath the conquVing gleam, Let us, slow wandering where the current flows, Save sinking flies that float along the stream. 6 Or turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care, To me thy sympathetic gifts impart j Teach me in friendship's griefs to bear a share, And justly boast the gen'rous feeling heart. 7 Teach me to soothe the helpless orphan's grief ; With timely aid the widow's woes assuage ; To mis'ry's moving cries to yield relief ; And be the sure resource of drooping age. 8 So when the genial spring of life shall fade, And sinking nature own the dread decay, Some soul congenial then may lend its Mtly"^^ And gild the close of life's eventful day. - SECTION V. Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirky during Ms solitary abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez, I 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. ' ■ 'I' ' I i r ?/1 5l tr-Hl 2li THE ENGLISH READER. Part II 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. e I am out of humanity'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 unacquainted with man. Their tameness is shocking to me. 18, Society, friendship, and loVe, • Divinely bestowM upon man, *^ Oh, had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again I fly sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth ; Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheered by the sallies of youth. 4 Religion ! what treasure untold Resides in that heavenly word ! Alore precious than silver or gold, Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell, These vallies and rocks never heard ; Ne'er sigh'd at the sound of a knell. Or smiPd when a sabbath appeared. 5 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 after me ? O tell me I yet have a friend. Though a friend I am never to see* 6 How fleet is a glance of the mind ! Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind. And the swift-wing'd arrows 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 me back to despair. Chap. V. PATHETIC PIECES. HIB 7 But the sea-fowl has gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair ; Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place ; And mercy — encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace. And reconciles man to his lot. — cowp£r. SECTION VI. Gratitude, WHEN all thy mercies, O my God I My rising soul surveys. Transported with the view, Tm lost In wonder, love, and praise. 2 O how shall words with equal warmth, The gratitude declare. That glows within my ravish'd heart ! But thou canst read it there. , 3 Thy providence my life sustained, And all my wants redrest, When in the silent womb I lay. And hung upon the breast. 4 To all my weak complaints and cries. Thy mercy lent an ear. Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learn'd To form themselves in pray'r. 3 Unnumber'd comforts to my soul Thy tender care bestow'd, Before my infant heart conceived From whom those comforts flowM. 6 When, in the slipp'ry paths of youth, With heedless steps, I ran, Thine arm, unseen, conveyed me safe, And led me up to man. 7 Through hidden dangers, toils and deaths, It gently clear'd my way ; And through the pleasing snares of vice, More to be fear'd than they. 8 When worn with sickness, oft hast thou, With heal'iii renew'd my face ; And when in sins and sorrows sunk, Reviv^ my soul with grace. ■ II ii m %• ii Ii 81$ THE ENGLISH READER. Part H *& Thy bounteous hand, with worldly bliss, Haa made my cup run o*er ; And, in a kind and faithful friend, Has doubled all my store. 10 Ten thousand thousand precious gifts, My daily thanks employ ; Nor is the least a cheerful heart. That tastes those gifts with joy. 11 Through ev'ry period of my life, Thy goodness I'll pursue ; And, after death, in distant world.-?. The glorious theme renew. 12 When nature fails, and day and night Divide thy works no more, My ever-grateful heart, O Lord ! Thy mercy shall adore. 13 Through all eternity, to thee A joyful song I'll raise ; For ! eternity's too short To utter all* thy praise. — addison. SECTION VIL S Jdan perishing in the Snoiv ; from tchence Reflections are raised on the miseries of Life, AS thus the snows arise ; and foul and fierce, All winter drives along the darken'd air ; In his own loose-revolving field, the swain Disaster'd stands ; sees other hills ascend, Of unknown joyless brow ; and other scenes, Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid Beneath the formless wild ; but zanders on, From hill to dale, still more and more astray ; Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps. Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour fortn In many a vain attempt. 2 How sinks his soul ! What black despair, what horror fills his heart ! When, for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd His tufted cottage rising through the anow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Far from the ti*ack, and blest abode of man ; ] While round him night resistless closes fast, And ev'ry tempest howling o*er his heaH, Cji, 3 6 I , .-, . . Cjiap. VII!. PATHETIC PIECES. 217 Renders the savage wilderness more wild. 3 Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep, A dire descent, beyond the powV of frost ! Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge. Smoothed up with snow; and what is land, unknowU) What water, of the still unfrozen spring. In the loose marsh or solitary lake, Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils, 4 These check his fearful steps ; and down he sinks Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drill, Thinking o*er all the bitterness or death, Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoo*:? Through tlie wrung bosom of the dying man, His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 5 In vain for him the officious wife prepares The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm ; In vain his little children, peeping out Into the mingled storm, demand their sire. With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold ; • JVor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve The deadly winter seizes ; shuts up sense ; And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold. Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse, Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blast. 6 Ah, little think the gay licentious proud. Whom pleasures, pow'r, and affluence surround ; They who their 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, Aiid all the sad variety of pain ! How many sink in tiie devouring flood, Or more devouring fiame ! How many bleed, By shameful variance betwixt man and man! 7 How many pine in want, in dungeon glooms, Shut from the common air, and common use Of their own limbs ! How many drink the cup Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread Of misery! Sore pierc'd by wintiy winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless poverty ! How many shake \^ ^Vith all the nercer tortures of the mind, " Unbounded passion, madness, guilty remorse ! It ^ " I ne'er the paths of learning tried ; Nor have 1 roam'd in foreign parts, To read mankind, their laws and arts : For man is practis'd in disguise ; He cheats the most discerning eyes. Who by that search shall wiser grow ? By that ourselves we never know. The little knowledge I have s^ain'd, W^as all from simple natuie diain'd ; Hence my life's ir.uxims took their rise, Hence grew my settled hate of vice. The daily labours of the bee Awake my soul to liidutiti'v. Who can obyci've the cdiefiil aiit, And not provide for futuic ^vant 1 My dog (the trustiest of his kuid) Willi gratitude iuila' my iv.hiJ.. T2 ki'i i''\ 222 THE ENGLISH READER. Part H* < I mark his tnic, iiis faithful way, And, in my service, copy Tray. In constancy and nuptial love, I learn my duty from the dove. The hen, who from the chilly air, With pious wing, protects her care, And evVy fowl that flies at large, Instructs me in a parent's charge. 5 From nature too 1 take my rule, To shun contempt and ridicule. I never, with important air, In conversation overbear. Can grave and formal pass for wise, When men the solemn owl despise? My tongue within my lips I rein ; For who talks much must talk in vain. We from the wordy torrent fly ; Who listens to the chatt'ring pye? Nor would 1, with felonious flight. By stealth invade my neighbour's right. 6 Rapacious animals we hate ; Kites, hawks, and wolves, deserve their fate. Do not we just abhorrence find Against the toad and serpent kind ? But envy, calumny, and spite, Bear stronger venom in their bite. Thus ev'ry object of creation Can furnish hints to contemplation ; And, from the most minute and mean* A virtuous mind can morals glean." 7 " Thy fame is just," the sage replies ; " Thy virtue proves thee truly wise. Pride often guides the author's pen, • Books as aff'ected are as men : But he who studies nature's laws. From cf^rtain truth his maxims draws', And those, without our schools, suffice To make men moral, good, and wise." — gat. SECTION in. The Road to Happiness open to all J)len» OH happiness ! our being's end and aim! Good, pleasure, ease, content ! whate'er thy name ; That something still which prompts th' eternal sigh, For which we bear to live, or dare to die: €ha?. TI. promiscuous PIEC£S. n^ Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool and wine.; Plant of celestial seed, if dropt below. Say, in what mortal soil thou deign*st to grow T Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shine, Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine? TwinM with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field ? Where grows i where grows it not ? if vain our We ought to blame the culture, not the soil. Fix'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 thMr Ask of the learn'd the way. The learn'd are blind ; This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind : Some place the bliss in action, some in ease ; Those call it pleasure, and contentment these : Some sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pail\i. Some swelPd to gods, confess ev'n virtue vain .: Or indolent to each extreme they fall. To trust in ev'ry thing or doubt of all. Who thus deflne it, say they more or less Than this, that happiness is happiness 1 Take nature's path, and mad opinions leave ; All states can reach it, and all heads conceive; Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell ; There needs but thinking right, and meaning w^-: And mourn our various portions as we pleaaej Equal in common sense, and common ease. Remember, man, ^* the universal cause Acts not by partial, but by gen'ral laws ;*' And makes what happiness we justly call, Subsist not in the good of one, but all. — POtlT* SECTION IV. The Goodness of Providence. THE liord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care ; His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye; My noon-day walks he shall attend, And ail my midnight hours defend. 2 Whep in the sultry glebe I faint. Or on the thirsty mountains pant : i! ... \ \ 9 .i t I! a i: 114 THE ENGLISH READER. I'art IF To fertile vales, and dewy meads, My weary warul'rinsj steps he lends ; Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, Amid the verdant landscape flow. 3 Tho' in the paths of death I tread, With glooming horrors overspread, J My steadfast 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. 4 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 crowned, And streams shall murmur all around.— addisoK* SECTION V. The Creator's Works attest his greatness, THE spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangl'd heav'ns, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim ; Th' unweariM sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's powV display, And publishes tn ev*ry land, The work of an Almighty hand. 9 Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail, The moon takes up the wond'rous tale; And, nightly, to the listening earth, ftepeats the story of her birth; 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. 3 What though, in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball ! What tho' no 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 fiiat made us, in Divine.'* — addison Ci RT n Chap. H. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 225 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 watery worlds to flame, That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame ; Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls, And in the bounty of thy goodness calls. ^ O ! give the winds all past offence to sweep, To scatter wide, or bury in the deep. Thy powV, 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 boll, let anger be my praise. And sin the gi'aceful indignation raise. My love be warm to (.3 I IL Chap. \I. rROMlSClOUS PIKCES. 229 11 To be rcsigird nhei) ills betide, Patient when favoui's are denied, And pleas'd with favours giv'n : Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part , This is that incense of the heart, Whose fragrance smells to heaven. 12 WeMl ask no long protracted treat, Since winter-life is seldom sweet ; But when our feast is oVr, Grateful from table we'll arise, Nor grudge our sons with envious eyes, The relics of our store. 13 Thus, hand in hand, thro' life we'll go ; Its checker'd paths of joy and wo, With cautious steps, we'll 'tread ; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear. And mingle with the dead. 14 While conscience, like a faithful friend, Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend, And cheer om* dying breath ; Shall, when all other comforts cease, Like a kind ani(el whisper peace. And smooth the bed of deaih. — cotton SECTION IX. Providence Vindicated in the present slate of J\1an. HEWN from all creatures, iiides the book of fate ; All but the page prescrib'd, their present state ; From brutes what men, from men what spirits know : Or who could suffer being here beiow ? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-duy, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play I Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. 2 Oil blindness to the future ! kindly giv'n That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n ; Who see8 with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ; Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 3 Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; *Wwt the great teacher Death ; and God adore. What future bliss lie gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. U r.;. i ?' i: n. ^ ■ .--"A' ' i a; ,s J ^i ■'ill 232 THE ENGLISH READER. Part U Virtue engages his assent, But pleasure wins his heart. 4 'Tis here the folly of the wise, Through ail his art, we view ; And while his tongue the charge denies, His conscience owns it true. 5 Bound on a voyage of awful length, And dangers little known, A stranger to superior strength, Man vainly trusts his own. 6 But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast ; The breath of heav'n must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost. — cowper. SECTION XII. Ode to Peace, COME, peace of mind, delightful guest ! Return, and make thy downy nest Once more in this sad heart : Nor riches I, nor pow'r pursue. Nor hold forbidden joys in view ; We therefore need not part. 2 Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, From av'rice and ambition free, And pleasure's fatal wiles ; For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare The sweets that I was wont to share. The banquet of thy smiles ? 3 The great, the gay, shall they partake The heav'n that thou alone canst make ; And wilt thou quit the stream, That murmurs through the dewy mead, The grove and the sequester'd shade. To be a guest with them ? ~ 4 For thee I panted, thee I priz'd, For thee I gladly sacrific'd Whate'ef I lov'd before ; And shall I see thee start away, And helpless, hopeless, hear thee sa y Farewell, we meet no more t— cowper. SECTION XIII. Ode to Adversity. DAUGHTER of Heav'n, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, IT U ClIAP. VI. PROxMlSCrOLS FIKCKS. 233 ^Vhoso iron srnnri^o. nni toi't'nrii^ hour, The had aflright, alllirl thr hest "'. Bound in thv ad^mir^iUii'e chain, ¥ 7 The proud are taught to ta^te ol" paWi, And purple tyrants vainly ?rroan With pangs unfelt before, unpitlod and alone. 2 When first thy sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling child, de^iuiiM, To thee he gave the heav\:!y hiith, And bade to form her infant mind. Stern rugtjed nurse ! thy rigid lore With patience many a yet»r she bore. What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know ; And from her own she learn'd to melt at othera wo. 3 Scar'd at thy fro\v;i teri'ific, fly Self-pleasing folly's idle brood, Wild laughter, noise, and thoughtless joy. And leave us leisure to be good. Light they disperse ; and with them go The summer friend, the flattering foe. By vain prosperity receiv'd, To her they vow their truth, and are again believed 4 Wisdom, in sable gar!) array'd, Immers'd in rapt'roas thouyht profound, And melancholy, si'ent maid. With leaden eye that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend ; Warm charity, the gen'ral friend, With justice, to herself severe, And pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear. 5 Oh, gently, on thy suppliant's head. Dread power, lay thy chast'ning hand ! Not in thy gorgon terrors clad. Nor circled with the vengeful band, (As by the impious thou art seen,) With thundering voice, and threatening miet With screaming horror's fun'ral cry. Despair, and fell disease, and ghastly poverty. • 6 Thy form benign, promtiousTj- wear. Thy milder influence impfft ; ^ Thy philosophic train be there, To soften, not to wound mv heart. ' • The gen'rous spark extinct revive ; Tearh me to love .nd to foruive ; U2 234 THE ENGLISH READER. Part H. ri, 1, Exact my own defects to scan ; What others are to feel ; and know myself a man.— gray. SECTION XIV. The Creation required to praise its Author, BEGIN, my soul, th' exalted lay ! Let each enraptur'd thought obey. And praise th* Almighty's name. Lo ! heaven and earth, and seas, and skies, In one melodious concert rise, To swell th' inspiring theme. 2 Ye fields of light celestial plains. Where gay transporting beauty reigns, Ye scenes divinely fair ! Your Maker's wondVous power proclaim ; Tell how he formed your shining frame, And breath'd the fluid air. 3 Ye angels, catch the thrilling sound ! While all th' adoring thrones around His boundless mercy sing : Let every listening saint above Wake all th« tuneful soul of love, And touch the sweetest string. 4 Join, ye loud spheres, the vocal choir ; Thou dazzling orb of liquid fire, The mighty chorus aid : Soon as gray ev'ning gilds the plain. Thou moon, protract the melting strain, And praise him in the shade. 5 Thou heay'n of heav'ns, his vast abode Ye clouds, proclaim your forming God, Who call'd yoD worlds from night: '* Ye shades dispel !" — ^th' Eternal said ; At once th' involving darkness fied, And nature sprung to light. 6 Whate'er a blooming world contains, That wings the air, that skims the plain?, •UnUed praise bestow ; Ye dragons, sound his awful name ,J : To heaven aloud ; and roar acclaim, ! ' Ye swelling deeps below. J,. .^ , 7 Let ev'ry element rejoice ; J,j^ 'v'. Ye thunders burst with awful voice ^'^-'TXi'^''' To HIM who bids vou roll : : II. Chap. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 235 His praise in softer notes declare, Each whispering breeze of yielding air, And breathe it to the soul. 8 To him, ye graceful cedars, bow ; Ye tow'ring mountains, benrting low, Your great Creator own ; Tell, when affrighted nature shook, How Sinai kindled at his look. And trembled at his iVown. 9 Ye flocks that haunt the humble vale, Ye insects flutt'ring on the gale, In mutual concourse rise; Crop the gay rose's vermeil bloom. And waft its spoils, a sweet perfume, In incense to the skies. 10 Wake all ye mounting tribes, and sing ; Ye plumy warblers of the spring, Harmonious anthems raise To HIM who shap'd your finer mould, Who tippM your glittVing wings with gold, And tun*d your voice to praise. 1 1 Let man, by nobler passions swayed. The feeling heart, the judging head, In heav'nly praise employ; Spread his tremendous name around, Till heaven's broad arch rings back the sound, The genVal burst of joy. 12 Ye whom the charms of grandeur please, Nurs'd on the downy lap of ease. Fall prostrate at his throne ; Ye princes, rulers, all adore ! Praise him, ye kings, who makes your power An image of his own. 13 Ye fair, by nature form'd to move, praise th' eternal source of love. With youth's enliv'ning fire: Let age take up the tuneful lay, Sigh his bless'd name — then soar away, And ask an angel's lyre. — ogilvie. SECTTOX XA^ The Univa^r sal Prayer. • FATHER OF ALL ! in ev'ry age, In ev'ry clime ador'd ! By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord I *3l i m 236 THE ENGLISH READER. f 4 ». 2 Thou GREAT FIRST CAUSE, If.ast understood, Who all my sense confiii'd, To know hut this, that Thou art good And that myself am hlind ; 3 Yet gave me, in this dark estate. To see the good from ill ; And binding nature fast in fate, Left free the human will. 4 What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do. This teach me more than hell to shun, That more than heav'n pursue. 6 What blessings thy free bounty gives, Let me not cast away ; For God is paid, when man receives ; T* enjoy, is to obey. 6 Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me bound. Or think thee Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round. 7 Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume thy bolts to throw ; And deal damnation round the land On each I judge thy foe. 8 If I am right, thy grace iu.jjart, Still in the ritjht to stay ; If I am wrong, oh teach my heart To find that better way ! 9 Save me alike from foolish pride, Or impious discontent. At aught thy wisdom has denied, Or aught thy goodness lent. 10 Teach me to feel another's wo ; To hide the fault I see : That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me. 11 Mean tho' I am, not wholly so, Since quicken'd by thy breath : lead me wheresoe'tr I go. Thro' this day's life or death. 12 This day, be broad and peace my lot; All else beneath the sun. Thou know'st if best bestow'd or not, And let thv will be done. •L O Chap. \ F. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 287 13 To thee, whose temple is all space, Whose altar, earth, sea, skies ! .*( One chorus let all being^s raise ! All nature's incense rise. — pope. SECTION XTI. Conscience. O TREACHEROUS Conscience ! while she seems to sleep, On rose and myrtle, lulPd with syren song , While she seems nodding o'er her charge, to drop On headlong appetite the slackened rein, And gives us up to license, unrecalPd, Unmark'd ; — >see, from hehind her secret stand, The sly informer minutes ev'ry fault, And ber dread diary with horror fills. 2 Not the gross act alone employs her pen She reconnoitres fancy's airy band, A watchful foe ! the formidable spy. Listening o'erhears the whispers of our camp ; Our dawning purposes of heart explores. And steals our embryos of iniquity. As all-rapacious usurers conceal Their doomsday-book from all-consuming heirs. Thus, with indulgence most severe, she treats «'Ts spendthrids of inestimable time ; Unnoted, notes each moment misapplied ; In leaves more durable than leaves of brass, Writes our whole history ; which death shall read In ev'ry pale delinquent's private ear ; And judgment publish ; publish to more worlds Than this ; and endless age in groans resound.— TOUNG SECTION XVII. On an Infant, TO the dark and silent tomb. Soon I hasten'd from the womb ; Scarce the dawn of life began. Ere I measur'd out my span. 2 I no smiling pleasures knew ; I no gay delights could view : Joyles J sojourner was I, Only bom to weep and die. 3 Hap])y infant, early bless'd ! . Rest, in peaceful slumber, rest; ..^ E?rly rescu'd from the cares, W hich increase with growing years. 238 THE ENGLISH HEADER. Taut H. 4 No delights are worth thy stay, Smiling as they seem, and gay ; Short and sicicly are they all, Hardly tasted ere they pall. 5 All our gaiety is vain, All our laughter is hut pain ; Lasting only, and divine, Is an innocence like thine. SECTION XVIH. The Cuckoo, HAIL, beauteous stranger of the wood| Attendant on the spring! Now heav*n repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. 2 Soon as the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear: Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year? 3 Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowVs, When heaven is filled with music sweet, Of birds among the bowr*s. 4 The school-boy, wand'ring in the wood, To pull the flow'rf so gay, Starts, thy curious voice to hear, And imitates thy lay. 5 Soon as the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fly'st the vocal vale, An annual guest, in other lands. Another spring to hail. / 6 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! 7 O could I fly, Vd fly with thee; We^d make,with social wing, Our annual visits o'er the globe, Companions of the spring. — logan. SECTION XIX. ->"^ Day* A Pastoral in three parts.— -—MORNING. IN the barn the tenant cock, Close to Partlet perch'd on high, - Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock !) - ^ Jocund that the morning's nigh. . ' \^y CuAF. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 239 2 Swiflly from the mountain's brow Shadows, nurs*d by night, retire ; And the peeping sun-beam, now Paints with gold the village spire. 3 Philomel forsakes the thorn, Plaintive where she prates at night ; And the lark to meet the morn. Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. 4 From the low-roof 'd cottage ridge, See the chattVing swallow spring ; Darting through the one-arch'd bridge Quick she dips her dappled wing, 5 Now the pine-tree's waving top Gently greets the morning gale ; Kidlings now begin to crop Daisies, on the dewy dale. 6 From the balmy sweets, uncloyM, (Restless till her task be done,) Now the busy bee's employ'd, Sipping dew before the sun. 7 Trickling through the crevicM rock, Where the limpid stream distils. Sweet refreshment waits the flock, When 'tis sun-drove from the hills. 8 Colin's for the promised corn (Ere the harvest hopes arc ripe,) Anxious; — whilst the huntsman's horn, Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe. 9 Sweet — O sweet, the warbling throng, On the white emblossorn'd spray ! Nature's universal song Echoes to the rising day. NOON. 10 Fervid .on the glitt'ring flood. Now the noontide i adiance glows : Drooping o'er its infant bud. Not a dew-drop's left the rose. 11 By the brook tlM shepherd dines, From the fierce meridian heat, ■J Sheher'd by the brafiching pines, Pendaid o'er Iva grassj seat. 12 Now the flock foi'^^akes the ubde, Where, uncheck'd, riie sun ben m.-^ fall, Surt' to find a p]e>:-!ug shade By the iA''d abL)ey wall. Ml 'I i I 1 7 ■ V . 240 THE ENGLISH READER. Part II. 13 Echo, in her airy round, * ' O'er the river, rock, and hill, ;^ Cannot catch a single sound. Save the clack of yonder mill. 14 Cattle court the zephyrs bland. Where the streamlet wanders cool ; Or with languid silence stand Midway in the marshy pool. 15 But from mountain, dell, or stream, Not a fluttering zephyr springs ; Fearful lest the noontide beam. Scorch its soft, its silken wings. "iS Not a leaf has leave to stir; Nature's luU'd — serene — and still ! Quiet e*en the shepherd's cur. Sleeping on the heath-clad hill. 17 Languid is the landscape round. Till the fresh descending show'r, Grateful to the thirsty ground, Raises ev'ry fainting flow'r. 18 Now the hill — ^the hedge — are green, Now the warbler's throat's in tune ; Blithsonie is the verdant scene, Brighten'd by the beams of Nqon ! EVENING. 19 O'er the heath the heifer strays Free ; (the furrow'd task is done;) Now the village windows blaze, Burnish'd by the setting sun. 20 Now he sets behind the iiill, Sinking from a golden sky : Can the pencil's mimic skill Copy the refulgent dye? 21 Trudging as the ploughmen go, (To the smoking hamlet bouuu,) Giant-like their shadows grow, Lengthen'd o'er the level ground, 22 Where the rising forest spreaus Shelter for the lordly dome ; To their high-built airy beds, See the rooks returning hoiiie ! 23 As the lark, with vary'd tune, Carols to the ev'ning loud ; Mark the mild resplendent moon, Breaking through a parted cloud. •:-.'J' efi^; * Part II. H Caiip. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 24 Now the hermit owlet peeps, From the barn or twisted brake ; And the blue mist slowly creeps, Curling on the silver lake. 25 As the trout in speckled pride, Playful from its bosom springs ; To the banks a ruffled tide, Yei^es in successive rings. 26 Tripping through the silken grass, 0*er 3ie path-divided dale, Mark the rose-complexion'd lass. With her well-pois'd milking pail ' 27 Linnets with unnumberM notes. And the cuckoo bird with two. Tuning sweet their mellow throats, Bid the setting sun adieu. — Cunningham. SECTION XX. The Order of JVature, See, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter quick, and bursting into birth. Above, how high progressive life may go ! Aroun*:!, how wide! how deep extend below; Vast chain of being! which from God began, Nature ethereal, human; angel, man; Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see, No gl^s can reach ; from infinite to thee, From thee to nothing. — On superior powers Were we to press, inferior might on ours ; Or in the full creation leave a void. Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroyed : From nature's chain whatever link you strike, Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 2 And, if each system in gradation roll. Alike essential to the amazing whole. The least confusion but in one, not all That system only, but the whole must fall. Let earth, unbalanc'd from her orbit fly. Planets and suns run lawless thro' the sky ; Let rulmg angels from their spheres be hurl'd. Being on being wreck'd, and world on world ; Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod, And nature trembles to the throne of God. i All this dread order break — for whom ? for thee t Tile worm ! Oh madness ! pride ! impiety ! X 241 d42 THE ENGLISH READER. Part tJ. ,1 ; 3 What if the foot ordain'd the dust to tread, Or hand to toil, aspir'd to be the head ? What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd To serve mere engines to the ruling mind ? Just as absurd for any part to claim To be another, in this gen'ral frame * Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains. The Great directing mind of all ordains. 4 All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body nature is, and God the soul : That, changed thro' aU, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame ; Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees ; Lives thro' all life, extends thro' all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part. As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns. As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : To him no high, no low, no great, no small ; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 9 Cease then, nor order imperfection name : Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point : this kind, this due degr^t Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on tt h^, Submit. — In this, or any other sphere, Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. All nature is but art, unknow n to thee ; All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ;: All discord, harmony not understood ; All partial evil, universal good ; And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, One truth is clear — ^whatever is, is right. — '^v/ SECTION XXI. Confidence in Divine protection* How are thy servants blest, O Lord ! How sure is their defence ! eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help omnipotence. 3 In foreign realms, and lands remote, i. Supported by thy care, artU. Chap. VL PROMISCUOUS PIECES. * 24i ,' .;. >• Through burning climes I paasM unhurt^ And breathM in tainted air. 3 Thy mercy svveeten'd ev*ry soil, Made ev*ry region please ; The hoary Alpine hills it warm'd. And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas- 4 Think, O my soul, devoutly think, How, with affrighted eyes, Thou saw'st the wide extended deep In all its horrors rise ! 5 Confusion dwelt in ev'ry face, And fear in ev'ry heart. When waves on waves, and gulfs in gul&| Overcame the pilot's art. 6 V then, from all my griefs, O Lord! Thy mercy set me free ; While in the confidence of pray'r. My soul took hold on thee. 7 For tho' in dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave, I knew thou wert not slow to hear, Nor impotent to save. 8 The storm was laid, the winds retired. Obedient to thy will ; The sea tliat roar'd at thy command. At thy command was still. 9 In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths, Thy gooclness PU adore ; And praise thee for thy mercies past, And humbly hope for more. 10 My life, if thou preserve my life, Thy sacrifice shall be ; And death, if death must be my doom. Shall join my soul to thee. — addison. SECTION XXII. Hymn on a Review of the Seasons, THESE, as they change. Almighty Father! these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring Thy beauty walks. Thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields; the soft'ningair is balm; ' ' Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles, And ev'ry sense, and ev*ry heart is joy. Then comes Thy glory in the summer monthi) 244 THE ENGLISH READER. Part H. ■.' With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; And oft Thy voice in dr^dful thunder speaks ; And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves, in hollow- whisp*ring gales y 5 Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfin'd, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In winter, awful Thou! with clouds and storms Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolPd, Majestic darkness ! On the whtrlwind's wing, . Riding sublime, Thou bidst the world adore ; And humblest nature with thy northern blast. 4 Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine. Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so (telightful mix'd, with such kind art, Nuch beauty and beneficence combined ; Shade, unperceiv'd, so soft'ning into shade, And all so forming an harmonious whole, That as they still succeed, they ravish still. 5 But wand'ring oft, with brute unconscious gaze, Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres; ^ Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence The fair profusion that overspreads the spring; Flings from the sun direct the flaming day ; Feeds ev'ry creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; And, as on earth this grateful change revolves. With transport touches all the springs of life. 6 Nature, attend ! join ev'ry living soul, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join ! and, ardent raise One general song! I Ye, chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, Crown the great hymn ! 7 For me, when I forget the darling theme, Whether the blossom blows ; the summer ray Russets the plain; inspiring autumn gleams; Or winter rises in the black'ning east ; Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! 8 Should fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barb'rous climes, Rivers unknown to song ; where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam ^ ^ Chap. TI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. m Flames on the Atlantic isles ; 'tis nought to me^ ^^ Since God is ever present, ever felt, y In the void waste as in the city full ; And where he vital ifreathes there must be joy. r When e'en at last the solemn hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I, cheerful, will obey ; there, with new pow'rs. Will rising wonders sing: I cannot go Where universal love not smiles around, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns : From seeming evil still educing good, And better thence again, and better still, In infinite progression. But I lose Myself in him, in light ineffable ! Come, then, expressive silence, muse his praise. THOMSON. SECTION XXIII. On Solitude. O SOLITUDE, romantic maid ! Whether by nodding towers you tread, ' " Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom, Or hover o'er the yawning tomb, Or climb the Andes' clifted side. Or by the Nile's coy source abide. Or, starting from your half-year's sleep., From Hecla view the thawing deep, * Or, at the purple dawn of day, Tadmor's marble waste survey ; ' ^ You, recluse, again 1 woo. And again your steps pursue. 2 Plum'd conceit himself surveying, Folly with her shadow playing, Purse-proud elbowing insolence. Bloated empiric, puflf'd pretence. Noise that through a trumpet speaks, Laughter in loud peals that breaks, Intrusion, with a fopling's face, (Ignorant of time and place,) Sparks of fire dissension blowing, Ductile, court-bred flattery bowing. Restraint's stiff neck, grimace's leer, Squint-ey'd censure's artful sneer, Ambition's buskins, steep'd in bloo([); Fly thy presence, Solitude ! '^v ■ < Vf, - ■X2 "*i' XK *. U9 q^HE ENGLISH READER. Part II /,/ d Sage reflection, bent with years , Conscious virtue, void of fears, Muffled silence, wood-nymph shy, Meditation's piercing eye, Halcyon peace on moss reclin'd, Retrospect that scans the mind, Rapt earth-gazing revery, Blushing artless modesty. Health that snuffs the morning au, FuU-eyM truth with bosom bare, Inspiration, nature's child, Seek the solitary wild. 4 When all nature's hush'd asleep, Nor love, nor guilt, their vigils keep, Soft you leave your cavern'd den, And wander o'er the works of men ; But when Phosphor brings the dawn, By her dappled coursers drawn, Again you to your wild retreat. And the early huntsman meet, Where, as you pensive pass along. You catch the distant shepherd's song. Or brush from herbs the pearly dew, Or the rising primrose view. Devotion lends her heav'n plum'd wings, Tou mount, and nature with you sings. 1$ But when the mid-day fervours glow. To upland airy shades you go, Where never sun-burnt woodman came. Nor sportsman chas'd the timid game ; And there, beneath an oak reclin'd, With drowsy waterfalls behind, Tou sink to rest. Till the tuneful bird of night, From the neighb'ring poplar's height, ^ Wake you with her solemn strain, / And teach pleas'd echo to complain. 6. With you roses brighter bloom, . Sweeter ev'ry sweet perfume ; Purer ev^ty fountain flows. Stronger ev'ry wilding grows. Let those toil for gold who please, Or for fame renounce their ease. ;. What is fame? An empty bubble j 0i>ld ? A shining, constant trouble. '•4 Ciur. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 947 Let them for thtfir country bleed ! What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed ? Man's not worth a moment's pain ; Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain. * 7 Then let me, sequester'd fair, To your sybil grot repair; On yon hanging cliff it stands, Scoop'd by nature's plastic hands, BoBom'd in the gloomy shade Of cypress not with age decayed \ Where the owl still hooting sits, Where the bat incessant flits ; There in loftier strains PU sing Whence the changing seasons spring; Tell how storms deform the skies. Whence the waves subside and rise, Trace the comet's blazing tail, Weigh the planets in a scale ; Bend, great God, before thy shrine ; The boumless macrocosm's thine. 8 Since in each scheme of life I've fail'd. And disappointment seems entail'd ; Since all on earth I valu'd most, My guide, my stay, my friend is lost ; O Solitude, now give me rest. And hush the tempest in my breast. gently deign to guide my feet To your hermit^trodden seat; Where I may live at last my own, Where I at last may die unknown. 1 spoke ; she turn'd her magic ray ; And thus she said, or seem'd to say; Youth, you're mistaken, if you think to find In shades, a med'cine for a troubled mind : Wan grief will haunt you whereso'er you go. Sigh in the breeze, and in the streamlet flow. There pale inaction pines his life away ; And satiate mourns the quick return of day : There, naked frenzy laughing wild with pain. Or bares the blade, or plunges in the main : There superstition broods o'er all lier fears^ And yells of demons in the zephyr hears. But if a hermit you're resolv'd to dwell, And bid to social life a last farewell; Tis Impious. ■ ■ .1* 248 THE ENGLISH READER. Part Tl. 10 God never made an independent man; 'Twould jar the concord of his general plan. See evVy part of that stupendous whole, " Whose body nature is, and God the soul ;" To one great end, the general good, conspire. From matter, brute, to man, to seraph, fire. Should man throut^h nature solitary roam,* His will his sovereign, every wliere his home, What force would guard him from the lion's jaw ? What swiftness wing him from the panther's paw? Or, should fate lead him to some safer shore. Where panthers never prowl, nor lions roar. Where liberal nature all her charms bestows. Suns shine, birds sing, flowers bloom, and water flows ; Fool, dost thou think he'd revel on the store, ,j l Absolve the care of «ieav'n, nor ask for more? Though waters flow'd, flow'rs bloom'd, and Phcebus shon^: He'd sigh, he'd murmur, that he was alone. For know, the Maker on the human breast, ' * / A sense of kindred, country, man, impress'd. 11 Though nature's works the ruling mind declare, And well deserve inquiry's serious care, „»;f; ; The God, (whate'er misanthrophy may say,) .. , Shines, beams in man with most unclouded ray. What boots it tnee to fly from pole to pole? ;.r| ^ , Hang o'er the sun, and with the planets roll ? What boots through space's farthest bourns to roam ? If thou, O man, a stranger art at home. Then know thyself, the human mind survey ', The use, the pleasure, will the toil repay. ^ 12 Nor study only, practice what you know; ->i Your life, your knowledge, to mankind you owe. With Plato's olive wreath the bays entwine; uy Those who in study, should in practice shine. Say, does the learn'd lord of Hagley's shade, Charm man so much by mossy fountains laid, As when arous'd, he stems corruption's course, And shakes the senate with a Tully's force? When freedom gasp'd beneath a Caesar's feet, - Then public virtue might to shades retreat : < ; But where she breathes, the least may useful be. And freedom, Britain, still belongs to thee. c . 13 Though man's ungrateful, or though fortune frown ;'^ Is the reward of Mrorth asonsf, or crown? ■■'A u'>- »i1 cA 'LUi'A Jri :'T Chap. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 249 Nor yet unrecompens'd are virtue's pains ; Good Allen lives, and bounteous Brunswick reigns. On each condition disappointments wait, Enter the hut, and force the guarded gate Nor dare repine, though early friendship bleed, From love, the world, and all its cares, he's freed. But know, adversity's the child of God : Whom Heaven approves of most, must feel her rod. When smooth old Ocean, and each storm's asleep, Then ignorance may plough the watery deep ; But when the demons of the tempest rave. Skill must conduct the vessel through the wave. 14 Sidney, what good man envies not thy blow ? Who would not wish Anytus* — for a foe? Intrepid virtue triumphs over fate ; The good can never be unfortunate. And be this maxim graven in thy i lind ; The height of virtue is, to serve mankind. But when old age has silver'd o'er thy head, When memory fails, and all thy vigour's fled, Then mayst thou seek the stillness of retreat, Then hear aloof the human tempest beat; Then will I greet thee to my woodland cave, Allay the pangs of age, and smooth thy grave. GRAINOIR, * One of the accusers of Socrates. '■ ■. A. a/i. srvi3i£rv3« PARTI. PIECES IN PROSE. 4k:ct. 1. 2. 3. 4. 6. 7. i. 2. a. 4. a. 8. 0. iO. H. 12. J 3. 14. 15. 1. *» 3 r». 0. 1. 6. 7. R. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 1. *? CHAPTER I. Pag9. Select Sentences and Paragraphs, . ; . 13 CHA.'TER II.— J^arrative Pieces. No rank or posseBsions can make the guilty mind happy, Chaoi^e of external condition oftvn adverse to virtue, Hainan, or tlie misery of pride, .... Latiy Jane Gray . . Urtogrul . or the vanity af riches, The hill of science, ... . « The journey of a day; a picture of human life, CHAPTER III— Didactic Pieces. The imnnrtance of a good education, On gratitude, ........ Oil for^ivencs8, ....... Motive!) to the practice of gentleness, \ stispicioiiii temper the source of misery to its possessor, Comforts of religion, Diffidence of our abilities a mark of wisdom, . On (Ito importance of order in the distribution of our lime, riie dignity of virtue amidst corrupt exampleii, Ihe iitortitications of vice greater than those of virtue, On cootentment, ...... Rank and riches afford no ground for envy, . I'aticiice under provocations our interest as well as duty, Aiodcraiion in our wishes rtcoiii mended. Omniscience and omnipvesence of the Deity, source of consolation, 62 CH A PTER I y.— Argumentative Pieces. Happiiief?s is founded in rectitude of conduct, Virtue m.m's highest interest, The iiijuslicfi of an imcliarital>le spirit, .... ThH loisfoiiutios of men inu»tly chargeable on themselves, Oil •^i^ interested friemJship, On the immoitalitv of the soul, CH Al'TSR v.— Descriptive Pieces. The seasons, 76 Tiie cataract of Niagara, in Canada, North America, - . 77 Grotto of Antiparos, -----.--78 The £;rotio of Aiitiparos continued, - - . , - 7^ Eartlujiiake at Calanea, ---.---80 Creation, ---81 Charity, •----.82 Prosperity is redoubled to a good man, - • - ' -^ 83 On the brtaoties of the Psalms -.«.... 34 Charavier of Alfred, king of England, - - ... 85 Character of Queen Elizabeth, .--.'.. 86 On the slavery of vice, - - .--...87 The man of integrity, -----...8* 23 Sd 30 31 94 3« 39 43 44 45 4G 47 4ft 49 CO 61 5^ 64 67 58 60 65 16. 67 68 70 73 Gentleness, CHAPTER Vl.^Pathetic Pieeu. Trial and execution of the earl of Strafford, . An eminent instance of true fortitude of niind, T e gooti man's comfort in aflUetion, 9i 93 94 2a 8» 30 SI 94 3« 39 4S 44 45 4G 47 48 49 60 61 63 54 6? 58 60 65 lb. 67 68 70 13 76 77 78 Td 80 81 82 83 84 85 88 87 8i t» 92 93 94 C0NT£NTtf. 25] 4 Tb«c}oMoflife, 95 6. Exalted society and the rflnewal of virtuous connexions, dtc. . 97 6. The clemency ami amiable churactei of the puiriarch Joseph, 9H 7. Altamont ^ 100 CHAFTKR Wh— Dialogues. 1. Democritut and Heraclitus, IM S. Diouysius, Fythiaa, and Damon, 104 3. Locke and Giayle, 106 CTHAPTER WW.— Public Sptechcs. 1. Cicero against Verres, Ill 3w Speech of Adherbal to the Roman Senate, imploiine protection, 114 3. The Apostle I'aurs noble defence before Festus unrT Agrippu,. 117 4. Lord Mansfield's speech in the Hou! 5. An Address to young persons, ]i3 CHArr»<:R \^.—Prmniscuous Pines. 1. Earthquake at Calabria, in the year 1538, .... 12S 2. Letter from I'liny to Geminius, 129 3. Letter from Pliny to Marcellinus, on the death of an amiable young woman, 130 4. On Discretion, 131 5. On the government of our thoughts, lf)3 6. On the evils which flow frnm unrestrained pr.ssion, . . 135 7. On the proper srate of our temper, with respect to one another, 136 8. Excellence of the Holy Scriptures 138 9. Reflections occasioned by a review of the blessin<;s oronounced by Christ, on his disciples, in his sermon on the mount, . 139 '10. Schemesof life often illusory, J 40 II. The pleasures of Virtuous sensibility, 142 IS. On the true honour of man, 144 13. The influence of devotion on the happiness of life, . !4r 14 The planetary and terrestrial worlds comparatively considered, 147 15. On the power of custom, and the uses to which it "uiv be afi|il>ed 149 16. The pleasure resulting from a proper use of our faculties, l.'>0 17. Description of Candour, . 151 18 On the imperfection of that happiness which rests solely on wotldly pleasures, ... . . ' . 152 19. What are the real and solid enjoyments of human life, - • 155 20 Scale of beings, 157 81 Trust in the care of Providence recommended, . a . 159 22. Piety and gratitude enliven prosperity, - .... 161 23. Virtue, deeply rooted, is not subject to the influence of fortune, 163 24. The speech of Fabricius, to kmg tVrrhus, who attempted to bribe him to his interests, by the offer of a large sum of money, 164 25. Character of James i. king of England, 165 26. Charles V Emp. of Germany, resigns bis dominions, Slc. • 166 27. The saiiwormt • 182 Tht trtali of virtue, lB:i The youth and the philofopher. • • • - - • 18.'> Discourie between Ada^|pi)d Eve retiriog to rest, • -186 Religinu and death, •. ]y9 CHAPTER Ul'-Didactic Pieces. The vanity of wealth, 191 Nothhig formed in vain, ...... . 192 On pride, ---.••• .. it. Cruelty to brutes censured, 103 A paraphrase on the latter part of the 6th chapter of Matthew, 194 Toe death af a good man a strong incentive to virtue, . . 195 Reflections on the future state, from a review of winter, . . ik. Adam*8 advice to Eve, to avoid temptation, .... 197 On procrastination, ......... 16. That philosophy which stops at secondary causes, reproved, . 199 Indignant sentiments on national prsjudice, slavery, (Lc. . 200 CHAPTER IV.— Descriptive Piece$. The morning in summer, S^l Rural sounds, as well as rural sights, delightful, . 2t)2 The Rose, ih. Care of birds for thoir young, . . . . 203 Liberty and slavery contrasted, ih. Charity. A paraphrase on the 13th chap, to the Corinthians, . 204 Picture of a good man, 20U The pleasures of retirement, 207 The pleasures and benefit dfan improved imagination, . . 208 CHAPTER Y. -Pathetic Pieces. The Hermit, 210 The Beggar*s Petition, .... ... 211 t'Tnhappy close of life, .... ... 212 Elegy to Pity, ... 213 Verses by Alex. Selkirk, in the island of Juan Fernandez, . t6. Gratitude, 215 A man perishing in the snow, with reflections, dtc. &,c. . .216 A morning hymn, 218 CHAPTER VI.— PromwcMoiM Pieces. Ode to Content, 219 The Shepherd and the Philosopher, 221 The road to happiness open to all men, . ' . . . . 222 The goodness of Providence, 223 The Creator*8 works attest his greatness, . • . . . . 224 Address to the Deity, - 225 Tho pursuit of happiness often ill-directed, • . . . 226 The fire-sido, 227 Providence vindioated in the present state of mem, • • • 229 .Selfishness reproved, 230 HuiVian frailty, • - 231 Ode to peace, 232 Ode to adversity, ib. The creation required to praise its Author, - • . - 234 The universal prayer, -- 235 Conscience, 237 On an infant, .----.-----ti. The Cuckoo, - - - - 238 Day. A pastoral, in tbree parts, • • - • • • <6. The order of nature, 2fl Confidence in Divine protection, ------ 242 Hymn on a review of the Seasons, - - • - - ^ 243 QnSo)iiudt» 346 182 18:} 185 186 189 191 192 ib. 193 194 195 ih. 197 ib. 199 200 201 21)2 ih. 203 . ib. 204 20t> 207 208 211) 211 212 213 t6. 215 21C 218 919 221 222 223 224 225 226 227 229 230 231 232 ib. 234 235 237 ib. 238 ib. 2^ 242 S4S 345 '!*■':