UC-NRLF 
 
THE 
 
 ENGLISH 
 
 OR 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 BEST WRITERS, 
 
 DESIGNED TO ASSIST YOUNG PERSONS 
 
 TO READ WITH PROPRIETY AND EFFECT 
 
 IMPROVE THEIR LANGUAGE AND SENTIMENTS; AND 
 TO INCULCATE THE MOST IMPORTANT 
 PRINCIPLES OF 
 
 PIETY AND VIRTUE. 
 
 WITH A FEW PRELIMINARY 
 
 OBSERVATIONS ON THE PRINCIPLES 
 
 OF 
 
 GOOD READIJVG. 
 
 BY LINDLEY MURRAY, 
 
 AUTHOR OF AN ENGLISH GRAMMAR, &C. &Ce 
 
 W. & J. BOLLES: 
 
 NEW-LONDON. 
 
 COLLINS,, KEESE & CO.: 
 
 NEW-YORK. 
 3836. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 . 
 
 i^V selections 01 excellent matter have been made for the benefit 9 
 young persons. Performances of this kind are of so 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 interesting, and sufficiently distinct from others. 
 
 The present work, as the title expresses, aims at the attainment of three 
 objects : to improve youth in the art of reading ; to meliorate their language and 
 sentiments ; and to inculcate some of the most important principles of pietv 
 and virtue. 
 
 The pieces selected, not only give exeicise to a great variety of emotions, 
 and the correspondent tones and 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 youth to read with propriety and effect. A selection of sentences, m 
 which variety and proportion, with exact punctuation, have been carefully 
 observed, in all their parts as well as with respect, to one another, will pro- 
 bably have a much greater effect, in properly teaching the art of reading, than 
 is commonly imagined. In such constructions, every thing is accommodated 
 to the understanding and the voice ; and the common difficulties in learning 
 to read well are obviated. When the learner has acquired a habit of reading 
 such sentences, with justness and facility, he will readily apply that habit, 
 and the improvements he has made, to sentences more complicated and 
 irregular, and of a construction^entirely different. 
 
 The language of the pieces chosen for this collection has been carefully 
 regarded. Purity, propriety, perspicuity, and, in many instances, elegance 
 of diction, distinguish them. They are extracted from the works of the 
 most correct and elegant writers. From the sources whence the sentiments 
 are drawn, the reader may expect to find them connected and regular, suffi- 
 ciently important and impressive, and divested of every thing that is either 
 trite or eccentric. The frequent perusal of such composition naturally tends 
 to infuse a taste for this species of excellence, and to produce a habit of think- 
 ing, and of composing, with judgment and accuracy.* 
 
 That this collection may also serve the purpose of promoting piety and vir- 
 tue, the Compiler has introduced many extracts, which place religion in the 
 most amiable 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 strong and durable impressions on their 
 minds.f 
 
 The Compiler has been careful to avoid every expression aaid sentiment, that 
 might gratify a corrupt mind, or, in the least degree, offend the eye or ear oi 
 innocence. This he conceives to be peculiarly incumbent on every person 
 
 * The learner, in his progress through this volume and the Sequel to it, will meet 
 with numerous instances of composition, in strict conformity to the rules for promo- 
 ting perspicuous and elegant writing, contained in the Appendix to the Author's 
 English Grammar. By occasionally examining this conformity, he will be confirmed 
 In the utility of those rules ; and he enabled to apply- them with case and dexterity. 
 
 It is proper further to observe, that the Reader and the Sequel, besides teaching lo 
 read accurately, and inculcating many important sentiments, may be considered ai 
 auxiliaries to the Author's English Grammar; as practical illustrations of the princi 
 pies and rules contained in that work. 
 
 tin some of the pieces, the Compiler has made a few alterations, chiefly verbal, t 
 r- apt them the better to UMI <*afuu of his work. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 wno writes for the benefit of youth, ft would indeed be a great and happy 
 improvement in education, if no writings were allowed to come under their 
 notice, but such as are perfectly innocent ; and if on all proper occasions, 
 vhey were encouraged to peruse those which tend to inspire a due reverence 
 for virtue, and an abhorrence of vice, as well as to animate them with senti- 
 ments of piety and goodness. Such impressions deeply engraven on their 
 minds, and connected with all their attainments, could scarcely fail of attend 
 ing them through life, and of producing a solidi f y of principle and charac- 
 ter, that would be able to resist the danger arising from future intercourse with 
 the world. 
 
 The Author has endeavoured to relieve the grave and serious parts of hii 
 collection, by the occasional admission of pieces which amuse as well aa 
 instruct. If, however, any ol his readers should think it contains too great a 
 portion of the former, it may be some apology to observe, that in the existing 
 publications designed for the perusal of young persons, the preponderance is 
 greatly on the sido of gay and amusing productions. Too much attention may 
 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 affections is either fee- 
 ble, or transient. A temperate use of such entertainment seems therefore 
 requisite, to afford proper scope for the operations of the understanding and 
 the heart. 
 
 The reader will perceive, that the Compiler has been solicitious to recom- 
 mend to young persons, the perusal of the sacred Scriptures, by 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 oflife, is a point of so high importance, as to warrant the attempt to pro- 
 mote it on every proper occasion. 
 
 To improve the young mind, and to afford some assistance to tutors, in the 
 arduous and important work of education, were the motives which led to this 
 production. If the Author should be so successful as to accomplish these 
 ends, even in a small degree, he will think that his time and pains have bee 
 &&L. employed, and will deem himself amply rewarded. 
 
 54' 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 OBSERVATIONS ON THE PRINCIPLES OF GOO1> 
 READING 
 
 TO read with propriety is a pleasing and important attainment ; produc- 
 tive of improvement both to the understanding and the heart. It is essential 
 to a complete reader, that he minutely perceive the ideas, and enter into the 
 feelings af the author, whose sentiments he professes to repeat : for how is i 
 possible to represent clearly to others, what we have but faint or inaccurate 
 conception of ourselves? If there were no other benefits resulting from the 
 art of reading well, than the necessity it lays us under, of precisely ascertain- 
 ing the meaning of what we read ; and the habit thence acquired, of doing 
 this with facility, both when reading silently and aloud, thay would consti- 
 tute a sufficient compensation for all the labour we can bestow upon the sub- 
 ject. But the pleasure derived to ourselves and others, from a clear com- 
 munication of ideas and feelings ; and the strong and durable impressions made 
 thereby on the minds o/the reader and the audience, are considerations, which 
 give additional importance to the study of this necessary and useful art. The 
 perfect attainment of it doubtless requires great attention and practice, joined 
 to extraordinary natural powers ; but as there are many degrees of excellence 
 in the art, the student whose aims fall short of perfection will find himself 
 amply rewarded for every exertion he may think proper to make. 
 
 To give rules for the management of the voice in reading, by which the 
 
 ble by no other means, than the force of example, influencing the imitative 
 powers of the learner. Some rules and principles on these heads will, how- 
 ever, be found useful, to prevent erroneous and vicious modes of utterance ; to 
 give the young reader some taste for the subject ; and to assist him in acquir 
 ing a just and accurate mode of delivery. The observations which we have 
 to make, for these purpose's, may be comprised under the following heads : 
 Proper Loudness of Voice ; Distinctness; Slowness; Propriety of Pronuncia- 
 tion ; Emphasis , Tones ,' Pauses / and J^Iode of Reading Verse. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 Proper Loudness of Voice. 
 
 THE first attention of every person who reads to others, doubtless, must 
 tie to make himself heard by all those to whom he reads. He must endea- 
 vour to fill with his voice, the space occupied by the company. This power 
 of voice, it may be thought, is wholly a natural talent. It is, in a good mea- 
 sure, the gift of nature ; but it may receive considerable assistance from art. 
 Much depends, for this purpose, on the proper pitch and management of the 
 voice. Every person lias three pitches in his voice ; the high, the middle, and 
 the low one. The high, is that which he uses in calling aloud to some per- 
 
 NOTE. For many of the observations contained in this preliminary tract, 
 the author is indebted to the writings of Dr. Blair, and to the Encyclopedia 
 Britannica. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 5 
 
 ton at a Jistarce. The low, is when he approaches to a whisper. The 
 middle, is that which he employs in common conversation, and which he 
 should generally use in reading to others. For it is a great mistake, to ima- 
 gine that one must take the highest pitch of his voice, in order to be well heard 
 m a large company. This is confounding two things which are different, 
 toiitlness or strength of sound, with the key or note in which we speak. There 
 is a variety of sound within the compass of each key. A speaker may there- 
 fore render his voice louder, without altering the key: and we shall always 
 be able to give most bod}'-, most persevering force of sound, to that pitch 01 
 voice to which in conversation we are accustomed. Whereas, by setting out 
 on our highest pitch or key, we certainly allow ourselves less compass, and 
 are likely to strain our voice before we have done. We shall fatigue our- 
 selves, and read with pain ; and whenever a person speaks with pain to him- 
 self, he is also heard with pain by his audience. Let us therefore give the 
 voice full strength and swell of sound; but always pitch it on our ordinary 
 speaking key. It should be a constant rule never to utter a greater quantity 
 of voice than we can afford without pain to ourselves, and without any ex- 
 traordinary effort. As long as we keep within these bounds, the other organs 
 of speech will be at liberty to discharge their several offices with ease; and 
 we shall always have our voice under command. But whenever we trans- 
 gress these bounds, we give up the reins, and have no longer any manage- 
 ment of it. It is a useful rule, loo, in order to be well heard, to cast our eya 
 on some of the most distant persons in the company, and to consider ourselves 
 as reading 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 reach of our voice. As this is the case in 
 conversation, it will hold also in reading to others. But let us remember, that 
 in reading as well as in conversation, it is possible *o offend by speaking too 
 loud. This extreme hurts tl. e ear, by making the voice come upon it in rum- 
 bling, indistinct masses. 
 
 By the habit of reading, wl-en young, in aloud and vehement manner, the 
 voice becomes fixed in a strained and unnatural key ; and is rendered inca- 
 pable of that variety of elevation and depression which constitutes the true 
 harmony of utterance, and affords ease to the reader, and pleasure to the au- 
 dience. This unnatural pitch of the voice, and disagreeable monotony, arc 
 most observable in persons who were taught to read in large rooms ^ who 
 were accustomed to stand at too great a distance, when reading to their tea 
 chers; whose instructors were very imperfect in their nearing ; or who were 
 taught by persons who considered loud expression as the chief requisite in 
 forming a good reader. These are circumstances, 'which demand the seri- 
 ous attention of every one to whom the education of youth is committed. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 Distinctness. 
 
 IN the next place to being well heard and clearly understood, distinctness 
 of articulation contributes more than mere loudness of sound. The quantity 
 of sound necessary to fill even a large space, is smaller than is commonly 
 imagined ; and, with distinct articulation, a person with a weak voice will 
 make it reach further than the strongest voice can reach without it To this, 
 therefore, every reader ought 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 language, 
 and a facility in expressing them, are so necessary to distinctness of expres- 
 sion, that if the learner's attainments are, in this respect, imperfect, (and 
 many there are in this situation,) it will be incumbent on his teacher to car- 
 ry him back to these primary articulations; and to suspend his pio^ress, till 
 ne become perfectly master of them. It will be in vain to press him Jbrward, 
 with the hope of forming a good reader, if he cannot completely 
 very elementary sound of the language. 
 
f5 INTRODUCTION 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 Due degree of Slowness 
 
 IN order to express ourselves distinctly, moderation is requisite w,; regard 
 to the speed of pronouncing. Precipitancy of speech confounds all *rticula 
 tion, and all meaning. It is scarcely necessary to observe, that thert may be 
 also an extreme on the opposite side. It is obvious that a lifeless, drawling 
 manner of reading, which allows the minds of the hearers to be always out- 
 running the speaker, must render every such performance insipid and fatigu- 
 ing. But the extreme of reading too fast is much more common ; and requires 
 the more to be guarded against, because, when it has grown into a habit, few 
 errors are more difficult to be corrected. To pronounce with a proper degree 
 of slowness, and with full and clear articulation, is necessary to be studied by 
 all who wish to become good readers ; and it cannot be too much recommend- 
 ed to them. Such a pronunciation gives weight and dignity to the subject. 
 ft is a great assistance to the voice, by the pauses and **sts which it allows 
 the reader more easily to make ; and it enables the reader to swell all his 
 sounds, both with more force and more harmony. 
 
 SECTION IV 
 
 Propriety of Pronunciation. 
 
 AFTER the fundamental attentions to the pitch and management of the 
 voice, to distinct articulation^ and to a proper degree of slowness ofspeecn, 
 what the young reader must, in the next place, study, is propriety of pro- 
 nunciation ; or, giving to every word which he utters, that sound which 
 the best usage of the language appropriates to it ; in opposition to broad, vul- 
 gar, or provincial pronunciation. This is requisite both for reading intelligi- 
 oly, and for reading with correctness and ease. Instructions concerning this 
 article may be best given by the living teacher. But there is one observation, 
 which it may not be improper here to make. In the English language, every 
 word which consists of more syllables than one, has one accented syllable. 
 The accent rests sometimes on the vowel, sometimes on the consonant. The 
 genius of the language requires the voice to mark that syllable by a stronger 
 percussion, and to pass more slightly over the rest. Now, after we have 
 learned the proper seats of these accents, it is an important rule, to give every 
 word just the same accent in reading, as in common discourse. Many per- 
 sons err in this respect. When they read to others, and witn solemnity * they 
 pronounce the syllablesin a different manner from what they do at other times. 
 They dwell upon them, and protract them ; they multiply accents on the same 
 words from a mistaken notion, that it gives gravity and importance to theii 
 subject, and adds to the energy of their delivery. Whereas this is one of the 
 greatest faults that can be committed in pronounciation , it manes what is cal- 
 led a pompous or mouthing manner; and gives an artificial, affected air to 
 reading, which detracts greatly both from itsagreeablencssand its impression. 
 
 Sheridan and Walker have published dictionaries, for ascertaining the true 
 
 tion of the words belonging to the English language. 
 SECTION V. 
 
 Emphasis. 
 
 BY emphasis is meant a stronger and fuller sound of voice, by whicn w 
 distinguish some word or words, on wjiich we design to lay particular stress, 
 and to show how they affect the rest of the sentence. Sometimes the empha 
 tic words must be distinguished by a particular tone of voice, as well as by a 
 particular stress. On the right management of the emphasis depends the lifts 
 of pronunciation. If no emphasis be placed on any words, not only is dis- 
 cours e rendered heavy and lifeless, but the meaning left often ambiguous. It 
 the emphasis be placed wrong, we pervert and confound the meaning wholly 
 
INTRODUCTION. 7 
 
 
 
 Empnasis 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, presupposed by the author as general knowledge, or 
 removes an ambiguity, where a passage may have more senses than one. The 
 inferior emphasis enforces, graces, and enlivens, but does notjix, the meaning 
 of any passage. The words to which his latter emphasis is given, are in 
 general, such as seem the most important in the sentence, or on other accounts, 
 to merit this distinction. The following passage will serve to exemplify the 
 superior emphasis: * w 
 
 ' Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
 
 * Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste 
 
 " Brought death into the world, and all our wo," &c 
 
 " Sing, heavenly Muse !" 
 
 Supposing that originally other beings besides men, had disobeyed the 
 commands of the Almighty, and that the circumstance were well known to 
 us, there would fall an emphasis upon the word man's in the first line ; and 
 hence, it would read thus : 
 
 "Of racm'srst disobedience, and the fruit," &c. 
 
 But if it were a notorious truth, that mankind had transgressed in a pecu- 
 liar manner more than once, the emphasis would fall on first ; and the line be 
 read, 
 
 " Qfm&ri'sjirst disobedience," &c. 
 
 Again, admitting death (as was really the case) to have been an unheard 
 of and dreadful punishment, brought upon man in consequence of his trans- 
 gression ; on that supposition the third line would be read, 
 
 ** Brought death into the world," &/c. 
 
 But if we were to suppose, that mankind knew there was such an evil as 
 3eath in other regions, though the place they inhabited "had been free from it 
 till their transgression, the line would run thus : 
 
 * Brought death into the world," &c. 
 
 Tne superior emphasis finds place in the following short sentence, which 
 admits of four distinct meanings each of which is ascertained by the emphasis 
 only, 
 
 " Do yau ride to town to-day ? " 
 
 The following examples illustrate the nature and use of the inferior em 
 phasis : 
 "Many persons mistake the love, for the practice of virtue." 
 
 " Shall I reward his services with falsehood ? Shall 1 forget him who can 
 not forget me." 
 
 " If his principles a.re false, no apology from himself can make them right 
 if founded m truth, no censure from others can make them wrong.' 11 
 "Though deep, yet clear,- though gentle, yet not dull, 
 ** Strong, without rage; without overflowing, full" 
 
 " A friend, exaggerates a man's virtues ; an enemy, his crimes. 1 
 
 " The wise man is happy, when he gains his own approbation ; the fool, 
 when he gains that of others" 
 
 The superior emphasis, in reading as in speaking, must be determined en- 
 tirely by the sense of the passage, and always made alike,' but as to the infe- 
 rior emphasis, taste alone seems to have the right of fixing its situation and 
 Quantity. 
 
 Among the number of persons, who have had proper opportunities of learn- 
 ing to read, in the best manner it is now taught, very few could be selected, 
 who, in a given instance, would use the inferior emphasis alike, either as to 
 place or quantity. Some persons, indeed, use scarcely any degree of it : and 
 others do not scruple to carry it far beyond any thing to be found in common 
 discourse; and even someUnes throw it upon words so very trifling in them 
 
8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 selves, that t is evidently done with no other view, than to give a greatet 
 variety to the modulation.* Notwithstanding this diversity of practice, there 
 are certainly proper boundaries, within which this emphasis must be res- 
 trained, in order to make it meet the approbation of sound judgment and cor- 
 rect taste. It will doubtless have different degrees of exertion, according to 
 the greater or less degree of importance of the words upon which it operates; 
 and there may be very properly some variety in the use of it : but its applica- 
 tion is not arbitrary, depending on the caprice of readers. 
 
 As emphasis often falls on words in different parts of the same sentence, ^o 
 ii is frequently required to be continued, with a little variation, on two, and 
 sometimes more words together. The following sentences exemplify both the 
 parts of this position : " If you seek to make one rt'c/i, study not to increase 
 *' his stores, but to diminish his desires." " The Mexican figures, or picture- 
 ** writing, represent things^ not words / they exhibit images to the eye, not ideas 
 ' to the understanding." 
 
 Some sentences arc so full and comprehensive, that almost every word is 
 emphalical : as, " Ye hills and dales, ye rivers, woods, and " plains!" or as 
 that pathetic expostulation in the prophecy of Ezekiel, " Why will ye die I 1 ' 
 
 Emphasis, besides its other offices, is the great regulator of quantity. 
 Though the quantity of our syllables is fixed, in words separately pronounced, 
 vet it is mutable, when these words are arranged in sentences; the long being 
 changed iuto short, the short into long, according to the importance of the 
 word with regard to meaning. Emphasis also, in particular cases, alters the 
 seat of the accent. This is demonstrable from the following examples : " He 
 
 accent to be placed on syllables to which it does not commonly belong. 
 
 In order to acquire the proper management of the emphasis, the great rule 
 to be given is, that the reader study to attain a just conception of the force and 
 spirit of the sentiments which he is to pronounce. For to lay the emphasis 
 with exact propriety, is a constant exercise of good sense and attention. It 
 is far from being an inconsiderable attainment. It is one of the most deci- 
 sive trials of a true and just taste ; and must arise from feeling delicately our- 
 selves, and from judging accurately of what is fittest to strike the feelings of 
 others. 
 
 There is one error, against which it is particularly proper to caution the 
 learner: namely, that of multiplying emphatical words too much, and using 
 \he emphasis indiscriminately. It. is only by a prudent reserve and distinction 
 in the use of them, that we can give them any weight. If they recur too often ; 
 if a reader attempts to render every thing he expresses, of high importance, 
 by a multitude of strong emphasis, we soon learn to pay little regard to them. 
 To crowd every sentence with emphatical words, is like crowding all the 
 pages of a book with Italic characters : which, as to the eflect, is just the same 
 as to use no such distinctions at all. 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 Tones. 
 
 TONES are different both from emphasis and pauses; consisting in the 
 notes or variations of sound which we employ, in the expression of our sen- 
 timent?. Emphasis affects particular words and phrases, with a. degree 01 
 tone, or inflexion of voice ; hut tones, peculiarly so called, affect sentences, 
 paragraphs, ';nd some times the whole of a discourse. 
 
 * By modulation is meant, that pleasing variety of voice, which is per- 
 ceived in uttering a sentence, and which in its nature, is perfectly distinct frorr 
 emphasis, and the tones of emotion and passion. The young reader should 
 be careful to render his modulation correct and easy ; and, for this purpose, 
 should form it upon the model of the most judicious and accurate speakers. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 9 
 
 1 o show the use and necessity of tones, we need only observe, that the mind, 
 AQ communicating its ideas, is in a constant state of activity, emotion, or 
 agitation, from the different effects which those ideas produce in the speaker. 
 [Vow the end of such communication being not merely to lay open the ideas, 
 but also the different feelings which they excite in him who utters them, there 
 must be other signs than words, to manifest those feelings; as words uttered 
 rn a monotonous manner can represent only a similar state of mind, perfectly 
 free from all activity and emotion. As the communication of these internal 
 feelings was of much more consequence in our social intercourse, than the 
 mere conveyance of ideas, the Author of-our being did not, as in that con- 
 veyance, leave the invention of the language of emotion to man ; but im- 
 pressed it himself upon our nature, in the same manner as he has done with 
 regard to the rest of the animal world; all of which express their various 
 feelings, by various tones. Ours, indeed, from the superior rank that we hold, 
 are in a high degree more comprehensive ; as there is not an act of the mind, 
 tin exertion of the fancy, or an emotion of the heart, which has not its pecu- 
 liar tone, or note of the voice, by which it is to be expressed ; and which is suit- 
 ed exactly to the degree of internal feeling. It is chiefly in the proper use of 
 these tones, that the life, spirit, beauty, and harmony of delivery consist. 
 
 The limits of this introduction do not admit of examples, to illustrate the 
 variety of tones belonging to the different passions and emotions. We shall, 
 however, select one, which is extracted from the beautiful lamentation of Da- 
 vid over Saul and Jonathan, and which will, in some degree, elucidate what 
 has been said on this subject. " The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high 
 " places; how are the mighty fallen! Tell it not in Gath ; publish it not in 
 " the streets of Askelon ; lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice ; lest the 
 " daughters of the uncircumcised triumph. Ye mountains of Gilboa, let 
 " there be no dew nor rain upon you, nor fields of offerings ; for there the 
 " shield of the mighty was vilely cast away ; the shield <3f Saul, as though he 
 " had not been anointed with oil." The first of these divisions, expresses 
 sorrow and lamentation ; therefore the note is low. The next contains a 
 spirited command, and should be pronounced much higner. The other sen- 
 tence, in which he makes a pathetic address to the mountains where his 
 friends had been slain, must be expressed in a note quite different from the 
 two former; not so low as the first, nor so high as the second, but in a 
 manly, firm, and yet plaintive tone. 
 
 The correct and natural language of the*emotions is not so difficult" to be at- 
 tained as most readers seern to imagine If we enter into the spirit of the au- 
 thor's sentiments, as well as into the meaning of his words, we shall not fail 
 to deliver the words in properly varied tones. For there are few people, who 
 speak English without a provincial note, that have not an accurate use of 
 tones, when they utter their sentiments in earnest discourse. And the reason 
 that they have not the same use of them in reading aloud the sentiments oi 
 .others, may be traced to the very defective and erroneous method in which 
 the art of reading is taught; whereby all the various, natural, expressive 
 tones of speech are suppressed ; and a few artificial, unmeaning reading 
 notes, are substituted for them. 
 
 But when we recommend to readers, an attention to the tone and language 
 of emotions, we must be understood to do it with proper limitation. Modera- 
 tion is necessary in this point, as it is in other things. For when the reading 
 becomes strictly imitative, it assumes a theatrical 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, must be supposed to be more 
 vivid and animated than would be proper in the person who relates them al 
 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 degree, 
 more faintly characterized. Let those tones which signify any disagreeable 
 1 oassion of the mind, be still more faint than those which indicate agreeable 
 
10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " emotions : and, on all occasions, preserve yourselves from being so far affected 
 " with the subject, as to be unable to proceed through it, with that easy and mas- 
 '* terly 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 perceptible, 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 
 ry ; 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, thai 
 the ear, also, may be relieved from the fatigue which it would otherwise endure 
 from a continuity of sound ; and that the understanding may have sumcien 
 time to mark the distinction of sentences, and their several members. 
 
 There are two kinds of pauses : first, emphatical pauses ; and next, such a 
 mark ihe distinctions of sense. An emphatical pause is generally made nfttt 
 something has been said of peculiar moment, and on which we desire to fix the 
 hearer's attention. Sometimes, before such a thing is said, we usher it in will 
 a pause of this nature. Such pauses have the same effect as a strong em 
 phasis-, and are subject to the same rules; especially to the caution of not 
 repenting them too frequently. For as they excite uncommon attention, and 
 of course raise expectation, if the importance 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 same time to allow the reader to draw his breath ; 
 and the proper and delicate adjustment of such pauses, is one of the most nice 
 and difficult articles of delivery. In all reading, the management of the breath 
 requires a good, deal of care, so as not to oblige us to divide words from one 
 another, which have so intimate a connexion, that they ought 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 carefu^to provide a full 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 may always have a sufficient 
 stock for carrying on the longest sentence, without improper interruptions. 
 
 Pauses in reading must generally be formed upon the manner in which we 
 utter ourselves in ordinary, sensible conversation ; and not upon the stiff arti- 
 ficial manner, which is acquired from reading books accordirigto the common 
 punctuation. It will by no means be sufficient to attend to the points used 
 in printing ; for these are far from marking all the pauses which ought to bo 
 irade in reading. A mechanical 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 discerning the grammatical construction ; and it is only 
 
 their correspondent times occasionally lengthened beyond what is usual in 
 common speech. 
 
 To render pauses pleasing and expressive, they must not only be made in 
 the right place, but also accompanied with a proper tone of voice, by which 
 the nature of these pauses is intimated, much more than by the length of them, 
 which can seldom be exactly measured. Sometimes it is only a slight and 
 simple suspension of voice that is proper; sometimes a degree of cadence in 
 the voice is required ; and sometimes that peculiar tone and cadence which 
 denote the sentence to be finished. In all theie cases, we are to regulate ouj 
 
INTRODUCTION 1 1 
 
 selves by attending to the manner in which nature teaches us to speak, when 
 engaged in real and earnest discourse with others. The following sentence 
 exemplifies the suspending and the closing pauses : " Hope, the balm of life, 
 sooths us under every misfortune." The first 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 
 signifies that the sense is completed. 
 
 The preceding example is an illustration of the suspending pause, in its 
 simple staie : the following instance exhibits that pause with a degree of ca 
 dence in the voice: " If content cannot remove the disquietudes of mankind, 
 it will at least alleviate them." 
 
 The suspending pause is often, in the same sentence, attendee with both 
 the rising and the falling inflection of voice ; as will be seen in this example : 
 Moderate exercise\ and habitual temperance 7 , strengthen the constitution."* 
 ' As the suspending pause may be thus attended with both the rising and the fall- 
 >g inflection, it is the same with regard to the closing pause : it admits of both 
 The falling inflection generally accompanies it; but it is not unfrequemly con 
 tected with the rising inflection. Interrogative sentences, for instance, are often 
 terminated in this manner : as, " Am I ungrateful'?" u Is he in earnest?" 
 
 But where a sentence is begun by an interrogative pronoun or adverb, it is 
 tonirnonly terminated by the falling inflection : as, u What has he gained by his 
 folly' ?" " Who will assist him ?" " Where is the messenger v ?" " When 
 did he arrive N ?" 
 
 When two questions are united in one sentence, and connected by the con- 
 junction or, the first takes the rising, the second the falling inflection : as, 
 14 Does his conduct support discipline', or destroy it v ? 
 
 The rising and falling inflections must not be confounded with emphasis 
 Though they may often coincide, they are, in their nature, perfectly distinct. 
 Emphasis sometimes controls those inflections. 
 
 The regular application of the rising and falling inflections, confers so much 
 beauty on expression, and is so necessary to be studied by the young reader, 
 that we shall insert a few more examples, to induce him to pay greater at- 
 tention to the sunject. In these instances, all the inflections are not marked. 
 Such only are distinguished, as are most striking, and will best serve to show 
 the reader their utility and importance. 
 
 " Manufactures\ trade\ and agriculture', certainly employ more than nine- 
 teen parts in twenty of tlie 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 or it, which are, in their very nature, disappointing, is in constant 
 search of care\ solicitude', remorse', and confusionV 
 
 11 To advise the ignorant\ relieve the needy\ comfort the afflicted', are du 
 ties that fall in our way almost every day of our lives." 
 
 44 Those evil spirits, who, by long custom, have contracted in the body ha 
 bits of lust' and sensuality v ; malice', and revenge x ; an aversion to every 
 thing that is good\ just\ and laudable', are naturally seasoned and prepared 
 for pain and misery." 
 
 <4 I am persuaded, that neither death', nor life\ nor angels', nor principalities', 
 nor powers* ; nor things present', nor things to come % ; nor height', nor depth N ; 
 nor any other creature', shall be able to separate us from the love of God'-." 
 
 The reader who would *.vish to see a minute and ingenious investigation of 
 the nature of these inflections, and the rules by which they are governed, may 
 lonsult Walker's Elements of Elocution. 
 
 SECTION VIII. Manner of reading Verse. 
 
 WHEN we are reading verse, there is a peculiar difficulty in making the 
 
 pauses justly. The difficulty arises from the melody of verse which dictates 
 
 to the ear pauses or rests of its own : and to adjust ind compound these r o- 
 
 perly with the pauses of the sense, so as neither to hurt the ear, nor offend 
 
 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 lino 
 
 *The rising inflection is denoted by the acute ; the fall ing, by the grave-accent 
 
12 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 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 finisn- 
 ed, rhyme renders this always sensible ; and in some measure compels us to 
 observe it in our pronunciation. In respect to blank verse, we ought 
 also to read it so as to make every line sensible to the ear ; for, what is the use 
 of melody, or for what end has the poet composed in verse, if, in reading his 
 lines, we suppress his numbers, by omitting the final pause and degrade 
 them, by our pronunciation, into mere prose ? At the same time that we at- 
 tend to.this pause, every appearance of sing-song and tone, must be carefully 
 guarded against. The close of the line where it ma_kes no pause in the mean- 
 ing, ought not to be marked by such a tone as is used in finishing a sen 
 tence ; but, without either fall or elevation of .the voice, it should be denoted 
 only by so slight a suspension of sound, as may distinguish the passage from 
 one line to another, without injuring the meaning. 
 
 The other kind of melodious pause, is that which falls somewhere about the 
 middle of the verse, and divides it into two hemistir.hs; a pause, not so great as 
 ,hat which belongs to the close of the line, but still sensible to an ordinary ear. 
 This, which is called the csesural pause, may fall, in English heroic verse, aftei 
 the 4th, 5th, 6th, or 7th syllable in the line. Where the verse is so constructed, 
 that this caesural pause coincides with the slightest pause or division in ti.3 
 sense, the line can be read easily ; as in the two first verses of Pope's Messiah : 
 " Ye nymphs of Solyma vv ! begin the song ; 
 "To heav T nly themes xx , sublimer strains belong." 
 
 But if it should happen that words which have so strict and intimate a con- 
 nexion, as not to bear even a momentary separation, are divided from one ano- 
 ther by this caesural pause, we then feel a sort of struggle between the sense 
 and the sound, which renders it difficult to read such lines harmoniously. 
 The rule of proper pronunciation in such cases, is to regard only the pause 
 which the sense forms ; and to read the line accordingly. The neglect of the 
 ciesijral pause may make the line sound somewhat unharmoniously ; but the 
 effect would be much worse, if the sense were sacrificed to the sound. For 
 instance, in the following lines of Milton^ 
 
 " What in me is dark, 
 
 " Illumine ; what is low, raise and support." 
 
 The sense clearly dictates the pause after illumine, at the end of the 3d syllable, 
 which, in reading, ought to be made accordingly ; though, if the melody only 
 were to be regarded, illumine should be connected with what follows, and the 
 pause not made till the fourth or sixth syllable. So in the following line of 
 Pope's Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. 
 
 " 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, PO as to 
 separate sad and civility. The sense admits of no other pause than after the 
 second syllable stt, which therefore must be the 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-caesuras, which require very slight pauses ; and which the rea 
 der should manage with judgment, or he will be apt to fall into an affected 
 sing-song mode of pronouncing verses of this kind. The following lines ex- 
 emplify the demi-caesura : 
 
 '* Warms' in the sun ', refreshes' in the breeze, 
 
 " Glows' in the stars", and blossoms' in the trees ; 
 
 " Lives 7 through all life" ; extends' through all extent, 
 
 " Spreads' undivided", operates 7 unspent" 
 
 Before the conclusion of this introduction, the compiler takes the liberty 
 10 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 regularly examined, will 
 improve their judgment and taste ; prevent the practice of reading without 
 attention to the subject ; and establish a habit of readily discovering the mean 
 Big, force, and beauty of what they peruse. 
 
THE ENGLISH READER. 
 
 PART I. /; ; / , . ;; 
 PIECES JJV PRdiSfr, ; i""\''; ;: :. , ; 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SELECT SENTENCES AND PARAGRAPHS. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 TTJILiGrENCE, industry, and proper improvement of 
 time, are material duties of the young. 
 
 The acfmisition of knowledge is one of the most honour- 
 able occupations of youth. 
 
 Whatever useful or engaging endowments we possess, vir- 
 tue is requisite, in order to their shining with proper lustre. 
 
 Virtuous youth gradually brings forward accomplished 
 and flourishing manhood. 
 
 Sincerity and truth 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 disorders. 
 
 Whatever purifies, fortifies also the heart. 
 
 From our eagerness to grasp, we strangle and destroy 
 pleasure. 
 
 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, and 
 
14 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L 
 
 purity of principle, that can stand the test of near appro? eh 
 and strict examination. 
 
 The value of any possession is to be chiefly estimated, b^ 
 
 the-relief wkichv it.cantoring us in the time of our greatest need. 
 
 No person who has once yielded up the government of his 
 
 mind, and 'gfrtfn locfee rein to his desires and passions, can 
 
 tejl hw j<ar they may* carry him. 
 
 Tranquillity of mind is always most likely to he 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 
 others, by imparting what they feel. 
 
 Our ignorance of what is to come, and of what is realty 
 good or evil, should correct anxiety about wordly success. 
 
 The veil which covers from our sight 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 
 cheerful submission to the will of Heaven 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 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 intern 
 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 
 &ie stream of time, and forced to follow every new direction 
 of the current. 
 
 The corrupted temper, and the guilty passions of the bad, 
 
CHAP. I. SELECT SENTENCES. 15 
 
 frustrate the effect of every advantage which the world con- 
 fers on them. 
 
 The external misfortunes of life, disHppCTui^aents, poverty, 
 und sickness, are light in comparison of uxiseliiwa^d distresses 
 of mind, occasioned by folly, by passion, and by^guilt. 
 
 No station is so high, no power sp*g&>a, n$ ^Iw&efcjtf^j ; 
 unblemished, as to exempt men from the attacks of "rasfenes^ . J 
 malice, or envy. 
 
 Moral and religious instruction derives its efficacy, not sc 
 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 feelmg for the high objects of religion, no heart to ad- 
 mire and adore the great Fathe'r 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 be 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 sentiments of the great, as igno- 
 rance, bigotry, and prejudice, have in misleading the opinions 
 of the multitude. 
 
 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 
 j* connected with many accomplishments, and many virtues. 
 
16 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L 
 
 Innocence confers ease and freedom on the mind; and 
 leaves it open to every pleasing sensation. 
 
 , Moderate and, .simple pleasures relish high with the tem- 
 perjate: Ii^'th ^idst'of his studied refinements, the volup- 
 tuary languishes. , <"', 
 
 fa^EtJeijes^ fcoritecfe TyKatever is offensive in our manners"; 
 ^hrf, oy a constant train of humane attentions, studies to alle- 
 viate the burden of common misery. 
 
 That gentleness which is the characteristic of a good man, 
 has, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart; and, let 
 me add, nothing except what flows from the heart, can ren- 
 . der even external manners truly pleasing. 
 
 Virtue, to become either vigorous or useful, must be ha- 
 bitually active : not breaking forth occasionally with a tran- 
 sient lustre, like the blaze of a comet; but regular hi its re- , 
 turns, 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 external things put together. 
 
 In no station, in no period, let us think ourselves secure 
 from the dangers which spring from our passions. Every 
 age, and every station they beset; from youth to gray hairs, 
 and from the peasant to the prince. 
 
 Riches and pleasures are the chief temptations to crimi- 
 nal deeds. Yet those riches, when obtained, may very 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 
 least, hear the truths 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 is so- 
 cial, kind, and cheerful ; far removed from that gloomy and 
 illiberal superstition, which clouds the brow, sharpens the 
 
CHAP. 1. SELECT SENTENCES. 17 
 
 temper, dejects the spirit, and teaches men to fit themselves 
 for another world, by neglecting the concerns of this. 
 
 Reveal none of the secrets of thy frien<L, Be faithful to 
 his interests. Forsake him not in danger; Abhor ihq . 
 thought of acquiring any advantage by his prejudice. 
 
 Man, always prosperous, would )be giyjdy ana 5usQlent,; 
 always afflicted, would be sullen or despoilment. ^H'qjefe- 
 and fears, joy and SCITOW, are, therefore, so blended in his 
 life, as both to give room for worldly pursuits, and to recall, 
 from time to time, th-t admonitions of conscience. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 TIME once past never returns: the moment which is 
 lost, is lost for ever. 
 
 There is nothing on earth so stable, as to assure us of un- 
 disturbed rest ; nor so powerful as to afford 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 yield. 
 
 Among all our corrupt passions, there is a strong and inti- 
 mate connexion. When anyone of them is adopted into our fa- 
 mily, it seldom quits until it has fathered upoous all its kindred. 
 
 Charity, like the sun, brightens every chject 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 not so much good men, as the frienda of goodness. 
 
 Genuine virtue has a language that speaks tc every heart 
 throughout the world. It is a language which is understood 
 by all, In every region, every climate, the homage paid to 
 it is the same. In no one sentiment were ever mankind 
 more generally agreed. 
 
 The appearances of our security are frequently deceitful. 
 
 When our sky seems most settled and serene, in aoeoe un- 
 observed quarter gathers the little black cloud in w*wh the 
 tempest ferments, and prepares to discharge itself on w*r oead. 
 
 1 he man of true fortitude may be compared to the "-astle 
 built on a rock, which defies the attacks of the surrounding 
 waters : the man of a feeble and timorous spirit, to a hut 
 placed on the shore, which every wind shakes, and every 
 wave overflows. ^ 
 
1$ THE ENGLISH READER. PART L 
 
 Nothing is so inconsistent with self-possession as violent 
 anger. It overpowers reason ; confounds our ideas ; dis- 
 torts the appearajifcejj; and blackens the colour of every ob- 
 , jje<#. By tthe;grjps which it raises within, and by the mis- 
 : chiefs which it occasions without, it generally brings on the 
 .ppsaiqiwtte' .and i^gfege.fiil man, greater misery than he can 
 tiring km 'the dbje'ct 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 the spirit of charity and candour. But in judging of 
 ourselves, we ought to be exact and severe. 
 
 Let him who desires to see others happy, make haste td 
 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 
 l je ; and what flatters most, is always farthest from reality. 
 There are voices which sing around them ; but whose strains 
 allure to ruin. There is a banquet spread, where poison is 
 in every dish There is a couch which invites them to re- 
 pose ; but to slumber upon it, is death. 
 
 If we would judge whether a man is really happy, it is 
 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 heart 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- 
 portance to every other part of religion and virtue; and, 
 lastly, that it is most conducive to our happiness. 
 
 There is certainly no greater felicity, than te be able to 
 look back on a life usefully and virtuously employed; to 
 trace our own progress in existence, by such tokens as excite 
 neither shame nor sorrow. It ought, therefore, to be tke 
 care of those who wish to pass their last hours with comfort, 
 to lay up such a treasme of pleasing ideas, as shall support 
 the expenses of that time, which is to depend wholly upon 
 the fund already acquired. 
 
SELECT SENTENCES. 19 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 WHAT avails the show of external liberty, to one who has 
 ost the government of himself? 
 
 He that cannot live well to-day, (says Martial,) will he 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 finally 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 ! * 
 
 When 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- 
 sure, 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 mturity ? 
 
 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-7ineasi- 
 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 make us happy, if now, 
 with so few causes of grief, we imagine ourselves miserable? 
 The evil lies in the state of our mind, not in our condition of 
 
20 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L 
 
 fortune: and by no alteration of circumstances is likely to be 
 remedied. 
 
 When the love of unwarrantable pleasures, and of vicious 
 companions, is allowed to amuse young persons, to engross 
 their time, and to stir up their passions, the day of ruin, Jet 
 them take heed, and beware! the day of irrecoverable ruin 
 begins to draw nigh. Fortune is squandered ; health is bro- 
 ken; friends are offended, affronted, estranged; aged pa- 
 rents, perhaps, sent afflicted and mourning to the dust. 
 
 On whom does time hang so heavily, as on the slothful 
 and lazy? To whom are the hours so lingering? Who are 
 so often devoured with spleen, and obliged to fly to every 
 expedient, which can help them to get rid of themselves ? 
 Instead of producing tranquillity, indolence produces a fretful 
 restlessness of mind ; gives vise to cravings which are never 
 satisfied; nourishes a sickly, effeminate delicacy which 
 sours and corrupts every pleasure. 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 WE have seen the husbandman scattering his seed upon the 
 furrowed ground! It springs up, is gathered into his barns, 
 and crowns his labours with joy and plenty. Thus the man 
 who distributes his fortune with generosity and prudence, is 
 amply repaid by the gratitude of those whom he obliges, by 
 the approbation of his own mind, and by the favour of Hea- 
 ven. 
 
 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 illustrious ; 
 but an ill cne, more contemptible* Vice is infamous, though 
 in a prince ; and virtue honourable, though in a peasant. 
 
 An elevated genius, employed in little things, appears (to 
 use the simile of Longinus) like the sun in his evening de- 
 clination : he remits his splendour, but retains his magnitude , 
 and pleases more, though he dazzles less. 
 
 If envious people were to ask themselves, whether they 
 would exchange their entire situations with the persons en- 
 vied, (I mean their minds, passions, notions, as well as their 
 persons, fortunes, and dignities,) I presume the seif-love, 
 common to human nature, would generally make them pre- 
 fer their own condition. 
 
 We have obliged some persons : very well ! what would 
 \ve have more ? Is not the consciousness of doing good, a 
 sufficient reward ? 
 
, L SELECT SENTENCES. 2J 
 
 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 at 
 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 religion removes not all the evils of life ; though 
 it promises no continuance of undisturbed prosperity, (which 
 indeed it were not salutary for man always to enjoy,) yet, 
 if it mitigates the evils which necessarily belong to our state, 
 it may justly be said to give " rest to them who 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 
 lo every surrounding object, and every returning day ! With 
 what a lustre does it gild even the small habitation, where 
 this placid intercourse dwells ! where such scenes of heart- 
 felt satisfaction succeed uninterruptedly to one another ! 
 
 How many clear marks of benevolent intention appear 
 everywhere 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 
 bis 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, ID 
 their dying moments, enables them to say, " 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, and satisfy the most extensive 
 (Jesires, if no part of it be suffered to lie waste by negligence, 
 
22 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. 
 
 to be overrun with noxious plants, or laid out for show 
 rather than use. 
 
 When Aristotle was asked, " What a man could gain by 
 telling a falsehood," he replied, "Not to be credited wher> 
 he speaks the truth." 
 
 L'Estrange, in his Fables, tells us that a number of 
 frolicsome boys were one day watching frogs, at the side of 
 a pond; and that, as any of them put their heads above the 
 water, they pelted them down again with stones. One of 
 the frogs, appealing to the humanity of the boys, made this 
 striking observation; "Children, you do not consider, that, 
 though this may be sport to you, it is death to us." 
 
 Sully, the great statesman of France, always retained at 
 his table, in his most prosperous days, the same frugality tc 
 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, there 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 alid 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. "lam distressed for thee, 
 my brother Jonathan," said the plaintive and surviving Da- 
 vid ; " very pleasant hast thou been to me : thy love for me 
 was wonderful ; passing the love of women." 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney, at the battle near Zutphen, was wound- 
 ed by a musket ball, which broke the bone- of his thigh. 
 He was carried about a mile and a half, to the camp ; and 
 being feint 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 
 took the bottle from his mouth, and delivered it to the sol- 
 dier, saying, " Thy necessity is yet greater than mine." 
 
 Alexander the Great demanded of a pirate, whom he had 
 taken, by what right he infested the seas? " By the same 
 right," replied he, " that Alexander enslaves the world. 
 
CHAP. 1. SELECT SENTENCES. 23 
 
 But I am called a robber, because I have only one small 
 vessel ; and he is styled a conqueror, because he commands 
 great fleets and armies." We too often judge of men by 
 the splendour, and not by the merit of their actions. 
 
 Antonius Pius, the Roman Emperor, was an amiable and 
 good man. When any of his courtiers attempted to inflame 
 him with a passion for military glory, he used to answer: 
 "That he more desired the preservation of one subject, than 
 the destruction of a thousand enemies. 
 
 Men are too often ingenious in making themselves misera- 
 ble, by aggravating to their own fancy, beyond bounds, all 
 the evils which they endure. They compare themselves with 
 none but those whom they imagine to be more happy ; and 
 complain, that upon them alone has fallen the whole load of 
 human sorrows. Would they look with a more impartial 
 eye on the world, they would see themselves surrounded with 
 sufferers ; and find that they are only drinking out of that 
 mixed cup, which Providence has prepared for all. "I 
 will restore thy daughter again to life, r? said an eastern sage 
 to a prince who grieved immoderately for the loss of a beloved 
 child, "provided thou art able to engrave on her tomb, 
 tl*e names of three persons who have never mourned." The 
 prince made inquiry after such persons ; but found the in- 
 quiry vain, and was silent, 
 
 SECTION VIII. 
 
 HE that hath no rule over his own spirit, is like a city 
 that is broken down, and without walls. 
 
 A soft answer turneth away wrath ; but grievous words stir 
 up anger. 
 
 Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox, 
 and hatred therewith. 
 
 Pride goeth before destruction ; and a haughty spirit be- 
 fore a fall. 
 
 Hear counsel, and receive instruction, that thou mayest 
 be truly wise. 
 
 Faithful are the wounds of a friend ; but the kisses of an 
 enemy are deceitful. Open rebuke, is better than secret love. 
 
 Seest thou a man wise in- his own conceit] There is more 
 hope of a fool than of him. 
 
 He that is slow to anger, is better than the mighty; and 
 he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city. 
 
 He that hath pity en the poor, lendeth to the Lord ; that 
 which be hath given, will he puy him again* 
 
:?4 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I 
 
 If thine enemy. be hungry, give him bread to eat; and il 
 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 nave 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 I saw, and considered it 
 well : I looked upon it, and received instruction. 
 
 Honourable age is not that which standeth in length of 
 time ; nor that which is measured by number of years : but 
 wisdom is the gray hair to man ; and an unspotted life is old 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, he will cast thee off 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 truths: if we Icok 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 me unknown to us ; and beholds repentance ready 
 to spring up among many whom we consider as reprobates. 
 
 No one ought to consider himself as insignificant in the 
 eight of his Creator. In our several stationsj we are all sent 
 
CHAP. 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- 
 nant 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 
 Christians. 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 every pleasure enchants witL 
 Its smile, and every object shines with the gloss of novelty 
 let us beware of the seducing appearances which surround ug 
 and recollect what others have suffered from the power 
 C 
 
THE ENGLISH READER. PART I, 
 
 g desire. If we allow any passion, even though 
 .* be et&eeiiietf innocent, to acquire an absolute ascendant, 
 QUI iirvvmii peace will be impaired. But if any which has 
 ine tamt oi guilt vake early possession of our mind, we may 
 uate, from mat moment, the ruin of our tranquillity. 
 
 fevery man has some darling passion, which generally af- 
 fords tne ursi mti eduction to vice. The irregular gratifica- 
 tions into whicn 11 occasionally seduces him, appear under 
 the form of vemai weaknesses ; and are indulged, in the be- 
 ginning, with sc.rupurousness and reserve. But, by longer 
 practice, these resuaints weaken, and the power of habit 
 grows. One v*ce DI ings in another to its aid. By a sort o/ 
 natural affinity they connect and entwine themselves toge- 
 ther ; till their roots come to be spread wide and deep over 
 all the souL 
 
 SECTION X. 
 
 WHENCE arises ine misery of. this present world? 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, fnd enlightened mind, possessed of strong virtue, could 
 enjoy itself in peace, and smile at the impotent assaults oi 
 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 tlesires, are the 
 instruments of the trouble which we endure. These sharpen 
 the darts which adversity would otherwise point in vain 
 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 eager eyes for that bread 
 which they can hardly procure ; multitudes groaning under 
 sickness in desolate cottages, untended and unmounted ; 
 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 
 anguish, 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, 
 ivithout fear. Listen with reverence to every reprehension 
 
CHAP. I. SELECT SENTENCES. 2P 
 
 of conscience ; and preserve the most quick and accurate sen 
 sibility to right and wrong. If ever your moral impression, 
 begin to decay, and your natural abhorrence of guilt to les 
 sen, you have ground to dread that the ruin of virtue is fast 
 approaching. 
 
 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 it is, its pleasures are still too 
 apt to corrupt our hearts. How fatal then must the conse- 
 quences have been, had it yielded us more complete enjoy- 
 ment? 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 the influence of loose and 
 corrupting pleasures : and those very persons, who promised 
 once to be blessings to the world, sunk 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 of 
 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- 
 ing in secret to their hearts, " To-morrow shall be as this day 
 
28 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 know 
 not what a dav may bring forth !" 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 NARRATIVE PIECES. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 JVb rank 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 
 declared 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 
 enjoyments 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 silver 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 his 
 joy and revelling. The pomp of his attendance, the glit- 
 ter of the carved plate, and the delicacy of the viands, cease 
 to afford him any pleasure. 
 
 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 king to 
 
CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 29 
 
 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 which royalty 
 could bestow. CICERO 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 Cnange of external condition is often adverse to 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 Hazael who appears 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 which they held toge- 
 ther, Elisha fixed his eyes steadfastly on the countenance of 
 Ilazael, and discerning, by a, prophetic spirit, his future ty- 
 ranny and cruelty, he could not contain himself from bursting 
 into a flood of tears. 
 
 3 When Hazael, in surprise, inquired into the cause of this 
 sudden emotion, the prophet plainly informed him of the 
 crimes and barbarities, which he foresaw that he would after- 
 wards commit. The soul of Hazael abhorred, at this time, 
 the thoughts of cruelty. Uncorrupted, as yet, by ambition 
 or greatness, his indignation rose at being thought capable of 
 the savage actions which the prophet had mentioned ; and, 
 with much warmth, he replies: "But what! is thy servant a 
 dog, that he should do this great thing?" 
 
 4 Elisha makes no return, but to point out a remarkable 
 change, which was to take place in his condition: " The Lord 
 hath shown me, that thou shalt be king over Syria." In 
 the course of time, all that had been predicted carne to pass. 
 Hazael ascended the throne, and ambition took possession 
 of his heart. " He smote the children of Israel in all their 
 coasts. He oppressed them during all the days of king Je- 
 hoahaz;" and, from what is left 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 an object is presented, which 
 vrves our serious attention. We behold a man who, in 
 
30 THE ENGLISH READER. PART. I. 
 
 one state of life, could not look upon certain crimes without 
 surprise and horror ; who knew so little of himself, as to be- 
 lieve it impossible for him ever to be concerned in committing 
 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 
 detested. BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 Human; or, the misery of pride. 
 
 AHASUERUS, who is supposed to be the prince known 
 among the Greek historians by the name of Artaxerxes, 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 
 greatness without merit, he employed his power solely for the 
 gratification 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 
 ral adulation, one 'person only stooped not to Haman. 
 
 3 This was Mordecai the Jew ; who, knowing this Ama- 
 lekite to be an enemy to the people of God, and, with virtu- 
 ous 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 hands 
 on Mordecai alone." Personal revenge was not sufficient 
 to satisfy him. 
 
 4 So violent and black were his passions, that he resolved 
 to exterminate the whole nation to which Mordecai belonged. 
 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. 
 
 5 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 went forth, that day joyful, and with a glad 
 heart." But behold how slight an incident was sufficient to 
 poison his joy! As he went forth, he saw Mordecai in the 
 king's gate ; and observed, that he still refused to do hin> 
 
CHAP. 11. NARRATIVE PIECES. 31 
 
 homage. " He stood not up, nor was moved for him ;" al- 
 though he well knew the formidable designs which Haman 
 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, and 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 
 the 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 a)i 
 this availeth me nothing, so long as I see Mordecai the 
 Jew sitting at the king's gate.V 
 
 8 The sequel of Raman'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 
 1 eight 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 was descended from the royal 
 line of England by both her parents. She was carefully edu- 
 cated in the principles of the refoi mation ; and her wisdom 
 and virtue rendered her a shining example to her sex. But 
 it was her lot to continue only a short period on this stage of 
 being; for, in early life, she fell a sacrifice to the wild an* 
 bition of the duke of Northumberland, who promotld a 
 riage between her and his son, lord Guilford Dot jtoy 
 
32 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1 
 
 raised her to the throne of England, in opposition to the 
 rights of Mary and Elizabeth. 
 
 2 At the tune of their marriage, she was only about eigh- 
 teen years of age, and her husband was also very young; a 
 season of life very unequal to oppose the interested views of 
 artful and aspiring men ; who instead of exposing them to 
 danger, should have been the protectors of their innocence 
 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 Edward VI. she had received all her 
 education with him, and seemed even to possess a greater fa- 
 cility in acquiring every part of manly and classical literature. 
 
 4 She had attained a knowledge of the Roman and Greek 
 languages, as well as of several modern tongues ; had passed 
 most of her time in an application to learning ; and express- 
 ed a great indifference for other occupations and amusements 
 usual with her sex and station. 
 
 5 Roger Ascham, tutor to the lady Elizabeth, having at 
 one time paid her a visit, found her employed in reading 
 Plato, while the rest of the family were engaged in a party 
 of hunting in the park ; and upon his admiring the singularity 
 of her choice, she told him that she " received more plea- 
 sure from that author, than the others could reap from all 
 their sport and gaiety." 
 
 6 Her heart, replete with this love of literature and seri- 
 ous studies, and with tenderness towards her husband, who 
 was deserving of her affection, had never opened itself to the 
 flattering allurements of ambition ; and the information of 
 her advancement to the throne was by no means agreeable 
 to her v . She even refused to accept the crown ; pleaded the 
 preferable right of the two princesses ; expressed her dread 
 of the consequences attending an enterprise so dangerous, 
 not to say criminal ; and desired to remain in that private 
 station ia which she was born. 
 
 7 Overcome at last with the entreaties, rather than rea- 
 sons, of her father and father-in-law, and, above all, of 
 her husband, she submitted to their will, and was prevailed 
 on to relinquish her own judgment. But her elevation was 
 of very short continuance. The nation declared for queen 
 Mary ; and the lady 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 
 
CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 3j 
 
 8 Queen Mary, who appears to have been incapable of 
 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 foi 
 death ; a doom which she had expected, and which 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 
 'ested 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. 
 
 10 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 maintain, in ever/ 
 fortune, a like steady perseverance. 
 
 1 1 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 tof 
 much unbend their minds from that constancy which thefr 
 approaching end required 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- 
 fortunes, could no longer have access to them, or 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 tranquillity 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 herself more confirmed by 
 the reports which she heard of the constancy, of his end, 
 than shaken by so tender and melancholy a spectacle. 
 
 14 Sir John Gage, constable of the Tower, when he led 
 her to execution, desired her to bestow on him some small 
 
34 THE ENGLISH READER PAR* L 
 
 present, which he might keep as a perpetual memorial of her. 
 She gave him her table-book, in which she had just written 
 three sentences, on seeing her husband's dead body ; one ia 
 Greek, another in Latin, a third in English. 
 
 15 The purport of them was, "that human justice was 
 against his body, but the Divine Mercy would be favourable 
 to his soul ; and that if her fault deserved punishment, her 
 youth, at least, and her imprudence, were worthy of excuse ; 
 and that God and posterity, she trusted, would show her fa- 
 vour." On the scaffold, she made a speech to the by-stand- 
 ers, in which the mildness of her disposition led her to take 
 the blame entirely on herself, without uttering one complaint 
 against the severity with which she had been treated. 
 
 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 obey: that she willingly re- 
 ceived death, as the only satisfaction which she could now 
 make to the injured state ; and though her infringement of 
 the 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 her : 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 
 to the destruction of the commonwealth, 
 
 17 After uttering these words, she caused herself to be 
 disrobed by her women, ,and with a steady, serene counte 
 pance, submitted herself icfttie executioner. HUMR. 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 Ortogrul ; 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 passage. He raised his eyes, and 
 saw the chief vizier who, having returned from the divan, 
 was entering his palace. 
 
 2 Ortogrul mingled with the attendants ; and, being sup- 
 posed to have some petition for the vizier, was permitted to 
 
CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 3d 
 
 enter. He surveyed the spaciousness of the apartments, ad- 
 mired the walls hung with golden tapestry, and the floors 
 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 
 happiness ; where pleasure succeeds to pleasure, and dis- 
 content and sorrow can have no admission. Whatever na- 
 cure has provided for the delight of sense, is here spread forth 
 to be enjoyed. What can mortals hope or imagine, which 
 the master of this palace has not obtained] The dishes of 
 luxury cover his table! the voice of harmony lulls him in his 
 Dowers ; he breathes the fragrance of the groves of Java, 
 and sleeps upon the down of the cygnets of the Ganges. 
 
 4 He speaks, and his mandate is obeyed ; he wishes, and 
 his wish is gratified; all whom he sees, obey him, and all 
 ivhom he hears, flatter him. How different, O, Ortogrul, 
 is thy condition, who art doomed to the perpetual torments 
 
 f unsatisfied desire ; and who hast no amusement in thy 
 power, that can withhold thee from thy own reflections f 
 
 5 They tell thee thatthou 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- 
 Tation. 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 offer hjmgelf 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 opinion, sleep insensibly seized him in his chair. He 
 dreamed that he was ranging a desert country, 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. " Ortcgrul," said the old man, " I know thy 
 perplexity; listen to thy father: 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 scattering its 
 foam on the impending woods. "Now," said his father, 
 ' behold the valley that lies between the hills." Ortogni! 
 
36 THE ENGLisH READER. PART 1 
 
 ooked, and espied a little well, out of which issued a small 
 rivulet. "Tell me now," said his father, "dost thou wish 
 for sudden affluence, that may pour upon thee like the moun- 
 tain torrent; or for a slow and gradual increase, 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." Ortogrul looked, and per 
 ceived the channel of the torrent dry and dusty ; but follow 
 ing the rivulet from the well, he traced it to a wide lake, 
 which the supply, slow and constant, kept always full. He 
 awoke, and determined to grow rich by silent profit, and per 
 severing industry. 
 
 10 Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in merchandise; 
 and in twenty years purchased lands, on which he raised a 
 nouse, 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 riches able to afford, 
 Leisure soon made him weary of himself, and he longed to 
 6e persuaded that he was great and happy. He was cour- 
 teous and liberal; he gave all that approached him hopes 
 of pleasing him, and all who should please him, hopes of 
 Seing rewarded. Every art of praise was tried, and every 
 source of adulatory fiction was exhausted. 
 
 11 Ortogrul heard his flatterers without delight, because 
 se found himself unable to believe them. His own heart told 
 him its frailties ; his own understanding reproached him 
 with his faults. " How long," said he, with a deep sigh, 
 " have I been labouring in vain to amass wealth, which at 
 last is useless! Let no man hereafter wish to be rich, who is 
 already too wise to be flattered.' 3 DR. JOHNSON* 
 
 SECTION YI. 
 
 The Hill of Science. 
 
 IN that season of the year, when the serenity of the sky, 
 the various fruits which cover the ground, the discoloured 
 foliage of the trees, and all the sweet, but 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 I 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 
 .nto a most perfect tranquillity ; and sleep insensibly stolo 
 
CHAP. 11. NARRATIVE PIECES. 3? 
 
 upon me, as I was indulging the agreeable reveries, which 
 the objects around me naturally inspired. 
 
 2 I immediately found myself in a vast extended plain, in 
 the middle of which arose a mountain, higher than I had be- 
 fore any conception of. It was covered with a multitude of 
 people, chiefly youth ; many of whom pressed forward with 
 the liveliest expression of ardour in their countenance, though 
 the way was in many places, steep and difficult. 
 . 3 I observed those who had but just begun to climb the 
 nill, thought themselves not far from the top; but as they 
 proceeded, new hills were continually rising to their view ; 
 and the summit of the highest they could before discern, 
 seemed but the foot of another, till the mountain at length ap- 
 peared to Ibse 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. On the top is 
 the temple of Truth, whose head is above the clouds, and a 
 veil of pure light covers her face. Observe the progress of 
 her votaries ; be silent and attentive." 
 
 5 After I had noticed a variety of objects, I turned my 
 eyes towards the multitudes who were climbing the steep as- 
 cent ; and observed amongst them a youth of a lively look, a 
 piercing eye, and something fiery and irregular in all his mo- 
 tions. His name was Genius. He darted like an eagle up 
 the mountain ; and left his companions gazing after him with 
 <envy and admiration : but his progress was unequal, and in- 
 terrupted by a thousand caprices. 
 
 6 When Pleasure warbled in the valley, he mingled in her 
 train. When Pride beckoned towards the precipice, he ven- 
 tured to the tottering edge. He delighted in devious and 
 untried paths ; and made so many excursions from the road, 
 that his feebler companions often outstripped him. I ob- 
 served that the Muses beheld him with partiality : but Truth 
 often frowned and turned aside her face. 
 
 7 While Genius was thus wasting his strength in eccentric 
 flights, I saw a person of very different appearance, named Ap- 
 plication. He crept along with a slow and unremitting paee,^ 
 his eyes fixed on the top of the mountain, patiently removing 
 every stone that obstructed his way, till he saw most of those 
 below him, who had at first -derided his slow and toilsome 
 progress. 
 
 8 Indeed, there were few who ascended the hill with 
 equal and uninterrupted steadiness; for, beside* the^diffi- 
 
38 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L 
 
 culties of the way, they were continually solicited to turn 
 aside by a numerous crowd 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 the path, the asperities of the road were 
 more severely felt.; the hill appeared more steep and rug 
 ged ; the fruits, which were wholesome and refreshing, 
 semed harsh and ill tasted ; 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 the bowers of Pleasure, 
 and accompany those who were enticed away at the call ot 
 the Passions. They accompanied them, however; but a little 
 way ; and always forsook them when they lost sight ol 
 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 seducers, who were endea- 
 vouring to draw away the votaries of Truth from the path ot 
 science, there was one, so little formidable in her appear- 
 ance, and so gentle and languid in her attempts, that I should 
 scarcely have taken notice of her, but for the numbers 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 oi 
 the path, but contented herself wjth retarding their pro- 
 gress ; and the purpose she could not force them to abandon, 
 she persuaded them to delay. Her touch had a power like 
 that of the torpedo, which withered the strength of those 
 who came within its influence. Her unhappy captives still 
 turned their faces towards the temple, and always hoped to 
 aiTive there ; but the ground seemed to slide from beneath 
 their feet, and they found themselves at the bottom, before 
 they suspected they had changed their place. 
 
 12 The placid serenity, which at first appeared in their 
 countenance, changed by degrees 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 momenl 
 buried in the gulf of Oblivion. 
 
 13 Of all the unhappy deserters from the paths of Scienc^ 
 
CHAP. II. NAilRATIVE PIECES. 3d 
 
 none seemed less able to return than the followers of Indo 
 lence. The captives of Appetite and Passion would oftec 
 seize the moment when their tyrants were languid or asleep, 
 to escape from their enchantment ; but the dominion of In- 
 dolence was constant and unremitted ; and seldom resisted, 
 till resistance was in vain. 
 
 14 After contemplating these things, I turned my eyes 
 towards the top of the mountain, where the air was always 
 pure and exhilirating, the path shaded with laurels and ever- 
 greens, and the effulgence which beamed 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! But while I was pronouncing this exclamation, with 
 uncommon ardour, I saw, 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 vale ?" "I am found," said she, "in the 
 vale, and I illuminate the mountain. I cheer the cottager 
 at his toil, and inspire the sage at his meditation. I mingle 
 in the crowd of cities, and bless the hermit in his cell. I 
 have a temple in every heart that owns my influence, and to 
 him that wishes for me, I am already present. Science 
 may raise thee to eminence ; but I alone can guide thee to 
 felicity!" 
 
 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. 
 
 BID AH, the son of Abensina, left the caravansera early 
 In the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains 
 of Indostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest ; he was 
 animated with hope ; he' was incited by desire ; he walked 
 swiftly forward over the 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 last 
 flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew from 
 groves of spices. He sometimes contemplated the towering 
 
40 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I 
 
 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 
 oanished from his heart. 
 
 3 Thus he went on, till the syn approached his meridian, 
 and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength ; he then 
 Booked round about him for some more commodious path. 
 He* saw, on his right hand, a grove that 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, forget whither he was travelling ; 
 but found a narrow way, bordered with flowers, which ap- 
 peared to have the same direction with the main road ; and 
 was pleased, that, by this happy experiment, he had found 
 means to unite pleasure with business, and to gain the re- 
 wards of diligence without suffering its fatigues. 
 
 5 He, therefore, still continued 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 in the shade ; and sometimes amused 
 Jbjmself 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, 
 thQugh lie suspected that he was not gaining ground. This 
 imeasiness 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 knevy 
 not towards what point to travel. He stood pensive anV 
 
CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES 41 
 
 confused, afraid to go forward, lest he should go wrong, yet 
 conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While he 
 was thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread 
 with clouds ; the day vanished from before him ; and a sud- 
 den tempest gathered round his head. 
 
 9 He was now roused by his danger, to a quick and pain- 
 ful remembrance 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 r blacker, and 
 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 might open into the plain. He 
 prostrated himself 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 : 
 the wind roared in the woods ; and the torrents tumbled from 
 the hills. 
 
 1 1 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 saw a man before." Obidah then related the 
 occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or 
 palliation. 
 
 14 " Son," said the hermit, " let the error* and follies, 
 the dangers and escape of this day, sink deep into tfigf" 
 
42 THE ENGLISH READkit. PART I 
 
 Remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a day 
 We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour, and fidl o 
 expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope, with 
 gaiety and with diligence, and travel on a while in the direr 
 road 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 the 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 entei 
 the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security. 
 
 16 Here the heart softens, and vigilance subsides; we are 
 then willing to enquire whether 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 sigjit, and to which we purpose to return. But tempta- 
 tion succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us 
 for another ; we in time lose the happiness of innocence, 
 and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. 
 
 17 By degrees, we let fall the remembrance of our original 
 intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational de- 
 sire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves 
 in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy ; 
 till the darkness of old age begins to invade us, and disease 
 and anxiety, obstruct our way. We then look back upon 
 our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance; and 
 wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken 
 the ways of virtue. 
 
 18 Happy are they, my son, who shall learn from thy ex- 
 ample, not to despair ; but shall remember, that, though 
 the day is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet re- 
 mains one effort to be made : that reformation is never hope- 
 less, nor sincere endeavours ever unassisted ; that the wan- 
 derer may at length return, after all his errors ; and that he 
 who implores strength and courage from above, shall find 
 danger and difficulty give way before him. Go now, my 
 son, to thy repose ; commit thyself to the care of Omnipo* 
 tence ; and when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew 
 thy journey and thy life." DR. JOHNSON 
 
CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 43 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 DIDACTIC PIECES. 
 
 *, 
 SECTION I. 
 
 The importance of a good Education. 
 
 1 CONSIDER a human soul, without education, liice 
 marble in the quarry : which shows none of its inherent 
 beauties, until the skill of the polisher fetches out the co- 
 lours, makes the surface shine, and discovers every orna- 
 mental cloud, spot, and vein, that runs through the body of 
 it. Education, after the same manner, when it works upon 
 a noble mind, draws out to view every latent virtue and per- 
 fection, which, without such helps, are never able to 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 superfluous 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 the 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 of savage nations ; and with 
 contemplating those virtues which are wild and uncultivated : 
 to see courage exerting itself in fierceness, resolution in obsti- 
 nacy, wisdom in cunning, patience in sullenness and despair. 
 
 4 Men's passions operate variously, and appear in different 
 kinds of actions, according as they are more or less rectified 
 and swayed by reason. When one hears of negroes, who, 
 upon the death of their masters, or upon changing their ser- 
 vice, hang themselves upon the next tree, as it sometimes 
 happens in our American plantations, who can forbear ad- 
 miring their fidelity, though it expresses itself m so dreadful 
 a manner ? 
 
 5 WTiat might not that savage greatness of soul, which ap- 
 pears in these poor wretches on many occasions, be raised to, 
 were it rightly cultivated ? And what colour of excuse can 
 
44 THE ENGLISH READER. PART. I 
 
 there be, for the contempt with which we treat this part of 
 our species, that we should not put them upon the common 
 footing of humanity ; 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 of happiness in another world, as well as in this ; and 
 deny them that which we look upon as the proper means for 
 attaining it ? 
 
 6 It is therefore an unspeakable blessing, to be born in 
 those parts of the world where wisdom and knowledge 
 flourish ; though, it must be confessed, there are, even in 
 these parts, several poor umnstructed persons, who are but 
 little 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 
 different degrees of perfection. 
 
 7 For, to return to our statue in the block of marble, we 
 see it sometimes 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, does not only 
 confer upon us those bounties which proceed more immediate- 
 ly from his own hand, but even those benefits which are con- 
 veyed to us by others. Every blessing we enjoy, by what 
 means soever it may be conferred upon us, is the gift of HIM 
 who is the great Author of good, and the Father of mercies. 
 
 3 If gratitude, when exerted towards one another, natu- 
 rally produces a very pleasing sensation in the mind of a 
 
CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 45 
 
 grateful man, it exalts the soul into rapture, when it is em- 
 ployed on this great object of gratitude ; 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 piain and natural sentiments of equity concur 
 with divine authority, to enforce the duty of forgiveness. 
 Let him who has never in his life done wrong, be allow- 
 ed the privilege of remaining inexorable. But let such as 
 are conscious of frailties and crimes, consider forgiveness as 
 a debt which they owe to others. Common failings are the 
 strongest 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 person may suffer from injustice, he is always in 
 hazard of suffering more from the prosecution of revenge. 
 The violence of an enemy cannot inflict what is equal to the 
 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 delighting 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-suffering and slow to anger." 
 
 5 His Son, wnen he appeared in our nature, exhibited, 
 Doth in his life and his death, the most illustrious example 
 of forgiveness which the world ever beheld. If we look in- 
 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 little minds A noble and magnani- 
 mous spirit, is always superior to it, It suffers not, from 
 
46 THE ENGLISH 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 conduct. 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. 
 
 Motives 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 give 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 Pi*ovidence 
 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 1 
 
 3 Let us also accustom ourselves to reflect oil 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 mosl 
 inconsiderable point of interest, or honour, swells into a mo- 
 mentous object; and the slightest attack seems to threaten 
 immediate ruin. 
 
 4 But after passion or pride has subsided, we look around 
 in vain for the mighty mischiefs we 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 oi 
 future suspicion, malevolence, or disgust. 
 
 5 Let us suspend our violence for a moment, when causes 
 
CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 47 
 
 of discord occur. Let us anticipate that period of coolness, 
 which, of itself, will soon arrive. Jl.et us reflect how little 
 we have any prospect of gaining by fierce contention ; but 
 how much of the 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 Misery 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 those 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 suffer. If "in ail fear there is tor- 
 ment," how miserable must be his state, who, by living in 
 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, while his heart throbs 
 within from apprehensions of secret treachery. Hen^e 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, that, of the two extremes, it is more eli- 
 gible to expose ourselves to occ-asional 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- 
 tility with our fellows. 
 
 5 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 di- 
 
18 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1. 
 
 reels his intercourse with the world ; and no black suspicions 
 haunt his hours of rest. Accustomed to view the characters 
 of his neighbours in the most favourable light, he is like one 
 who dwells amidst those beautiful scenes of nature, on which 
 the eye rests with pleasure. 
 
 6 Whereas the suspicious man, having his - imagination 
 filled with all the shocking forms of human falsehood, de- 
 ceit, and treachery, resembles the traveller in the wilderness, 
 who discerns no objects around him, but such as are eithei 
 dreary or terrible; caverns that yawn, serpents that hiss, 
 and beasts of prey that howl. BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 Comforts of Religion. 
 
 THERE are many who have passed the age of youth ana 
 beauty ; who have resigned the pleasures of that smiling sea- 
 son ; who begin to decline into the vale cf 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 the open and generous soul of youth had fondly 
 dreamt of, has rendered the heart almost. inaccessible to new 
 friendships. The principal sources f activity are taken 
 away, when those for whom 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 fil! the 
 heart. I speak here of such as retain the feelings of hu- 
 manity ; whom misfortunes have softened, and perhaps ren- 
 dered more delicately sensible; not of such as possess that 
 stupid insensibility, which some are pleased to dignify with 
 the name of Philosophy. 
 
 4 It might therefore be expected, that those philosophers, 
 who think they stand in no need themselves of the assistance 
 of religion to support their virtue, and who never feel the 
 want of its consolations, would yet have the humanity to 
 consider the very different situation of the rest of mankind ' 
 and not endeavour to deprive them of what habit, at least, 
 
CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 49 
 
 if they will not allow it to be nature, has made necessary to 
 their morals and to their happiness. 
 
 5 It might be expected, that humanity would prevent 
 them from breaking into the last retreat of the unfortunate, 
 who can no longer be objects of their envy or resentment ; 
 and tearing from them their only remaining comfort. The 
 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. 
 
 GREGORY. 
 
 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 w r ise, when we be- 
 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 
 ! .he humility to acknowledge, its imperfections. 
 
 2 Modesty always sits gracefully upon youth : it covers 
 a multitude of faults, and doubles the lustre of every virtue 
 vhich it seems to hide : the perfections of men being like 
 those flowers which appear more beautiful, when their leaves 
 are a little contracted and folded up, than when they are full 
 blown, and display themselves, without any reserve, to the 
 /iew. 
 
 3 We are some of us very fond of knowledge, and apt to 
 value ourselves upon any proficiency ia 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 shaL 
 be exploded, and would have been forgotten, if they had not 
 been preserved in those excellent books, which contain a 
 confutation of them; like insects preserved for ages in am- 
 oer, which otherwise would soon have returned to the 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 
 most n,f all, at last at that important hour, which must de- 
 
 E 
 
50 THE ENGLISH READER. PAR* L 
 
 cide our hopes and apprehensions ; and the wisdom which, 
 like our Saviour, cpmeth from above, will, through his 
 merits, bring us thither. All our other studies and pursuits, 
 however different, ought to be subservient to, and centre in, 
 this grand point, the pursuit of eternal happiness, by being 
 good in ourselves, and useful to the world. SEEO 
 
 SECTION VIII. 
 
 On the importance of Order in the distribution of GUT Time. 
 
 TIME we ought to consider as a sacred trust, committed 
 to us by God : of which we are now the depositories, and 
 are to render an account at the last. That portion of it which 
 he has allotted to us, is intended partly for the concerns of 
 this world, partly for those of the next. Let each of these 
 occupy, in the distribution of our time, that space which 
 properly belongs to it. 
 
 2 Let not the hours of hospitality and pleasure interfere 
 with the discharge of our necessary affairs ; and let not what 
 we call necessary affairs, encroach upon the time which is due 
 to devotion. To every thing there is a season, and a time 
 for every purpose under the heaven. If we delay till to- 
 morrow what ought to be done to-day, we overcharge the 
 morrow with a burden which belongs not to it. We lead the 
 wheels of time, and prevent them from carrying 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 labyrinth of the most busy life. The 
 orderly arrangement of his time, is like a ray of light, which 
 darts itself through all his affairs. But where no plan is laid, 
 where the disposal of time is surrendered merely to the chance 
 cf incidents, all things lie huddled together in one chaos, 
 which admits neither of distribution nor review. 
 
 4 The hrst requisite for introducing order into the manage- 
 ment of time, is to be impressed with a just sense of its 
 value. Let us consider well how much depends upon it, and 
 how fast it flies away. The bulk of men are in 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. 
 
 5 But when they view it in separate parcels, they a ppear 
 to held it in contempt, arid squander it with inconsiderate 
 Dro fusion. While they complain that life is -short, they are 
 
CHAP III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 51 
 
 often wishing its different periods at an end. Covetous of 
 every other possession, of time only they are prodigal. They 
 i allow every idle man to be master of this pfoperty, and make 
 every frivolous occupation welcome that can help them to 
 consume it. 
 
 6 Among those who are so careless of time, it is not to be 
 expected that order should be observed in its distribution. 
 But, by this fatal neglect, how many materials of severe and 
 lasting regret are they laying up in store for themselves ! 
 The time which they suffer to pass away in the midst of con- 
 fusion, bitter repentance seeks afterwards in vain to recall. 
 What was omitted to be done at its proper moment, arises to 
 be the torment of some future season. 
 
 7 Manhood is disgraced by the consequences of neglected 
 youth. Old age, oppressed by cares that belonged to a for- 
 mer period, labours under a burden not its own. At the 
 close of life, the dying man beholds- with anguish that his 
 days are finishing, when his preparation for eternity is hardly 
 commenced. Such are the effects of a disorderly waste of 
 time, through not attending to its value. Every thing in the 
 life of such persons is misplaced. Nothing is performed 
 aright, from not being performed in due season. 
 
 8 But he who is orderly in the distribution of his time, 
 takes the proper method of escaping those manifold evils. 
 He is justly said to redeem the^ time. By proper manage- 
 ment he prolongs it. He lives much in little space; more 
 in a few years, than others do in many. He can live to God 
 and his own soul, and at the same time, attend to all the 
 lawful interests of the present world. He looks back on the 
 past, and provides for the future. 
 
 9 He catches and arrests the hours as they fly. They 
 are marked down for useful purposes, and their memory re- 
 mains. Whereas those 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 irregular a succession of unfinished transactions, 
 that though he remembers he has been busy, yet he can 
 give nc account of the business which has employed him. 
 
 BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION IX. 
 
 The dignity of Virtue amidst corrupt Examples. 
 THE most excellent and honourable character which can 
 adorn a man and a Christian, is acquired by resisting the 
 
52 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 
 
 torrent of vice, and adhering to the cause of God and virtue, 
 against a corrupted multitude. It will be found to hold in 
 general, that they, who, in any of the great lines of life, 
 have distinguished themselves for thinking profoundly, and 
 acting nobly, have despised popular prejudices ; and depart- 
 ed, in several things, from the common ways of the world. 
 2 On no occasion is this more requisite for true honour, 
 n where religion and morality are concerned. In times 
 prevailing licentiousness, to maintain unblemished virtue, 
 and uncorrupted integrity in a public or a private cause ; to 
 stand firm by what is fair and just, amidst discouragements 
 and opposition; despising groundless censure and reproach; 
 disdaining all compliance with public manners, when they 
 are vicious and unlawful ; and never ashamed of the punc- 
 tual discharge of every duty towards God and man; this is 
 what shows true greatness of spirit, and will force approba- 
 tion even from the degenerate multitude themselves. 
 
 3 " This is the man," (their conscience will oblige them 
 to acknowledge,) " whom we are unable to bend to meat) 
 condescensions. We see it in vain either to flatter or to 
 threaten him ; he rests on a principle within, which we can- 
 not shake. To this man we may, on any occasion, safely 
 commit our cause. He is incapable of betraying his trust, 
 or deserting his friend, or denying his faith." 
 
 4 It is, accordingly, this steady, inflexible virtue, tnis re- 
 gard to principle, superior to all custom and opinion, whicl* 
 peculiarly marked the characters of those in any age, who 
 nave shone with distinguished lustre ; and has consecrateo 
 their memory to all posterity. It was this that obtained to 
 ancient Enoch the most singular testimony of honour from 
 neaven. 
 
 5 He continued to " walk with God," when the world 
 apostatized from him. He pleased God, and was beloved of 
 him ; so that living among sinners^ he was translated to 
 heaven without seeing death. " Yea, speedily was he taken 
 away, lest wickedness should have altered his understand- 
 ing, or deceit beguiled his soul." 
 
 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 preacher 
 of righteousness. He stood alone, and was scoffed by the 
 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 minds. 
 
 S 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 mollifications 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 w r hat 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 ctmtined 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 ; 
 and where each claims to be superior, it is impossible to 
 gratify all. The predominant desire can only be indulged, 
 at the expense of its rival. 
 
 4 No mortifications which virtue exacts, are more severe 
 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 
 
54 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. 
 
 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, hy 
 moderating the demands of passions ; the other increases it, 
 by rendering those demands imperious and violent. 
 
 5 What 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 shanTe 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 XL 
 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 thinly, 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 
 apon the loss of a farm: "Why," said he, " I have three 
 farms still, and you have but one ; so that 1 ought rather to 
 be afflicted for you, than you for me." 
 
CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 56 
 
 5 On the contrary, foolish men are more apt to consider 
 what they have lost, than what they possess ; and to fix theii 
 eyes upon those who are richer than themselves, rather than 
 those who are under greater difficulties. All the real plea- 
 sures and conveniences of Ike lie in a narrow compass ; but 
 it is the humour of mankind to he 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 fortunes, 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- 
 quiescing 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 mirth, 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 When Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who had 
 left him a good estate, was offered a great sum of money by 
 the king of Lydia, he thanked 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-wealthy 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 artificial poverty. 
 
 10 I shall therefore recommend to the consideration of 
 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 
 deavours after the most happiness." 
 
 11 In the second place, every one ought to reflect hou 
 much more unhappy he might be than he really is. The for 
 mer consideration took in all those who are sufficiently pro 
 
56 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. 
 
 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 
 as 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-mast, 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 has 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 he 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 observing, 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 make 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 than 
 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 riot to grieve for the death oi 
 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. 57 
 
 to human nature. It prescribes to every miserable man the 
 means of bettering his condition: nay, it shows him, that 
 bearing 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. 
 
 Rank and Riches afford no ground for Envy. 
 OF all the grounds of envy among men, superiority in 
 ank 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, arises 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 of 
 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 many 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 who 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 which is often unknown at courts. 
 The gratifications of nature, which are always the most satis- 
 factory, are possessed by him to their full extent; and 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. 
 
 5 His plain meal satisfies his appetite, with a relish pro- 
 bably higher than that of the rich man, who 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 labours are no 
 
58 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I 
 
 more oppressive to him, than the labour of attendance on 
 courts and the great, the labours of dress, the fatigue 01 
 amusements, the very weight of idleness, frequently are to 
 the rich. 
 
 6 In the mean time, all the beauty of the face of nature, 
 all the enjoyments 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 Let 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* 
 
 SECTION XIII. 
 
 Patience 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, 
 who 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; will jar, and interfere with 
 each other. 
 
 2 Hence, in every station, the highest as well as the low- 
 est, and in every condition of life public, private, and do- 
 mestic occasions of irritation frequently arise. We are 
 provoked, sometimes, by the folly and levity of ^those with 
 whom we are connected ; sometimes, by their indifference 
 or neglect; by the incivility of a friend, the haughtiness of a 
 superior, or the insolent behaviour of one in lower station. 
 
CHAP. Ill DIDACTIC PIECES. 59 
 
 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 sources of disturbance 
 and vexation to him. In vain is affluence : in vain are health 
 and prosperity. The least trifle is sufficient to discompose 
 ois mind, and poison his pleasures. His very amusements 
 tre mixed with turbulence and passion. 
 
 4 I would beseech this man to consider, of what small mo- 
 ,jnent the provocations which he receives, or at least imagines 
 mmself to receive, are really in themselves; but of what 
 great moment he makes them, by suffering them to deprive 
 turn 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 
 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 ] 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 that our life were long to proceed, with- 
 out receiving provocations from human frailty. The careless 
 and the imprudent, the giddy and the fickle, the ungrateful 
 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 course 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 most 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- 
 turbance will be utterly forgotten. Can we net, then, ajati 
 
60 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 others 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 this 
 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 3 
 man, in -opposition to the passion of a child. It is the en 
 joyment of peace, in opposition to uproar and confusion. 
 
 BLAIR 
 
 SECTION XIV. 
 
 . Moderation 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 higher sphere 
 of enjoyments, it finds itself, in every situation of fortune, 
 straitened and confined. Sensible of deficiency in its state* 
 it is ever sending forth the fond desire, the aspiring wish., 
 after something beyond what is enjoyed at present. 
 
 2 Hence, that 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 the 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. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 6t 
 
 enjoyment of the comforts of life. But when these wishes 
 are not tempered by reason, they are in danger of precipita- 
 ting iis 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. 
 
 5 If we suffer our fancy to create to itself worlds of ideai 
 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 the 
 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 forms de- 
 ceive you. It is no more than a phantom, an illusion of hap- 
 piness, whieh 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 
 those summits of distinction, towards which your wishes as- 
 pire 1 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 breaks; while, safe and unhurt, the in- 
 habitants of the vale remain below. Hetreat, then, from 
 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- 
 man 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. 
 
 F 
 
62 THE ENGLISH READER. PART f 
 
 SECTION XY. 
 
 Omniscience and Omnipresence 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. I 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 stare and planets appeared 
 one after another, till the whole firmament was in a glow. 
 
 2 The blueness 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 him- 
 self fell into it in that reflection : " When I consider the 
 heavens, the work of thy fingers ; the moon and the stars 
 which tjiou hast ordained ; what is man that, thou art mindful 
 of him, and 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 of 
 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 ; and 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 I 
 iryself bore amidst the immensity of God's works. 
 
 5 Were the sun, which enlightens this part of the creation, 
 vith 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, 
 
CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 63 
 
 ft would scarcely make a blank 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 the creation to 
 the other ; as it is possible there may be such a sense in our- 
 selves hereafter, or in creatures which are at present more 
 exalted than ourselves. By the help of glasses, we see many 
 stars which we do not discover with our naked eyes ; and 
 the finer our telescopes are, the greater 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? 
 
 7 'To return, therefore, to my first thought, I could not 
 but look upon myself with secret horror, as a being that was 
 not worth the smallest regard of one who had so great a work 
 under his care and 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- 
 
 erence to one creature than another, according as we rise 
 ne 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 his attributes are infinite ; 
 but the poorness of our conceptions is such, that it cannot 
 
64 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I 
 
 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. 
 
 1 1 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, the 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 substance 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 withdraw himself 
 from any thing he has created, or from any part of that space 
 which he diffused and spread abroad to infinity. In short, 
 to speak of him in the language of the old philosophers, 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 material 
 world, which he thus essentially pervades; and of every 
 thought that is stirring in the intellectual world, to every part 
 of wiiich 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 consideration of the Almighty's omnipresence 
 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 
 'n particular, which is apt to trouble them on this occasion ; 
 
DHAP. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 65 
 
 for, as it is impossible he should overlook any of his crea- 
 xures, so we may be confident that he regards with an eye of 
 mercy, those who endeavour to recommend themselves to his 
 aotice, and, in an unfeigned humility of heart, think themselves 
 unworthy that he should be mindful of them. ADDISON 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 Happiness is founded in Rectitude of Conduct. 
 ALL men pursue good, and would be happy, if they 
 knew how : not happy for minutes, and miserable for hours ; 
 but happy, if possible, through every part of their existence. 
 Either, therefore, there is a good of this steady, durable 
 kind, or there is not. If not, then all good must be tran- 
 sient, and uncertain ; and if so, an object of the lowest value, 
 which can little deserve our attention or inquiry. 
 
 2 But if there be a better good, such a good as we are 
 seeking, like every other thing, it must be derived from some 
 cause ; and that cause must either be 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 from 
 an external cause; since all derived from externals must 
 fluctuate as they fluctuate. 
 
 3 By the same rule, it cannot be derived from a mixture 
 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. HARRIS. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 Virtue and Piety Man's Highest Interest. 
 
 I FIND myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded every 
 
 way by an immense, unknown expansion. Where am I ? 
 
 What sort of place do I inhabit? Is it exactly accomodated 
 
 in every instance to my convenience? Is there no excess of 
 
 cold, none of heat, to offend me'? Am I never annoyed by 
 
 animals, either of my own, or a different kind? Is every 
 
 thing subservient to me, as though I had ordered all myself? 
 
 No nothing like it the farthest from it possible. 
 
 F2 
 
66 THE ENGLISH READER. PARI 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 and 
 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 oi 
 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 oi 
 man ? 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 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 ? 
 
 6 Again I must have food and clothing. Without a 
 proper genial warmth, I instantly perish. Am I not related, 
 in this view, to the very earth itself? to the distant sun, from 
 whose beams I derive vigour? to that stupendous course and 
 order of the infinite host of heaven, by which the times and 
 seasons ever uniformly pass on? 
 
 7 Were this order once confounded, I could not probably 
 survive 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, but gratitude also ; acquies- 
 cence, resignation, adoration, and all I owe to this great poll 
 ty, and its great Governor, our common Parent. HARRIS 
 
. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 67 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 The Injustice of an Uncharitable Spirit. 
 
 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 ha.ve listened to, and the credulous have propagated; or 
 a real incident, which rumour, in carrying it along, has ex- 
 aggerated arid disguised, supplies them with materials of con- 
 fident assertion, j:nd 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 
 sound 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 variety 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- 
 ty, to conclude a person 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 
 excusable light ; nay, perhaps, under a commendable form. 
 The motives of the actor may have been entirely different 
 from those which we ascribe to him ; and where we suppose 
 him impelled by bad design, he may have been prompted by 
 conscience and mistaken principle. 
 
 5 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 its full vigour 
 Perhaps this was the corner pf frailty ; the quarter on which 
 fie lay open to the incursions of temptation ; while the othe* 
 avenues i f bia heart were firmly guarded by conscaface. 
 
8 THE ENGLISH READER, PARI t 
 
 6 It is therefore evident, that no part of the government 
 of temper deserves attention more, than to keep 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, follow from the opposite 
 spirit. . BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION IV 
 
 The Misfortunes of JWen 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 
 their power to prevent, and where nothing is left them, but 
 to acknowledge,*and to submit to the high hand of Heaven. 
 For such visitations of trial, many good and wise reasons can 
 be assigned, which the present subject leads me not to discuss. 
 
 2 But though those unavoidable calamities make a part, 
 yet they make not the chief part, of the vexations and sor- 
 rows that distress human life. A multitude of evils beset us, 
 for the source of which we must look to another quarter. 
 No sooner has any thing in the health, or in the circum- 
 stances of men, gone cross to their wish, than they begin 
 to talk of the unequal distribution of the good things of this 
 life ; they envy the condition of others ; they repine at their 
 own lot, and fret against the Ruler of the world. 
 
 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 cauae 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? Has he been 
 moderate in his life, and temperate in all his pleasures 1 If 
 now he is only paying the price of his former, perhaps his 
 forgotten indulgencies, has he any title to complain, as if he 
 were suffering unjustly ? 
 
 4 Were we to survey the chambers of sickness and dis- 
 tress, we shpuld 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 sufferers to 
 be small. We should see faded youth, premature old age, 
 and the prospect of an untimely grave, to be the portion of 
 multitudes, who, in one way or other, have brought those 
 evils on themselves ; while yet these martyrs of vice and 
 
CHAP. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 69 
 
 folly, have the assurance to arraign the hard fate of man, 
 and to " fret aainst the Lord." 
 
 5 But you, perhaps, complain of hardships of 
 
 kind ; of the injustice of the world ; of the poverty winch 
 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 m r \ch 
 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 grati&ktions 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 the 
 artificer of his own fortune in the world. It is certain, that 
 the world seldom turris wholly against a man, unless through 
 nis own fault. "Religion is," in general, "profitable unto 
 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 frosai that 
 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 lead , them 
 into vices; their vices into misfortunes; and in their misfor- 
 tunes they "murmur against Providence." 
 
 10 They are doubly unjust towards their Creator. In their 
 prosperity, they are apt to ascribe their success to their own 
 
 ro, rather thiui to his blessing; and hi their adversity, 
 
70 THE ENGLISH READER. PART. 1 
 
 they impute their distresses to his providence, not to their 
 own misbehaviour. Whereas, the truth is the very reverse 
 of this. " Every good and every perfect 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 
 c|vil commotions. We see 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 
 is exposed. 
 
 12 But are these evils, I beseech you. to be imputed to 
 God ? Was it he^ho sent forth slaughtering armies into the 
 field, or who filled the peaceful city with massacres and 
 blood 1 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 people? 
 Let us lay them entirely out of the account, in thinking of 
 Providence, and let us think only of the " foolishness of man." 
 
 13 Did man control his passions, and form his conduct 
 according to the dictates of wisdom, humanity, and virtue / 
 the earth would no longer be desolated by cruelty ; and human 
 societies would live in order, harmony, and peace. In those 
 scenes of mischief and violence which fill the world, let man 
 behold, with shame, the picture of his vices, his ignorance, 
 and folly. Let him be humbled by the mortifying view of 
 his own perverseness ; but let not his "heart fret against the 
 Lord." . BLAIR 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 On disinterested Friendship. 
 
 1 AM informed that certain Greek writers, (philosophers, 
 it seems, in the opinion of their countrymen,) 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 1 
 
 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 affairs, it is a 
 
CHAP. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. W 
 
 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 essential 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 to 
 possess." 
 
 4 I have been told likewise, that there is another set of 
 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 proper 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 
 disposed to have recourse to auxiliary alliances of this kind, 
 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 than 
 the male part of our species ; and those who are depressed 
 by indigence, or labouring under misfortunes, than the 
 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 them 
 being the source of the best and most grateful satisfactions, 
 that Heaven has conferred on the sons of men. But I should 
 be glad to know, what the real value of this boasted exemp 
 tion from care, which they promise their disciples, justly 
 amounts to? an exemption flattering to self-love, I confess; 
 but which, upon many occurrences in human life, should be 
 rejected with the utmost disdain. 
 
 7 For nothing, surely, can be more inconsistent with a 
 well-poised and manly spirit, than to decline engaging in any 
 laudable action, or to be discouraged from persevering in it, 
 by an apprehension of the trouble and solicitude with which 
 it may probably be attended. 
 
72 THE ENGLISH REAiJJbR. PART I 
 
 8 Virtue herself, indeed, ought to be totally renounced, ii 
 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, witl*- 
 out being affected with some degree of secret dissatisfacti )n? 
 
 9 Are not the just, the brave, and the good, necessaiilf 
 exposed to the disagreeable emotions of dislike and aversic n, 
 when they respectively meet with instances of fraud, of cow- 
 ardice, or of villany 1 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- 
 sejit themselves to observation. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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 1 Away, then, with 
 those austere philosophers, who represent virtue as harden 
 ing the soul against all the softer impressions of humanity ! 
 
 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 grounds for ex- 
 cluding either of them from taking possession of our bosoms. 
 
 13 They who insist that " utility is the first and prevailing 
 motive, which induces mankind to enter into partlculai 
 friendships," appear to me to divest the association of its mos- 
 amiable and engaging principle. For, to a mind rightly dis 
 posed, it is not so much the benefits received, as the affec 
 tionate zeal from which they flow, that gives them their bes. 
 and most valuable recommendation. 
 
 14 It is so far indeed from being verified by fact n that a 
 sense of our wants, is the original cause of forming these ami. 
 cable alliances, that on the contrary, it is observable, that 
 none have been mere distinguished in their friendships than 
 tnose whose power and opulence, but above all, whose supe- 
 
CHAP. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 73 
 
 rior 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 "al- 
 thougn 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 reverse, have surely no claim to attention ; 
 as they are 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 mortal whom he could love, or by 
 whom he should be beloved 1 This would be to lead the 
 wretched life of a detested tyrant, who, amidst perpetual 
 suspicions, and alarms, passes his miserable days, a stranger 
 to every tender sentiment ; and utterly precluded from the 
 heart-felt satisfactions of friendship. 
 
 J\/Ielmoili > s translation of Cicero's Lwlius, 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 On the Itmnortimfi/ of the SouL 
 
 1 WAS yesterday walking alone in one of my friend's 
 woods ; and lost myself in it very agreeably, as I was running 
 over, in my mind, the several arguments that establish this 
 great^ooint; which is the basis of morality, and the source of 
 ell the pleasing hopes, and secret joys, that can arise in the 
 f.eart of a reasonable creature. 
 
 2 I consider those several proofs drawn First, from the 
 nature of the soul -itself, and particularly its immateriality , 
 ,vhich, though not absolutely necessary to the eternity of its du- 
 ration, has, I think, been evinced almost to a demonstration. 
 
 3 Secondly, from its passions and sentiments ; as par- 
 ticularly, from its love of existence ; its horror of annihila- 
 tion ; and its hopes of immortality ; with that secret satis- 
 faction which it finds in the practice of virtue ; and' that unea- 
 siness which follows upon the commission of vice. Thirdly, 
 from the nature of the Supreme Being, whose justice, 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 arriving at it ; which js a hint that I do not remember 
 lo have seen opened and improved by others who have writtef 
 
 Gr 
 
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, would 
 be the same thing he is at present. 
 
 6 Were a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplish- 
 ments ; were her faculties to be full blown, and incapable of 
 carther 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 is in a perpetual progress 
 of improvement, 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 first setting out, and 
 in the very beginning of her inquiries ? 
 
 7 Man, considered only in his present state, ^eems sent 
 into the world merely to propagate his kind. He provides 
 himself with a successor, and immediately quits his post to 
 Bake room for him. He does not seem born to enjoy life, 
 ct to deliver it down to others. This is not surprising to 
 consider in animals, which are formed for our use, and jrhich 
 can finish their business in a short life. 
 
 8 The silk- worm, after having spun her task, lays her 
 eggs and dies. But a man cannot take in his full measure 
 of knowledge, has not time to subdue his passions, establisk 
 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 ? 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 generations of rational creatures, which rise 
 up and disappear in such quick successions, are only to re- 
 ceive their first rudiments of existence here and aftei wards 
 
CHAP. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES 75 
 
 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- 
 ry, 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. 
 
 1 1 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, the higher na- 
 ture still advances, and by that means preserves his distance 
 and superiority in the scale of being ; yet he knows that, 
 now high soever the station is of which he stands possessed 
 at present, the inferior nature will, at length, mount up to 
 it, and shine forth in the same degree of glory. 
 
 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" cf 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 not only of perfection, but of happiness ! ADDISON 
 
76 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 -^c*=^- 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 The Seasons. 
 
 AMONG the great blessings and wonders of the creation, 
 may be classed the regularities of times, and seasons. Im- 
 mediately after the flood, the sacred promise was made tc 
 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 flou- 
 ers, and promises of plenty; nor returns to his cottage till 
 rlarkness closes the scene upon his eye. Then cometh the 
 harvest, when the large wish is satisfied, and the granaries oi 
 nature are loaded with the means of life, even to a luxury 
 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 th^ 
 
CHAP. \ T . DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 77 
 
 kindest efforts 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? 
 5 How wise, how benignant, then, is the proper division 
 The hours of light are adapted to activity ; and those of 
 darkness, to rest. Ere the day is passed, exercise and na- 
 ture prepare us for the pillow ; and by the time that the 
 morning returns, we are again able to meet it with a smile. 
 Thus, every season has a charm peculiar to itself; and every 
 moment affords some interesting innovation. MELMOTH. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 The Cataract of Niagara, in North 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 largest 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 kina 
 of theatre, the most tremendous in nature. Just in the miJ 
 die 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 severa. 
 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 which forms a most beau- 
 tiful rainbow, when die sun shines. It will be readily sup. 
 posed, that such a cataract entirely destroys the navigatiqt^c 
 
 G 2 
 
78 THE ENGLISH itlSADER. PART t 
 
 the stream ; and yet some Indians, in their canoes, as it is 
 said, have ventured down it with safety.* GOLDSMITH. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 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 beauty of its sparry incrustations. This celebrated 
 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," says he, " by the natives of 
 Paros, that, in the little island of Antiparos, which lies about 
 two miles from the former, a gigantic statue was to be seen 
 at the mouth of a cavern in that place it was resolved that 
 we (the French consul and himself) should pay it a visit. In 
 pursuance of this resolution, after we had landed on the 
 island, and walked about four miles through the midst of 
 beautiful plains, and sloping woodlands, we at length came 
 to a little hill, on the side of which 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 
 teen terrified at as a giant, was nothing more than a sparry 
 concretion, formed by the water dropping from the roof ol 
 the cave, and by degrees hardening into a figure, which their 
 fears had formed into a monster. 
 
 4 Incited by this extraordinary 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 in 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." 
 
 * Thra venturing donn in safety, is a report, bearing upon its front its own refu a 
 tion that It ever should have found a place in the brain or the book of the elegant 
 historian, Is a matter of eurprlse. Canoes and other vessels, with passengers, are, 
 indeed, sometimes unfortunately drawn down the awful declivity, but seldom a ves- 
 tageof either Is ever afterwards seen. The sturdy mountain oak, and the towering 
 nine, frequently take the iwpvate leap, and forever disappeoi 
 
CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 79 
 
 5 " We had as yet seen but a few of the wonders of the 
 place ; and we were introduced only into the portico of this 
 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 contained 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, the sound seemed at 
 last quashed in a bed of water. 
 
 6 In order, however, to be more certain, we sent in a Le- 
 vantine mariner, who, by the promise of a good reward, 
 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, hearing in his hand some beautiful pieces 
 of white spar, which art could neither equal nor imitate, 
 Upon being informed by him 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 amphitheatre, (if I may so call it,) still 
 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 of 
 the cavern." 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 The Grotto of Jlnliparos, 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 
 gpars ; and the whole presented the idea of a magnificent 
 theatre, illuminated witji an'immense profusion of lights. 
 
 2 The floor consisted of solid marble; and, in severai 
 places, magnificent columns, thrones, altars, and o\her ob- 
 jects, appeared, as if nature had designed to mock the curi- 
 osities of art. Our voices, upon speaking or singing, were 
 
SO THE ENGLISH READER. Pi RT ! 
 
 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, that, in some measure, resembled an 
 altar ; from which, taking the hint, we caused mass to be 
 celebrated there. 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 grotto, there seemed another 
 cavern ; down which I ventured with my former mariner 
 and descended about fifty paces by means of a rope. I at last 
 arrived at a small spot of level ground, where the bottom 
 appeared different from that of the amphitheatre, being com- 
 posed of soft clay, yielding to the pressure, and into which 1 
 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 
 to import, that one Aritipater, in the time of Alexander, had 
 come hither ; but whether he penetrated into the depths of 
 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. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 Earthquake at Catanea. 
 
 ONE of the earthquakes most particularly described in hfci- 
 toiy, 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 
 affecting the sea coasts, and great rivers ; more perceivable 
 also upon the mountains than in the valleys. 
 
 2 Its motions were so rapid, that persons who lay at their 
 tength, were tossed from side to side, as upon a rolling bil- 
 low. The walls were dashed f rom their foundations ; and 
 no fewer than fifty-four cities, with an incredible number of 
 villages, were either destroyed or greatly damaged. The 
 city of Catanea, in particular, was utterly overthrown. A 
 traveller who was on his way thither, perceived, at the dis- 
 tance of some miles, a black cloud, like night, hanging ovet 
 the place. 
 
CHAP. III. DESCRIPTI1 E PIECES. 81 
 
 3 The sea, all of a sudden, began to roar ; mount 
 
 to send forth great spires of flame ; and soon after 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 thick c bud of dust in the air. 
 
 4 The birds flew about astonished; the sun was darkened 
 the beasts rr.n 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, seemec' 
 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 inta 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 : 
 lie commanded ; and it stood fast. The earth was at first 
 without form, and void ; and darkness was on the face of 
 tne deep." The Almighty surveyed the dark abyss; and 
 'ixed 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 after 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." B 
 
62 THE ENGLISH READER. PART. 1 
 
 j 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 fellow-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 liberality flow, as 
 so many native streams. From general good-will to all, it 
 extends its influence particularly to those with whom we 
 stand in nearest connexion, and who are directly within tne 
 sphere of our good offices. 
 
 3 From the country or community to which we belong, 
 it descends to the smaller associations of neighbourhood, re- 
 lations, and friends ; and spreads itself over the whole circle 
 of social and domestic life. I mean not that it imports a pro- 
 miscuous undistinguished affection, which gives every man an 
 <*qual 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 affability 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 offenders. It is faithfulness in the friend, 
 public spirit in the magistrate, equity and patience in tha 
 
CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 83 
 
 judge, moderation in the sovereign, and loyalty in the sub- 
 ject* 
 
 6 In parents, it is care and attention ; in children, it is 
 reverence and submission. In a word, it is the soul of social 
 life. It is the sun that enlivens and cheers the abodes of 
 men. It is " like the dew of Hermon," says the Psalmist, 
 " and the dew that descended on the mountains of Zion, 
 where the Lord commanded the blessing, even life for ever- 
 more." BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION VIII. 
 
 Prosperity is redoubled to a good JVJan. 
 NONE but the temperate, the regular, and the virtuous, 
 know how to enjoy prosperity. They bring to its comforts 
 the manly relish of a sound uncorrupted mind. They stop 
 at the proper point, before the enjoyment degenerates into dis- 
 gust, and pleasure is converted into pain. They are stran- 
 gers to those complaints which flow from spleen, caprice, and 
 all the fantastical distresses of a vitiated mind. While riotous 
 indulgence enervates both the body and the mind, purity 
 and virtue heighten all the powers of human fruition. 
 
 2 Feeble are all pleasures in which the heart has no share. 
 The selfish gratifications of the bad, are both narrow in their 
 circle, and short in their duration. But prosperity is re- 
 doubled to a good man, by his generous use of it. It is re- 
 flected back upon him from every one whom he makes hap- 
 py. In the intercourse of domestic affection, in the attach- 
 ment of friends, the gratitude of dependants, the esteem and 
 good-will of all who know him, he sees blessings multiplied 
 round him, on every side. 
 
 3 "When the ear heard me, then it blessed me ; and when 
 the eye saw me, it gave witness to me : because I delivered 
 the poor that cried, the fatherless, and him that had none 
 to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to perish 
 came upon me, and I caused the widow's heart to sing with 
 joy. J was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame : 
 I was a father to the poor ; and the cause which I knew not, 
 I searched out." 
 
 4 Thus, while the righteous man flourishes like a tree 
 planted by the rivers of water, he brings forth also his fruit 
 in its season : and that fruit he brings forth, not for himself 
 alone. He flourishes, not like a tree in some solitary desert 
 which scatters its blossoms to the wind, *iiid communicates 
 neither Iruit nor shade to any living thing; but like a treg in 
 
84 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. 
 
 the midst of an inhabited country, which to some afford? 
 friendly shelter, to others fruit; which 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 and 
 sorrows of life ; its share of them frequently bears a me- 
 lancholy proportion to its exaltation. This the monarch of 
 Israt ' experienced. He sought in piety, that peace which 
 he could not find in empire ; and alleviated the disquietudes 
 of state, with the exercise 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 services 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 philosophy 
 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 foreknowTi, they suit man- 
 kind in all situations ; grateful as the manna which descend- 
 ed from above, and conformed itself to every palate. 
 
 4 The fairest productions of human wit, after a few peri: 
 sals, like gathered flowers, wither in our hands, and lose their 
 fragrancy ; but these unfading plants of paradise become, as 
 w e are accustomed to them, still more and more beautiful ; 
 their bloom appears to be daily heightened ; fresh odours are 
 emitted, and new 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 
 would take half the pleasure in reading his work, which he 
 has taken in writing it, he would not fear the loss of Ms 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, (lew away for a season ; care and disquie- 
 tude came not near his dwelling. He arose, fresh as the 
 
CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 
 
 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 last ; for then 
 he grieved that his work was done. Happier hours than those 
 which have been spent in these meditations on the songs of 
 Sion, he never expects to see in this world. Very pleasantly 
 did they pass ; they moved smoothly and swiftly along : for 
 when thus engaged, he counted no time. They are gone, 
 6ut they have left a relish and a fragrance upon the mind ; 
 and the remembrance of them is sweet. HORNE. 
 
 SECTION X. 
 
 Character of ALFRED, king of England. 
 THE merit of this prince, both in private and public 
 fife, may, with advantage, be set in opposition to that of any 
 monarch or citizen, which the annals of any age, or any na- 
 lion, can present to us. He seems, indeed, to be the com- 
 plete model of that perfect character, which, under the de- 
 nomination of a sage or wise man, the philosophers have 
 6een fond of delineating, rather as a fiction of their imagina- 
 tion, than in hopes of ever seeing it reduced to practice ; so 
 happily 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 perseverance 
 ivith the easiest flexibility ; the most severe justice with the 
 greatest lenity ; the greatest rigour in command, with the 
 greatest affability of deportment ; the highest capacity and in- 
 clination for science, with the most shining talents for action. 
 
 3 Nature, also, as if desirous that so bright a production of 
 her skill should be set in the fairest light, had bestowed on him 
 all bodily accomplishments ; 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 historians 
 worthy to transmit his lame to posterity ; and we wish to see 
 him delineated in more lively colours, and with more particu- 
 lar strokes, that we might at least perceive some of those 
 small specks and blemishes from which, as a man, it is im- 
 possible he could be entirely exempted. HUME, 
 
 H 
 
86 THE EJXGLISH READER. PART I. 
 
 SECTION XI. 
 
 Character of QUEEN ELIZABETH. 
 
 THERE are few personages in history, who have been 
 more exposed to the calumny of enemies, and the adulation of 
 friends, than Queen Elizabeth; and yet there scarcely is 
 any whose reputation has been more certainly determined by 
 the unanimous consent of posterity. The unusual length ol 
 her administration, and the strong features of her character, 
 were able to overcome all prejudices ; and, obliging her de- 
 tractors to abate much of their invectives, and her admirers 
 somewhat of their panegyrics, have, at last, in spite of poli- 
 tical factions, arid what is more, of religious animosities, 
 produced a uniform judgment with regard to her conduct. 
 
 2 Her vigour, her constancy, her magnanimity, her pene- 
 tration, vigilance, arid address, are allowed to merit the high- 
 est praises ; and appear not to have been surpassed by any per- 
 son who ever filled a throne : a conduct less rigorous, less im- 
 perious, more sincere, more indulgent to her people, would 
 have been requisite to form a perfect character. By the force 
 of her mind, she controlled all her more active, and stronger 
 qualities, and prevented them from running into excess. 
 
 3 Her heroism was exempted from all temerity ; her fru- 
 gality from avarice ; her friendship from partiality ; her 
 enterprise from turbulency and a vain ambition. She guard- 
 ed not herself, with equal care, or equal success, from less 
 infirmities ; the rivalship of beauty, the desire of admiration* 
 the jealousy of love, and the sallies of anger. 
 
 4 Her singular talents for government, were founded 
 equally on her temper and on her capacity. Endowed with 
 a great command over herself, she soon obtained an uncon- 
 trolled ascendancy over the people. Few sovereigns of Eng- 
 land succeeded to the throne in more difficult circumstances ; 
 and none ever conducted the government with so uniform 
 success and felicity. 
 
 5 Though unacquainted with the practice oi* toleration, 
 the true secret for managing religious factions, she preserved 
 her people, by her superior prudence, from thost confusions 
 in which theological controversy had involved all the neigh- 
 bouring nations ; and though her enemies were the most 
 powerful princes of Europe, the most active, tbe most en- 
 terprizing, the least scrupulous, she was able, ly her vigour, 
 to make deep impressions on their state ; her own greatness 
 meanwhile remaining untouched and unimpaired. 
 
CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 87 
 
 6 The wise ministers and brave men who flourished du- 
 riiig her reign, share the praise of her success ; but instead 
 of lessening the applause due to her, they make great addi- 
 tion to it. They owed, all of them, their advancement to 
 her choice ; they were supported by her constancy ; and, 
 with all their ability, they were never able to acquire an un- 
 due ascendancy over her. 
 
 7 In her family, in her court, in her kingdom, she remain- 
 ed equally mistress. The force of the tender passions was 
 great over her; Imt the force of her mind was still superior; 
 and the combat which her victory visibly cost her, serves only 
 to display the firmness of her resolution, and the loftiness of 
 her ambitious sentiments. 
 
 8 The fame of this princess, though it has surmounted the 
 prejudices both of faction arid of bigotry, yet lies still exposed 
 to another prejudice, which is more durable, because more 
 natural ; and which, according to the different views in 
 which we survey her, is capable either of exalting beyond 
 measure, or diminishing the lustre of her character. This 
 prejudice is, founded on the consideration of her sex. 
 
 9 When we contemplate her as a woman, we are apt to 
 be struck with the highest admiration of her qualities and ex- 
 tensive capacity; but we are also apt to require some more 
 softness of disposition, some greater lenity of temper, some 
 of those amiable weaknesses by which her sex is distinguish- 
 ed. But the true method of estimating her merit, is to lay 
 aside all these considerations, and to consider her merely as 
 *a rational being, placed in authority, and intrusted with the 
 government of mankind. HUME. 
 
 SECTION XII. 
 
 The slavery of Vice. 
 
 THE slavery produced by vice appears in the depend- 
 ence under which it brings the sinner, to circumstances ol 
 external fortune. One of the favourite characters of liber- 
 ty, is the independence it bestows. He who is truly a free- 
 man, is above all servile compliances, and abject subjection. 
 He is able to rest upon himself ; and while he regards his 
 superior? with proper deference, neither debases himself by 
 cringing to them, nor is tempted to purchase their favour 
 by dishonourable means. But the sinner has forfeited every 
 privilege of this nature. 
 
 2 His passions and habits render him an absolute depend- 
 ant o the world, and the world's favour : on the uncertain 
 
88 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1 
 
 goods of fortune, and the fickle humours of men. For it is 
 by these he subsists, and among these his happiness is 
 sought ; according as his passions determine him to pursue 
 pleasures, riches, or preferments. Having no fund within 
 himself whence to draw enjoyment, his only resource is in 
 things without. His hopes and fears all hang upon the 
 world. He partakes in all its vicissitudes ; and is moved and 
 shaken by every wind of fortune. This is to be, in tho 
 strictest sense, a slave to the world. 
 
 3 Religion and virtue, on the other hand, confer on the 
 mind principles of noble independence. "The upright man 
 is satisfied from himself." He despises not the advantages 
 >f fortune, but he centres not his happiness in them. With 
 a moderate share of them he can be contented ; and con- 
 tentment is felicity. Happy in his own integrity, conscious 
 of the esteem of good men, reposing firm trust in the provi- 
 dence, and the promises of God, he is exempted from sei- 
 vile dependence on other things. 
 
 4 He can wrap himself up in a good conscience, and look 
 forward, without terror, to the change of the world. Let 
 all things fluctuate around him as they please, he believes 
 that, by the Divine ordination, they shall be made "to work to- 
 gether in the issue for his good : and, therefore, having much 
 to hope from God, and little to fear from the world, he can 
 be easy in every state. One who possesses within himself 
 such an establishment of mind, is truly free. 
 
 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 things, and the sport 
 of fortune 1 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. 89 
 
 man, lies to the means of pleasure, gain, or power. Yet 
 this is the boasted liberty which vice promises, as the recom 
 nense 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 affections, 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 affectionate 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, candour and hu- 
 manity. In all hi? 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, xvhile he me- 
 ditates evil against us in his heart. He never praises us 
 among our friends ; and then joins in traducing us among our 
 enemies. . We shall never find one part f his character at 
 variance with another. In his manners, he is simple and unaf- 
 f ected ; in all his proceedings, open and consistent. BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION XIV 
 
 Gentleness. 
 
 I BEGIN with distinguishing true gentleness from passive 
 tame ness 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 
 assuming, forms no part of Christian duty ; but, on the con- 
 trary, is destructive of general happiness and order. That 
 unlimited complaisance, which on every occasion, 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. 
 
90 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I 
 
 2 It overthrows all steadiness of principle ; and produces 
 that sinful conformity with the world, which taints the whole 
 character. In the present corrupted state of human manners, 
 always to assent, and to comply, is the very worst maxim we 
 can adopt. It is impossible to support the purity and dig- < 
 nity of Christian morals, without opposing the world on vari- 
 ous occasions, even though we should stand alone. 
 
 3 That gentleness therefore which belongs to virtue, is to 
 carefully distinguished from the mean spirit of cowards, and 
 
 the fawning assent of sycophants. It renounces no just right 
 from fear. It gives up no important truth from flattery. It 
 is indeed not only consistent with a firm mind, but it necessarily 
 requires a manly spirit, and a fixed principle, in order to give 
 it any real value. Upon, this solid ground only, the polish of 
 gentleness can with advantage be superinduced. 
 
 4 It stands opposed, not to the most determined regard lof 
 virtue and truth, but to harshness and severity, to pride and 
 arrogance, to violence and oppression. It is properly > that 
 part of the great virtue of charity, which makes us unwilling 
 to give pain to any of our brethren. Compassion prompts us 
 to relieve their wants. Forbearance prevents us from retalia- 
 ting their injuries. Meekness restrains our angry passions J 
 candour, our severe judgments. 
 
 5 Gentleness corrects whatever is offensive in our man* 
 ners ; and by a constant train of humane attentions, studies to 
 alleviate the burden of common misery. Its office, therefore, 
 is extensive. It is not, like some other virtues, called forth 
 only on peculiar emergencies ; but it is continually in action, 
 when we are engaged in intercourse with men. It ought to 
 form our address, to regulate our speech, and to diffuse itself 
 over our whole behaviour. 
 
 6 We must not, however, confound this gentle "wisdom 
 which is from above," with that artificial courtesy, that studied 
 smoothness of manners, which is learned in the school of the 
 world. Such accomplishments, the most frivolous and empty 
 may possess. Too often they are employed by the artful, a* 
 a snare ; too often affected by the hard and unfeeling, as a 
 cover to the baseness of their minds. We cannot, at the same 
 time, avoid observing the homage, which, 'even in such in- 
 stances, the world is constrained to pay to virtue. 
 
 7 In order to render society agreeable, it is found necessary 
 to assume somewhat, that may at least carry its appearance 
 Virtue is the universal charm. Even its shadow is courted, 
 when the substance is wanting. The imitation of its form 
 
CHAT*. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 91 
 
 nas been reduced into an art ; and in the commerce of life, 
 the first study of all who would either gain the esteem, or 
 win the hearts of others, is to learn the speech, and to adopt 
 the manners, of candour, gentleness, and humanity. 
 
 8 But that gentlenefes which is the characteristic of a good 
 man, has, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart ; and, 
 let me a<ld, nothing except what flows from the heart, can 
 /ender even external manners truly pleasing. For no assumed 
 behaviour can at all times hide the real character. In that 
 unaffected civility which springs from a gentle mind, there is 
 a charm infinitely more powerful, than in all the studied man- 
 Lers of the most finished courtier. 
 
 9 True gentleness is founded on a sense of what we owe 
 to KIM who made us, and to the common nature of which we. 
 all share. It arises from reflections on our own failings and 
 wants ; and from just views of the condition, and the duty of 
 man. It is native feeling, heightened and improved by prin^ 
 eiple. It is the heart which easily relents ; which feels for 
 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 its demeanour ; ever 
 ready to oblige, and willing to be obliged by others ; breath- 
 Jug habitual kindness towards friends, courtesy to strangers, 
 3 OD ^-suffering to enemies. It exercises authority with mode- 
 ration ; administers reproof with tenderness ; confers favours 
 with ease and modesty. It is unassuming in opinion, and 
 temperate in zeal. It contends not eagerly about trifles ; slow 
 to contradict, and still slower to blame ; but prompt to allay 
 dissention, and restore peace. 
 
 1 1 It neither intermeddles unnecessarily with the affairs, 
 nor pries inquisitively into the secrets of others. It delights 
 above all things to alleviate distress ; and, if it cannot dry up 
 the falling tear, to soothe at least the grieving heart. Where 
 it has not the power of being useful, it is never burdensome. 
 It seeks to please, rather than to shine and dazzle ; and con- 
 ceals with care that superiority, either of talents or of rank 
 which is oppressive to those who are beneafh it. 
 
 12 In a word, it is that spirit, and that tenor of manners, 
 which the gospel of Christ enjoins, when it commands us, "to 
 bear one another's burdens ; to rejoice with those who re- 
 joice, and to weep with those who weep ; to please every one 
 his neighbour for his good ; to be kind and tender-hearted ; 
 to be pitiful and courteous ; to support the weak, and to be 
 patient towards all men." BLAIR 
 
92 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 -^ , 
 SECTION I. 
 
 Trial and execution of the EARL of STRAFFORD, who fell a 
 sacrifice to the violence of the times, in the reign of CHARLES 
 the First. 
 
 THE earl of Stratford defended himself against the accu- 
 sations of the house of Commons, with all the presence ol 
 mind, judgment, and sagacity, that could be expected from 
 "nnocence and ability. His children were placed beside him, 
 as he was thus defending his life, and the cause of his royal 
 master. After he had, in a long and eloquent speech, de- 
 livered without premeditation, confuted all the accusations of 
 ills 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 sake 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 
 afflictions of this life are overpaid by that eternal weight of 
 glory, which awaits the innocent. And so, my lords, even 
 go, 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 condemn him. The 
 king himself went to the house of lords, arid spoke for some 
 time in his defence ; but the spirit of vengeance, which had 
 been chained for eleven years, was now moused ; 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 
 
 every expedient to put off so dreadful an office, as that of 
 signing the warrant for his execution. While he continued 
 in this agitation of mind, and state of suspense, his doubts 
 were at last silenced by an act of great magnanimity in the 
 condemned lord. 
 
 6 He received a letter from that unfortunate nobleman, 
 desiring that his life might be made a sacrifice 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 Stratford 
 was beheaded on Tower-hill ; behaving with all that com- 
 posed dignity of resolution, which was expected from his 
 character. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 Jin eminent instance of ti*ue Fortitude. 
 ALL who have been distinguished as servants of God, or 
 benefactors of men ; all who, in perilous situations, have 
 acted their part with suc'h 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 example 
 In the apostle Paul, whom it will be instructive for us to view 
 in a remarkable occurrence of his life. 
 
 2 After having long acted as the apostle of the Gentiles, 
 ills mission called him to go to Jerusalem, 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 Ephesus ; and, in a pathetic speech, which 
 does great honour to his character, gave them his last fare- 
 well. Deeply affected by their knowledge of the certain 
 dangers to which he was exposing himself, all the assembly 
 were filled with distress, and melted into tears. 
 
 3 The circumstances were such, as migfr: have conveyed 
 dejection even into a resolute mind ; and would have totally 
 overwhelmed the feeble. "They all wept sore, and fell or> 
 Paul's neck, and kissed him; sorrowing most of all for the 
 
 nig 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 that shall befall me there ; save that the 
 
94 THtf ENGLISH READER. PART t 
 
 Holy Spirit witnesseth in every city, saying, that bonds and 
 afflictions abide nie. But none of these things move me ; 
 neither count I my life dear to myself, so that I might finish 
 my course with joy, and the ministry which I have received 
 of the Lord Jesus, to testify the gospel of the grace of God." 
 
 5 There was uttered the voice, there breathed the spirit, 
 of a brave and virtuous man. Such a man knows not what 
 it is to shrink from danger, when 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 offered, and the time of my departure 
 is at hand. I have fought the good fight. I have finished 
 rav 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 oft 
 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 ? BLAIR 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 The good JVfaw's comfort in Jlffliclion. 
 THE religion of Christ not only arms us with fortitude 
 against the approach of evil; but, supposing evils to fall upoo 
 us with their heaviest pressure, it lightens the load, by many 
 consolations to which others are strangers. While bad men 
 trace, in the calamities with which they are visited, the hand 
 of an offended Sovereign, Christians are taught to view them 
 a 1 * the well-intended chastisements of a merciful Father. 
 
 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. 
 
 3 In the mean time, devotion opens to them its blessed 
 arid hi)ly sanctuary; that sanctuary in which the wounded 
 heart is healed, and the weary mind is at rest, where the 
 
CHAP. VI. PATHETIC PIECES. 95 
 
 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 *:p in heaven to a Friend that will never desert him. 
 
 BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 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 who, a little while ago, were so busy, or so 
 gay; who can avoid being touched with sensations at once 
 awful and tender 1 What heart but then warms with the glow 
 of humanity ? In whose eye does not the tear gather, on re 
 rolving the fate of passing and short-lived man ? 
 
 2 Behold the poor man, who lays down at last the burden 
 of his wearisome life. No more shall he groan 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 grave is opened ,o 
 receive the rich and proud man. For, as it is said with em- 
 phasis in the parable, " the rich man also died, and was. 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. mourners 
 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 
 
 Blj 
 
96 THE ENGLISH READER. PART Li 
 
 eyes, and already beginning to dispute about the division of 
 his substance. 
 
 5 One day, we see carried along, the coffin of the smiling 
 infant ; the flower jyst nipped as it began to blossom in the 
 parent's view ; and the next day, we behold the young 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 affairs 
 of life, let our thoughts rather follow to the house jf 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 our hearts will be 
 gradually softened, and melted down into humanity. 
 
 7 Another day, we follow to the grave, one who, 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 
 Ms 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 humanity from the afflic- 
 tions of their brethren; or moderation and wisdom, from 
 the sense of their own fugitive state ? BLAIR. 
 
CHAP. VI. PATHETIC PIECES. 97 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 Exalted Society, and the renewal of virtuous Connexions, two 
 sources of future Felicity. 
 
 BESIDES the felicity which springs from perfect love, 
 'here are two circumstances which particularly enhance the 
 Dlessedness 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 
 wiblimest prospects to the human mind. 
 
 2 It allows good men to entertain the hope, that, separated 
 trom all the dregs of the human mass, from that mixed and 
 polluted crowd in the midst of which they now dwell, they 
 dhall 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 follow at a distance ; and whose names 
 we pronounce with veneration. 
 
 3 United to this high assembly, the blessed, at the sams 
 time, renew those ancient connexions with 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 
 as, in appearance for ever, from those to which either nature 
 or friendship had intimately joined our hearts. 
 
 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 w r ere ours ; whose piety and virtue cheered and 
 encouraged us; and from whom, after we shall have landed 
 on the peaceful shore where they dwell, no 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." RLAIK. 
 
 I 
 
98 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1 
 
 SECTION YL 
 
 The. clemency and amiable character of ihe Patriarch JOSEPH^ 
 
 NO human character exhibited in the records of Scripture, 
 is more remarkable and instructive than that of the patriarch 
 Joseph. He is one whom we behold tried in all the vicissi- 
 tudes of fortune ; from the condition of a slave, rising to be 
 niler of the land of Egypt ; and in every station acquiring, bj 
 ais virtue arid wisdom, favour with God and man. When 
 overseer of Potiphar's house, his fidelity was proved by strong 
 temptations, which he honourably resisted. 
 
 2 When thrown into prison by the artifices of a false wo- 
 man, his integrity and prudence soon rendered him conspicu- 
 ous, even in that dark mansion. When called into the pre- 
 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 whole history, there is no circumstance so 
 striking and interesting, 'as his behaviour to his brethren who 
 had sold him into slavery. The moment in which he made 
 himself known to them, was the most critical one of his life, 
 and the most decisive of his character. It is such as rarely 
 occurs in the course of human events; and is 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. 
 
 5 They were now arrived there ; and Benjamin among 
 ihe 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. This 
 incident renewed their distress. They all knew their father's 
 extreme anxiety about the safety of Benjamin, and with what 
 difficulty he had yielded to his undertaking this journey. 
 
 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 circumstsne3^f Ja<X>b>s. fair/fy* 
 
 7 Nothing can be more interesting and pathetic than tlrfe 
 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 favourite son, 
 whom he supposed to have been torn in pieces by a beast ot 
 prey ; labouring now under anxious concern about his young- 
 est son, the child of his old age, who alone was left alive 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 dangers of a foreign land. 
 
 8 " If we bring him not back with u?, we shall bring down 
 the gray hairs of thy servant, our father, with sorrow to the 
 grave. I pray thee therefore let thy servant abide, instead oi 
 the young man, a bondman to our lord. For how shall I go 
 up to my father, and Benjamin not with me 1 lest I soe the 
 evil that shall come on my father." 
 
 9 Upon this relation, Joseph could no longer restrain him- 
 self. The tender ideas of his father, and his father's house, of 
 his ancient home, his country, and his kindred, of the distress 
 of his family, and his own exaltation, all rushed too strongly 
 upon his mind to bear any farther concealment. " He cried. 
 Cause every man to go out from me ; and -he- wept aloud." 
 
 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 overflowing 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 sought 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 yet 
 live 1" What could he, what ought he, in that impassioned 
 moment, to have said more 1 This is the voice of nature her- 
 Belfj speaking her own language ; and it penetrates the heart ; 
 
iOO THE ENGLISH READER. PART I 
 
 no pomp of expression; no parade of kindness; but strong 
 afteet&n^aste'ning to utter what it strongly felt. 
 
 "13" " His brethren could not answer him ; for they were 
 troubled at his presence." Their silence is as expressive os 
 those emotions of repentance and shame, which, on this ama- 
 zing discovery, filled their breasts, and stopped their utterance, 
 as the few words which Joseph speaks, are expressive of the 
 generous agitations which struggled for vent within him. 
 
 14 No painter could seize a more striking moment for dis- 
 playing the characteristical features of the human heart, than 
 ^what is here presented. Never was there a situation of more 
 tender and virtuous joy, on the one hand ; nor, on the other, 
 of more overwhelming confusion and conscious guilt. In *\-.e 
 simple narration of the sacred historian, it is set before us 
 with greater energy and higher effect, tnan if it had been 
 wrought up with all the colouring of the mos' admired mo- 
 dern eloquence. BLAIR, 
 
 SECTION VH 
 
 ALTAMONT. 
 
 The following account of an affecting, mournful exit, is re.lat* 
 ed by Dr. Young, who was present at the melancholy scene. 
 THE sad evening before the death of the noble youth, 
 whose Jast hours suggested the most solemn and awful re- 
 flections, I was with him. No one was present, but his phy- 
 sician, aad an intimate whom he loved, and whom he had 
 rained. At my coming in, he said, '* You and the physician, 
 are come too late. I have neither life nor hope You both 
 aim at miracles. You would raise the d^id !" 
 
 2 Heaven, I said, was merciful " Or." exclaimed he, 
 " I could not have been thus guilty. What has it not done tc 
 bless and to save me ! I have been too strong for Omnipo 
 
 tence ! I have plucked down ruin." 1 said, the blessec 
 
 Redeemer " Hold ! hold ! you wound me ! That is the 
 rock on which I split: I denied his name!" 
 
 3 Refusing to hear any thing from me, or take any thing 
 from the physician, he lay silent, as far as sudden darts of 
 pain would permit, till the clock struck : then with vehe- 
 mence he exclaimed, "Oh! time ! time ! it is fit thou shouldst 
 thus strike thy murderer to the heart ! How art thou fled 
 for ever ! A month ! Oh, for a single week ! I ask not for 
 vears ! though an age were too little for the much I have to do.' 
 
 4 On my saying we could not do too much : that heaven 
 
 ivas a blessed place " So much the worse. 'Tis lost ! 
 
 His lost ! Heaven is to me the severest part of hell !" Soon 
 
CHAP. VI. PATHETIC PIECES* 101 
 
 after, I proposed prayer, " Pray you tlyat can, l-nevep pr^y-* 
 ed. I cannot pray nor need I. Is riot heaVeti en hi^>idf: 
 already ? It closes with my conscience Its severest strokes 
 but second my own." 
 
 5 Observing that his friend was much touched at this, even 
 to tears (who could forbear ? I could not) with a most af- 
 fectionate look, he said, " Keep those tears for thyself. I 
 have undone thee. Dost thou weep for me 1 That is cruel. 
 What can pain me more ?" 
 
 6 Here his friend, too much affected, would have left 
 him. " No, stay thou still mayst hope ; therefore hear me. 
 How madly have I talked ! How madly hast thou listened 
 and 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 
 spirit, 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 1 was about to congratulate this passive, involuntary con- 
 fessor, on his asserting the two prime articles of his creed, 
 extorted by the rack denature, 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. 
 Worse dread of the future, strikes it back on the past. I turn, 
 and turn, and find no ray. Didst thou feel half the mountaih 
 that is on me, thou wouldst struggle with the martyr for his 
 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 1 Oh ! thou blasphem- 
 ed, yet indulgent LORD GOD i 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 be repeated, or ever forgotten. 
 And ere the sun (which, I hope, has seen few like him) arose, 
 the gay, young, noble, ingenious, accomplished, and most 
 wretched Altamont, expired ! 
 
 11 If this is a man of pleasure, what Is a man of pain? 
 How quick, how total, is the transit of such persons! lu what 
 
 I e 
 
102 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. 
 
 3.*dkm?& gkom tjiey set .for ever ! How, short, alas ! the day 
 6f tliftir vejo1c'ingitir j -F6r < a moment, they glitter they dazzle! 
 In a moment, where are they ] Oblivion covers their memo- 
 ries. Ah ! would it did ! Infamy snatches them from obli- 
 vion. In the long living annals of infamy, their triumphs 
 are recorded. 
 
 ] 2 Thy sufferings, poor Altamont ! still bleed in the bosom 
 of the heart-stricken friend for Altamont had a friend. He 
 might have had many. His transient morning might have 
 been the dawn of an immortal day. His name might have 
 been gloriously enrolled in the records of eternity. His 
 memory might have left a sweet fragrance behind it, grateful 
 to the surviving friend, salutary to the succeeding generation. 
 
 13 With what capacity was he endowed ! with what ad- 
 vantages, for being greatly good ! But with the talents of an 
 angel, a man may be a fool. If he judges amiss in the su- 
 preme point, judging right in all else, but aggravates his folly; 
 as it shows him wrong, though blessed with the best capacity 
 of being right. DR. YOUNG. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 DIALOGUES. 
 -^H- 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 DEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITUS.* 
 
 The vices and follies of Men should excite Compassion rather 
 than Ridicule. 
 
 Democritus. 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 ; 
 and this is a source of misery to thee. 
 
 Her. And I think thou art too little moved by it. Thy 
 mirth and ridicule bespeak the buffoon, rather than the phi- 
 losopher. Does it not excite thy compassion to see mankind 
 so frail, so blind, so far departed from the rules of virtue ? 
 
 Dem. I am excited to laughter, when I see so much im- 
 pertinence and folly. 
 
 Her. And yet, after all, they who are the objects of thy 
 
 * Democriius and Heraclitus were two ancient philosophers, the former of whom 
 toughed, and the latter wept, at tiie errors and follies of mankind. 
 
CHAP. VII. DIALOGUES 103 
 
 ridicule, include, not only mankind in general, but the per- 
 sons with whom thou livest, thy friends, thy family, nay, 
 even thyself. 
 
 Dem. I care very little for all the silly persons I meet with ; 
 and think I am justifiable in diverting myself with their folly. 
 Her. If they are weak and foolish, it marks neither wis- 
 dom nor humanity, to insult rather than pity them. But 
 is it certain, that thou art not as extravagant as they are ? 
 
 Dem. I presume that I am not ; since, in every point, 
 my sentiments are the very reverse of theirs. 
 
 Her. There are follies of different kinds. By constantly 
 amusing thyself with the errors and misconduct of others, 
 thou mayst render thyself equally ridiculous and culpable. 
 
 Dem. Thou art at liberty to indulge such sentiments ; and 
 to weep over me too, if thou hast any tears to spare. For 
 my 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 irregular in their lives ? 
 
 Her. Alas ! there is but too much reason to believe they 
 are so ; and on this ground, I pity and deplore their condi- 
 tion. We agree in this point, that men do not conduct 
 themselves according to reasonable and just principles ; but 
 I, who do not suffer myself to act as they do, must yet re- 
 gard the dictates of my understanding and feelings, which 
 compel me to love them ; and that love fills me with com- 
 passion for their mistakes and irregularities. Canst thou 
 condemn me for pitying my own species, my brethren, 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 wounds 
 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 thou art so destitute 
 of humanity, as to ridicule those who appear to be deprived 
 of the noble powers of the understanding, by the little regard 
 \vhich they pay to its dictates. 
 
 Dem. He who has lost a leg is to be pitied, because the 
 loss is not to be imputed to himself ; but he who rejects the 
 dictates of reason and conscience, voluntarily deprives him- 
 self of their aid. The loss originates in his own folly. 
 
 Her. Ah ! so much the more is he to be pitied ! A furious 
 maniac wno should pluck out his own eyes, would deserve 
 more compassion than an ordinary blind man. 
 
104 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1 
 
 Dem. Come, let us accommodate the business. There 
 is something to be said on each side of the question. There 
 is every where reason for laughing, and reason for weeping. 
 The world is ridiculous, and I laugh at it ; it is deplorable, 
 and thou lamentest over it. Every person views it in his 
 own way, and according to his own temper. One point is 
 unquestionable ; that mankind are preposterous : to think 
 right, and to act well, we must think and act differently 
 from them. To submit to the authority, arid to follow the 
 example of the greater part of men, would render us foolish 
 and miserable. 
 
 Her. All this is, indeed, true ; but then thou hast no real 
 love or feeling for thy species. The calamities of mankind 
 excite thy mirth ; and this proves that* thou hast no regard 
 for men, nor any tme respect for the virtues which they have 
 unhappily abandoned. Fenelon, Archbishop of Cambray 
 
 SECTION II, 
 
 DIONYSIUS, PYTHIAS, AND DAMON. 
 
 Genuine Virtue commands Respect, even from the Bad. 
 
 Dionijsius. AMAZING ! What do I see ? It is Pythias 
 just arrived. It is indeed Pythias. 1 did not think it pos- 
 sible. He is come to die, and to redeem his friend ! 
 
 Pythias. Yes, it is Pythias. I left the place of my con- 
 finement, 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 1 Is it not the character of a madman, to seek it thus 
 voluntarily 1 
 
 Py. I return to suffer, though I have not deserved death. 
 Every 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 death which 
 was designed not for him, but for me only. 
 
 Dio. But thou supposest that it is as unjust to inflict 
 death upon thee, as upon thy friend. 
 
 Py. Very true ; we are both perfectly innocent ; and it 
 is equally unjust to make either of us suffer. 
 
CHAP. VII. DIALOG [JES. 105 
 
 Dio. Why dost thou then assert, that it were injustice to 
 put him to death, instead of thee ? 
 
 Py. It is unjust, 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 return ; 
 and that thou wouldst be put to death on his account ? 
 
 Da. I wairbut 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 no we* 
 of a tyrant. 
 
 Dio. It is well ! Thou shalt see him no moitt. i will 
 order thee to be put to death immediately. 
 
 Py. Pardon the feelings of a man who sympathizes with 
 his dying friend. But remember it was Pythias who was 
 devoted by thee to destruction. I come to submit to it, that 
 I may redeem my friend. Do not refuse me this consola- 
 tion in my last hour 
 
 Dio. 1 cannot endure men who despise deatn, and set my 
 pdwer 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 plea 
 sure, has merited his life, and deserved thy favour ; but 1 
 have excited thy indignation, by resigning myself to thy 
 
106 THE ENGLISH READER. PART! 
 
 power, in order to save him ; be satisfied, then, with this 
 sacrifice, 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 worthy to be so! I have hitherto known 
 nothing of true virtue. I have spent my life in darkness 
 and error. All rny power and honours are insufficient to 
 produce love. I cannot boast of having acquired a single 
 tViend 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, who hast never loved any person, 
 .expect to have friends ] If thou hadst loved and respected 
 men, thou wouldst have secured their love and respect. Thou 
 hast feared mankind, and they fear thee; they detest thee. 
 
 Dio. Damon, Pythias, condescend to admit me as a thtirt 
 friend, in a connexion so perfect. I give you your lives, 
 and I will load you with riches. 
 
 Da. Yfe 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 just. Without these qualities, thou 
 canst be connected with none but trembling slaves, and base 
 flatterers. To be loved and esteemed by men of free and 
 generous minds, thou must be virtuous, affectionate, dis- 
 interested, beneficent ; and know how to live in a sort 01 
 ^(juality with those who share and deserve thy friendship. 
 Fenelon, Archbishop of Cambray. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 LOCKE AND BAYLE. 
 
 Christianity defended against the cavils of Scepticism. 
 
 Bayle. YES, we both were philosophers ; but my philo- 
 <*ophy 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 difficulties 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 mankin I, that one may 
 feave the convenience of thinking that one knows something 
 
OHAP. til. DIALOGUES. 1<# 
 
 I find that the eyes which nature has given me, see many 
 things very clearly, though some are out of their reach, or 
 discerned but dimly. What opinion ought I to have of a 
 physician, who should offer me an eye-water, the use of 
 which would at first so sharpen my sight, as to carry it far- 
 ther than ordinary vision ; but Would in the end put them 
 out ? Your philosophy is to the eyes of the mind, what I have 
 supposed the doctor's nostrum to be to those of the body. It 
 actually brought your own excellent understanding, which 
 was by nature quick-sighted, and rendered more so by art x 
 and a subtility of logic peculiar to yourself it brought, 1 
 ^y? your very acute understanding to see nothing clearly ; 
 and enveloped all the great truths of reason and religion in 
 mists of doubt. 
 
 Bayle. I own it did ; but your comparison is not just. 
 f did not see well, before I used my philosophic eye-water ; 
 I only supposed I saw well ; but I was in an error, with all 
 fche rest of mankind. The blindness was real, the percep- 
 tions were imaginary. 1 cured myself first of those false ima- 
 ginations, and then I laudably endeavoured to cure other men. 
 
 Locke. A great cure indeed ! and do not you think that, 
 in return for the service you did them, they ought to erect 
 you a statue 1 
 
 Bayle. Yes ; it is good for human nature to know its own 
 weakness. When we arrogantly presume on a strength we 
 nave 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. 1 agree with you, that human nature should know 
 its own weakness ; but it should also feel its strength, and 
 try to improve it. This was my employment as a philoso- 
 pher. I endeavoured to discover the real powers of the 
 mind, t&jfce 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 had the 
 line and the plummet always in my hands. Many of its 
 depths I found myself unable to fathom ; but, by caution in 
 founding, and the careful observations I made in the course of 
 my voyage, I found out some truths of so much use to man- 
 kind, that they acknowledge me to have been their benefactor. 
 
 Bayle. Their ignorance makes them think so. Some other 
 philosopher will come hereafter, and show those truths to be 
 falsehoods. He will pretend to discover other truths of 
 
108 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L 
 
 equal 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 phaenome- 
 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 knmoveable as the 
 pillars of heaven ; or (to speak philosophically) as the great 
 laws of Nature, by which, under God, the universe is sus- 
 tained. Can you seriously think, that because the hypothe- 
 sis of your countryman, Descartes, which was nothing bat an 
 ingenious, well-imagined romance, has been lately exploded^ 
 the system of Newton, which 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 schoolmen, cannot now be supported, the 
 doctrines of that religion, which I, the declared enemy of 
 all enthusiasm and false reasoning, firmly believed and main- 
 tained, will ever be shaken ? 
 
 Bayle. If you had asked Descartes, while he was in the 
 height of his vogue, whether his system would ever be con 
 futed by any other philosophers, as that of Aristotle had been 
 by his, what answer do you suppose he would have returned? 
 
 Locke. Come, come, you yourself know the difference be- 
 tween the foundations on which the credit of those systems, 
 and that of Newton, is placed. Your scepticism is more af- 
 fected than real, "iou found it a shorter way to a great re- 
 putation (the only wish of your heart,) to object, than to de- 
 fend ; to pull down, than to set up. And your talents were 
 admirable for that kind of work. Then your huddling to- 
 gether in a Critical Dictionary, a pleasant tale, or obscene 
 jest, and a grave argument against the Christian religion, a 
 witty confutation of some absurd author, and an artful sophism 
 to impeach some respectable truth, was particularly comruc 
 dious to all our young smarts and smattereis in free-think- 
 ing. But what mischief have you not done to human society? 
 You have endeavoured, and with some degree of success, to 
 shake those foundations on which the whole moral world, 
 arid the great fabric of social happiness, entirely rest. How 
 
CHAP. VII. DIALOGUES. 109 
 
 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 gives to virtue its sweet- 
 est hopes, to impenitent vice its greatest fears, and to true 
 penitence its best consolations ; which restrains even the least 
 approaches to guilt, and yet makes those allowances for the 
 infirmities of our nature, which the Stoic pride denied to it ; 
 but which its real imperfection, and the goodness of its infi 
 nitely benevolent Creator, so evidently require? 
 
 Bayle. The mind is free ; and it loves to exert its free- 
 dom. Any restraint upon it is a violence done to its nature, 
 And a tyranny, against which it has a right to rebel. 
 
 Locke. The mind, though free, has a governor within it- 
 ,self, which may and ought to limit the exercise of its free- 
 dom. k That governor is reason. 
 
 Bayle. Yes: but reason, like other governors, has a. 
 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 
 that any man may lawfully oppose this desire in another, 
 and that if he is wise, he will use his utmost endeavours to 
 check it in himself. 
 
 Locke. Is there not also a weakness of a contrary nature 
 to this you are now ridiculing'? 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 fol- 
 ly, another pulls it down. 
 
 Locke. Do you think it beneficial to human society, tc 
 have all temples pulled down? 
 
 Bayle. I cannot say that I do. 
 
 Locke. Yet I find not in your writings any mark of dig 
 tinction, to show us which you mean to save. 
 
 Bayle. A true philosopher, like an impartial historian, 
 must be of no sect, 
 
 Locke. Is there no medium between the blind zeal of a 
 sectary, and a total indifference to all religion ? 
 
 Bayle. With regard to morality, I was not indifferent. 
 
 Lccke. How could you then be inuitferent with regard to 
 the sanctions religion gives to -morality 1 How could you pub- 
 ish what fends so directly arid apparently to weaken in maaj 
 
 K 
 
110 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L 
 
 kind the belief of those sanctions 1 Was not this sacrificing 
 the great interests of virtue to the little motives of vanity? 
 
 Bayle. 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 alleviation of his fault. But your cool head and sound 
 judgment can have no such excuse. I know very well there 
 are passages in all your works, and those not few, where you 
 talk 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 
 moral duties, what avail's it that in others, or in the conduct 
 of your life, you appeared to respect them 1 How many, 
 who have stronger passions than you had, and are desirous to 
 get rid of the curb that restrains them, will lay hold of your 
 scepticism, to set themselves loose from all obligations of vir- 
 tue ! 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 had been one of the dullest of Dutch theologians, or 
 the most credulous monk in a Portuguese convent. The 
 riches of the mind, like those of fortune, may be employed 
 so perversely, as to become a nuisance and pest, instead of 
 an ornament and support to society. 
 
 .Bayle. 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- 
 sider how 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 
 hey 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 
 Mame me for striking at the root of these evils? 
 
 Locke. The root of these evils, you well know, was false 
 religion; but you struck at the true. Heaven and hell are not 
 more different, than the system of faith I defended, and that 
 ivhieh produced the horrors of which you speak. Whj 
 would you so fallaciously confound them together in some of 
 four writings, that it r< quires much more judgment, and a 
 more diligent attention^ than ordinary readers have, to sepa- 
 rate them again, and tr make the proper distinctions t This, 
 
CHAP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. .11 
 
 Indeed, is the great art of the most celebrated free-thinkers. 
 The} r 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 these 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 them may have thus deceived them- 
 selves, 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 beer* 
 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 religion. 
 
 Locke. A wise prescription, indeed, to bring on a paraly- 
 tical state of the mind, (for such a scepticism as yours is a 
 palsy, which deprives the mind of all vigour, and deadens its 
 natural and vital powers,) in order to take off a fever, which 
 temperance, and the milk of the evangelical doctrines, would 
 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 drugs, 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 of it is unhappily lost. LORD LYTTLETON, 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 PUBLIC SPEECHES. 
 
 -^>c*> 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 CICERO against VERRES. 
 
 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 trials, 
 is effectually put in your power. An opinion has long pre- 
 vailed, not only here at home, but likewise in foreign coun- 
 
112 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 5 
 
 tries, both dangerous to you, and pernicious to the state- 
 that, in prosecutions, men of wealth are always safe, how 
 ever clearly convicted. 
 
 2 There is now to be brought upon his trial before you, to 
 the confusion, I hope, of the propagators of this slanderous 
 imputation, one whose life and actions condemn him in the 
 opinion of impartial persons ; but who, according to his own 
 reckoning, and declared dependence upon his riches, is already 
 acquitted ; I mean Caius Yerres. I demand justice of you, 
 fathers, upon the robber of the public treasury, the oppressor 
 of Asia Minor and Pamphylia, the invader of the rights and 
 privileges of Romans, the scourge and curse of Sicily. 
 
 3 If that sentence is passed upon him which his crimes de- 
 serve, your authority, fathers, will be venerable and sacred 
 in the eyes of the public : but if his great riches should bias you 
 in his favour, I shall still gain one point to make it apparent 
 to all the world, that \vhat was wanting in this case, was not 
 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 
 held, what does it exhibit, but one continued scene of villa- 
 mes 1 Cneius Carbo, plundered of the public money by his 
 own treasurer, a consul stripped and betrayed, an army de- 
 serted and reduced to want, a province robbed, the civil and 
 religious rights of a people violated. 
 
 5 The employment he held in Asia Minor and Pamphylia, 
 what did it produce but the ruin of those countries] In which 
 houses, cities, and temples, were robbed by him. What 
 was his conduct in his prsetorship here at home ? Let the 
 plundered temples, and public works neglected, that he 
 might embezzle the money intended for carrying them on, 
 bear witness. How did he discharge the office of a judge? 
 Let those who suffered by his injustice answer. 
 
 6 But his prastorship 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 anany 
 years, 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, upon their coming under the protection of the com- 
 monwealth ; nor of the natural and unalienable rights of men 
 
CHAP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 113 
 
 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 faithful allies of the commonwealth have been 
 treated as enemies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been 
 put to deatii with tortures. The most atrocious criminals, for 
 money, ha\e been exempted from the deserved punishments ; 
 and men oi the most unexceptionable characters, condemned 
 and banished unheard. 
 
 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 ; 
 <vhole fleets, to the great detriment of the province, suffered 
 co 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. 
 
 Ill 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 coast, to put to 
 the infamous death of crucifixion, that unfortunate and inno- 
 cent citizen Publius Gavius Cosanus, only for his having as- 
 serted his privilege of citizenship, arid declared his intention 
 of appealing to the justice of his* oountry, against the cruel 
 oppressor, who had unjustly confined him in prison at Syra- 
 cuse, whence he had just made his escape ? 
 
 13 The unhappy man, arrested as he was gciugto embark 
 for his native country, is brought before the wsskes pretax* 
 
 K 2 
 
114 , THE ENGLISH READER. PART I 
 
 With eyes darting fury* and a countenance distorted with 
 cruelty, he orders the helpless victim of his rage to he strip- 
 ped, and rods to he brought ; accusing him. but without the 
 least 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 
 a Roman citizen; I have served under Lucius Pretius, who 
 is now at Panormus, and will attest my innocence." The 
 blood-thirsty praetor, deaf to all he* could urge in his own de- 
 fence, ordered the infamous punishment to be inflicted. 
 
 15 Thus, fathers, was an innocent Roman citizen publicly 
 mangled with scourging; whilst the only words he uttered, 
 amidst his cruel sufferings, were, " I am a Roman citizen '." 
 HVith these he hoped to defend himself from violence and infa- 
 nt j". But of so little service was this privilege to him, that, 
 while he was thus asserting his citizenship, the order vi as 
 given for his execution for his execution upon the cross ! 
 
 16 O liberty ! O sound once delightful to every Roman 
 ear! O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship ! once 
 sacred !-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 province, 
 within 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 1 
 
 17 Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony, 
 nor the tears of pitying spectators, nor the majesty of the 
 Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice of his 
 country, restrain the licentious and wanton cruelty of a mon- 
 ster, who, in confidence of his riches, strikes at the root oi 
 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 II 
 
 Speech O/ADHERBAL to the Roman Senate, imploring then 
 
 protection against JUGURTHA, 
 FATHERS! 
 
 IT is known to you, that king Micipsa. my father, on hn 
 death-bed, left in charge to Jugurtha, his adopted son, con- 
 junctly with my unfortunate brother Hiempsal and myself, 
 
CHAP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 115 
 
 the children of his own body, the adminstration of the king- 
 dom of Numidia, directing us to consider the senate and peo- 
 ple of Rome as proprietors of it. He charged us to use 
 our best endeavours to be serviceable to the Roman com- 
 monwealth ; assuring us, that your protection would prove 
 a defence against all enemies ; and would be instead of ar- 
 mies, fortifications, and treasures. 
 
 2 While my brother and I were thinking of nothing but how 
 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 hu- 
 manity, and trampling on the authority of the Roman com- 
 monwealth, procured the murder of my unfortunate brother ; 
 and has driven me from my throne and native country, though 
 he knows I inherit, from my grandfather Massinissa, and my 
 father Micipsa, the friendship and alliance of the Romans. 
 
 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 obliged 
 to solicit your assistance, fathers, for the services done you 
 by my ancestors, not for any I 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 
 e^ery support, and reduced to the necessity of begging fo- 
 reign assistance, against an enemy who has seized my throne 
 and my kingdom if my unequalled distresses were all I haa 
 to plead it would become the greatness of the Roman com- 
 monwealth, to protect the injured, and to check the triumph 
 of daring wickedness over helpless innocence. 
 
 5 But, to provoke your resentment to the utmost, Jugur- 
 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 my father, under your umbrage, 
 expelled Syphax and the Carthagenians. Thus, fathers, 
 your kindness to our family is defeated; and Jugurtha, in 
 Injuring me, throws contempt upon you. 
 
 6 O wretched prince ! Oh cruel reverse of fortune ! Oh 
 father Micipsa! Is this the consequence of thy generosity; 
 that he whom thy goodness raised to an equality with thy own - 
 children, should be the murderer of thy children ? Mutt, 
 
119 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L 
 
 then, the royal house of Numidia always be a scene of havoc 
 and blood ? 
 
 7 While Carthage remained, we suffered, as was to be 
 expected, all sorts of hardships from their hostile attacks ; 
 our enemy near ; our only powerful ally, the Roman 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 of Numidia drenched with royal blood! and the only 
 surviving son of its late king, flying from an adopted mur- 
 derer, and seeking that safety in foreign parts, which he 
 cannot command in his own kingdom. 
 
 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, those 
 hands which are now reeking with my brother's ? If I were 
 to fly for refuge, or for assistance to any other court, from 
 what prince can I hope for protection, if the Roman com- 
 monwealth give me up ? From my own family or friends 
 I have no expectations. 
 
 9 My royal father is no more. He is beyond the reacL 
 of violence, and out of hearing of the complaints of his un 
 happy son. Were rny brother alive, our mutual sympathy 
 would be some alleviation. But he is hurried out of life, in 
 his early youth, by the very hand which should Jiave been the 
 last to injure any of the royal family of Numidia. 
 
 10 The bloody Jugurtha has butchered all whom he sus- 
 pected 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 
 they are shut up in dungeons, there to drag out a life more 
 intolerable than death itself. 
 
 11 Look down, illustrious senators of Rome! from that 
 height of power to which you are raised, on the unexampled 
 distresses of a prince, who is, by the cruelty of a wicked in- 
 truder, become .an outcast from all mankind. Let not the 
 crafty insinuations of him who returns murder for adoption, 
 prejudice your judgment. Do not listen to the wretch who 
 has butchered the son and relations of a king, who gave him 
 power to sit on the same throne with his own sons. 
 
 121 have been informed that he labours by his emissaries 
 to prevent your determining any thing against him in his ah- 
 peace ; pretending that I magnify my distress, and might, 
 
CHAP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES 
 
 for him, have staid in peace in my own kingdom. But, if 
 ever the time comes, when the due vengeance from abwe 
 shall overtake him, he will then dissemble as 1 do. Tiin 
 he who, now hardened in wickedness, triumphs over those 
 whom his violence has laid low, will, in his turn, leel dis- 
 tress, and suffer for his impious ingratitude to my father, 
 and his blood-thirsty cruelty to my brother. 
 
 13 Oh murdered, butchered brother! Oh, dearest to my 
 heart now gone for ever from my sight ! but why should 
 I lament his death ? He is, indeed, deprived of the blessed 
 light of heaven, of life, and kingdom, at once, by the very 
 person who ought to have been the first to hazard his own 
 life, in defence of any one of Micipsa's family. But, as 
 things are, my brother is not so much deprived of these com- 
 forts, as delivered from terror, from flight, from exile, am) "* 
 the endless train of miseries which render life to me a burden. 
 
 14 He lies full low, gored with wounds, and festering in 
 his own blood. But he lies in peace. He feels none of 
 the miseries which rend my soul with agony and distraction, 
 while I am set up a spectacle to all mankind, of the uncer- 
 tainty of human affairs. So far from having it in my power 
 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, I am ob 
 liged to apply for foreign protection for my own person. 
 
 15 Fathers! Senators of Rome! the arbiters of nations! 
 to you I fly for refuge from the murderous fury of Jugur- 
 tha. By your affection for your children ; by your love for 
 your country ; by your own virtues ; by the majesty of the 
 Roman 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 Numidia, 
 which is your own property, from being the prey of violence, 
 usurpation, and cruelty. SALLUST 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 The APOSTLE CAUL'S defence before FESTUS and 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 Jews ; especial- 
 f y> as I know thee to be expert in all customs and questions 
 which are among the Jews. Wherefore I beseech thee to 
 hear me patiently 
 
118 THE ENGLISH READER. PARI 1. 
 
 2 My manner of life from my youth, which was at chc 
 first among my own nation at Jerusalem, know all the Jews, 
 who knew me from the beginning, (if they would testify,) 
 that after the straitest sect of our religion, I lived a Pharisee. 
 And now I stand and am judged for the hope of the promise 
 made by God to our fathers ; to which promise our twelve 
 tribes, continually serving God day and night, hope to 
 come ; and, for this hope's sake, king Agrippa, I am 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 1 did in Jerusalem. Many of 
 the saints I 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 went to Damascus, with authority and com 
 mission from the chief priests, at mid-day, O king ! I saw 
 in the way a light from heaven, above the brightness of the 
 sun, shining round about me, and them who journeyed with 
 me. And when we were all fallen to the earth, I heard a 
 voice speaking to me and saying, in the Hebrew tongue, 
 Saul, Saul, why 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 thou 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 both of these things which thou hast seen, and of those 
 things in which I w r ill 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 sins, 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, and 
 then to the Gentiles, that they should repent, and turn to 
 God, and do works meet for repentance. For these causes, 
 the Jews caught me in the temple, and went about to kill 
 me. Having, however, obtained help from God, I con- 
 tinue to this day, witnessing both to small and great, saying 
 
PUBLIC SPEECHES 119 
 
 no oteer things than those which the prophets and Moses 
 declared should come : that Christ should suffer ; that he 
 would oe the first who should rise from the dead ; and that 
 he would show light to the people, and to the Gentiles. 
 
 7 And as he thus spoke for himself, Festus said, with a 
 loud voice, " Paul, thou art beside thyself ; much learning 
 hath made thee mad." But he replied, I am not mad, 
 most noble Festus ; but speak the words of truth and sober- 
 ness. For the king knoweth these things, before whom T 
 also speak freely. I am persuaded that none of these things 
 are hidden from him ; for this thing was not done in a cor- 
 ner. King Agrippa, believest thou the prophets 1 1 know 
 that thou believest. Then Agrippa said to Paul, " Almost 
 thou persuadest me to be a Christian." And Paul replied 
 " I would to God, that not only thou, but also all that hear 
 me this day, were both almost, and altogether, such as I am, 
 except these bonds."* ACTS xxvi. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 LORD MANSFIELD'S Speech in the House of Peers, 1770, on 
 the Bill for preventing the delays of Justice, by claiming 
 the Privilege of Parliament. 
 
 MY LORDS, 
 
 WHEN I consider the importance of this bill to your lord- 
 ships, I am not surprised it has taken up so much of your 
 consideration. 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, certain privileges and 
 immunities of which they have been long possessed. Per- 
 haps there is no situation the human mind can be placed in, 
 that is so difficult and so trying, as when it is made a judge 
 in its own cause. 
 
 2 There is something implanted in the breast of man so 
 attached to self, so tenacious of privileges once obtained, 
 that in such a situation, either to discuss with impartiality, 
 or decide with justice, has ever been held the summit of all 
 fiuman virtue. The bill now in question puts your lord- 
 ships in this very predicament ; and I have no doubt the wis- 
 dom of your decision will convince the world, that where 
 eelf-interest and justice, are in opposite scales, the latter 
 will ever preponderate with your lordships. 
 
 * How happy was this great Apostle, even in the most perilous circumstance*. 
 Thouqh urnlor bonds and oppression, his mind was free, and raised above every fear 
 of man. With what dignity and composure does lie defend himself, and thf noble 
 cau.se he had espoused ; whilst he displays the most compassionate and generous feel- 
 ings, for ino&e who were strangers to tlie subliiae relijpou by which us was ai:unatd 
 
120 THE ENGLISH READER PART I. 
 
 3 Privileges have been granted to legislators in all ages, 
 *nd in all countries. The practice is founded in wisdom ; 
 And, indeed, it is peculiarly essential to the constitution of 
 this country, that the members of both houses should be free 
 in their persons, in cases of civil suits : for there may come 
 a time when the safety and welfare of this whole empire 
 may depend upon their attendance in parliament. I am fa- 
 from advising any measure that would in future endanger the 
 state : but the bill before your lordships has, I am confident, 
 no such tendency ; for it expressly secures the persons oi 
 members of either house in all civil suits. 
 
 4 This being the case, I confess, when I see many noble 
 lords, for whose judgment I have a very great respect, stand- 
 ing up to oppose a bill which is calculated merely to facili- 
 tate the recovery of just and legal debts, I am astonished 
 and amazed. 
 
 They, I doubt not, oppose the bill upon public principles : 
 I would not wish to insinuate that private interest had the 
 least weight in their determination. 
 
 5 The bill has been frequently proposed, and as frequent- 
 ly has miscarried : but it was always lost in the lower house. 
 Little did I think, when it had passed the Commons, that it 
 possibly could have met with such opposition here. Shall it 
 be said, that you, my lords, the grand council of the nation, 
 the highest judicial and legislative body of the realm, en- 
 deavour to evade, by privilege, those very laws which you 
 enforce on your fellow-subjects? Forbid it justice! lam 
 sure, were the noble lords as well acquainted as I am, with 
 but half the difficulties and delays occasioned in the courts 
 of justice, under pretence of privilege, they would not, nay, 
 they could not, oppose this bill. 
 
 6 I have waited with patience to hear what arguments 
 might be urged against the bill ; but I have waited in vain : 
 the truth is, there is no argument that can weigh against it. 
 The justice and expediency of the bill are such as render it 
 self-evident. It is a proposition of that nature, which can 
 neither be weakened by argument, nor entangled with soph- 
 istry. Much, indeed, has been said by* some noble lords, 
 on the wisdom of our ancestors, and how differently they 
 thought from us. They not only decreed, that privilege 
 should prevent all civil suits from proceeding during the sit- 
 ting of parliament, but likewise granted protection to the 
 very servants of members. I shall say nothing on the wis- 
 dom of our ancestors; it might perhaps appear i 
 
 that is not necessary in the present case* 
 
CHAP. TIL PUBLIC SPEECHES, 121 
 
 7 I shall only say, that the noble lords who flatter them- 
 selves with the weight of that reflection, should remember, 
 that as circumstances alter, things themselves should alter. 
 Formerly, it was not so fashionable either for masters, or ser- 
 vants, to run in debt, as it is at present. Formerly, we were 
 not that great commercial nation we are at present ; nor for- 
 merly were merchants and manufacturers members of parlia- 
 ment as at present. The case is now very different ; both 
 merchants and manufacturers are, with great propriety, 
 elected members of the lower house. 
 
 8 Commerce having thus got into the legislative body of 
 the kingdom, privilege must be done away. We all know 
 that the very soul and essence of trade are regular pay- 
 ments ; and sad experience teaches us, that there are men, 
 who will not make their regular payments, without the com- 
 pulsive power of the law. The law, then, ought to be equally 
 open to all. Any exemption to particular men, or parti- 
 cular ranks of men, is, in a free and commercial country, a 
 solecism of the grossest nature. 
 
 9 But I shall not trouble your lordships with arguments for 
 that which is sufficiently evident without any. I shall only 
 say a few words to some noble lords, who foresee much in- 
 convenience, from the persons of their servants being liable 
 to be arrested. One noble lord observes, that the coachman 
 of a peer may be arrested, while he is driving his master to 
 the House, and that, consequently, he will not be able to 
 attend to his duty in parliament. If this were actually to hap- 
 pen, there are so many methods by which the member might 
 etill get to the House, that I can hardly think the noble lord 
 is serious in his objection. 
 
 10 Another noble peer said, that, by this bill, one might 
 lose his most valuable and honest servants. This I hold to 
 be a contradiction in terms : for he can neither be a valuable 
 servant, nor an honest man, who gets into debt which he is 
 neither able nor willing to pay, till compelled by the law. 
 Ff my servant, by unforeseen accidents, has got into debt, and 
 I still wish to retain him, I certainly would pay the demand. 
 But upon no principle of liberal legislation whatever, can my 
 servant have a title to set his creditors at defiance, while, for 
 forty shillings only, the honest tradesman may be torn From 
 his family, and locked up in a gaol. It is monstrous injustice! 
 I flatter myself, however, the determination of this day wiD 
 entirely put an end to all these partial proceedings for the 
 future, by passing into a law the bill now under your lord- 
 ships' consideration. 
 
122 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L 
 
 111 now come to speak upon what, indeed, I would have 
 gladly avoided, had I not been particularly pointed at, for the 
 part I have taken in this bill. It has been said, by a noble 
 lord on my left hand, that I likewise am running the race ol 
 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 pieasing adviser, and 
 given up their mind to be the slave of every popular impulse, 
 I sincerely pity : I pity them still more, if ;heir 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 the 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 
 present popularity, that echo of folly, and shadow of renown, 
 I am at a loss to determine. Besides, I do not know that the 
 bill now 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 away any of the pri- 
 vileges of parliament ; for I very well remember, and many 
 of your lordships may remember, that, not long ago, the po- 
 pular crv was for the extension of privilege ; and so far did 
 they carry it at that time, th?t it was said, the privilege pro- 
 tected members even in criminal actions; nay, such was the 
 power of popular prejudices over weak minds, that the very 
 decisions of some of the courts were tinctured with that doc- 
 trine. It was undoubtedly an abominable doctrine. I thought 
 so then, and I thinK so still : but, nevertheless, it was a po- 
 pular doctrine, and carne immediately from 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. VIIL PUBLIC SPEECHES. 123 
 
 tice is equally administered to all ; to the king and to the beg- 
 gar* Where is the justice then, or where is the law, that 
 protects a member of parliament, more than any other man, 
 from the punishment due to his crimes'? The laws of this coun- 
 try allow of no place, nor any employment, to be a sanctuary 
 for crimes ; and where I have the honour to sit as judge, neither 
 royal favour, nor popular applause, shall protect the guilty. 
 
 171 have now only to beg pardon for having employed so 
 much of your lordships' time ; and 1 am sorry a bill, fraught 
 with so many good consequences, 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 Address to Young Persons. 
 
 I INTEND, in this address, to show you the importance of 
 beginning early to give serious attention to your conduct. As 
 soon as you 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 wise and steady conduct, attain distinction in the 
 world, and pass their days with comfort and honour ; others, of 
 the same rank, by mean and vicious behaviour, forfeit the ad- 
 vantages of their birth ; involve themselves in much misery ; and 
 end in being a disgrace to their friends, 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, what can be of greater moment than to regulate your 
 plan of conduct ^Yith the most serious attention, before you 
 have yet committed any fatal or irretrievable errors ? 
 
 3 If, instead of exerting reflection for this valuable purpose, 
 - you deliver yourselves 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 ; 
 if you allow yourselves to float loose and careless on the tide 
 of life, ready to receive any direction which the current of 
 fashion may chance to give you ; what can you expect to fol- 
 low from such beginnings ? 
 
 4 While so many around you are undergoing the sad con- 
 sequences of a like indiscretion, for what reason shall not those 
 
124 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. 
 
 consequences extend to you ? Shall you attain success with- 
 out that preparation, and escape dangers without that precau- 
 tion, which are required of others 1 Shall happiness grow 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 labour and care ? 
 
 5 Deceive not yourselves with those arrogant hopes.-What- 
 ever bo 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 your 
 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 refuseth 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 ; 
 but by delivering yourselves up at present to giddiness and 
 levity, you lay the foundation of lasting heaviness of heart. 
 
 7 When you look forward 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- ' 
 quircment of virtuous dispositions and habits. This is the uni- 
 versal preparation for every character, and eveiy station in life. 
 
 8 Bad as the world is, respect is always paid 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 parts without 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 mind, and the weight which 
 st adds to character; the generous sentiments which it breathes ; 
 the undaunted spirit which it inspires ; the ardour of diligence 
 which it quickens ; the freedom which it procures from per- 
 nicious and dishonourable avocations ; are the foundations of 
 all that is highly honourable, or greatly successful among men. 
 
 10 Whatever ornamental or engaging endowments you now 
 possess, virtue is a necessary requisite, in order to their shin- 
 
 , itb proper lustre. Feeble are the attractions of the fair* 
 
CHAP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 125 
 
 est form, if it be suspected that nothing within corresponds to 
 the pleasing appearance without. Short are the triumphs of 
 wit, when it is supposed to be the vehicle of malice. 
 
 1 1 By whatever means you may at first attract the atten- 
 tion, you can hold the esteem, and secure the hearts of others, 
 only by amiable dispositions, and the accomplishments of the 
 mind. These are the qualities 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 your future felicity and honour. Now 
 is the seed-time of life ; and according to " what you sow, 
 you shall reap." Your character is now, under 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 powersaremore 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 is likely to continue. It will form the 
 channel in which your life is to run ; nay, it may determine 
 its everlasting issue. Consider then the employment of this 
 important period, as the highest trust which shall ever be com- 
 mitted to you ; as in a great measure, decisive of your happi- 
 ness, in time, and in eternity. 
 
 15 As in the succession of the seasons, each, by the invari-' 
 able laws of nature, affects the productions of what is next in 
 course ; so, in human life, every period of our age, according 
 as it is well or ill spent, influences the happiness of that which 
 is to follow. Virtuous youth gradually brings forward ac- 
 complished and flourishing manhood ; and such manhood, 
 passes of itself, without uneasiness, into respectable and tran 
 quil old age. 
 
 16 But when nature is* turned out of its regular course, dis- 
 order takes place in the moral, just as in the vegetable vrorld. 
 If the spring put forth no blossoms, in summer there will be 
 uo beauty, and in autumn, no fruit : so, if youth be trifled 
 away without improvement, manhood will probably be con- 
 temptible, and old age miserable. If the beginnings of life 
 have been " vanity," its latter end can scarcely be any other 
 than " vexation of spirit." 
 
 17 I shall finish this address, with calling your attention to 
 that dependence on the blessing of Heaven, which, amidst all 
 
 L 2 
 
126 THE ENGLISH READER. 
 
 your endeavours after improvement, you ought continually tc 
 preserve. It is too common with the young, even when thej 
 resolve to tread the path of virtue and honour, to set out with 
 presumptuous confidence in themselves. 
 
 18 Trusting to their own abilities for carrying them success- 
 fully through life, they are careless of applying to God, or ol 
 deriving any assistance from what they are apt to reckon the 
 gloomy discipline of religion. Alas! how little do they know 
 the dangers which await them 1 ? Neither human wisdom, nor 
 human virtue, unsupported by religion, is equal to the trying 
 situations which often occur in life. 
 
 19 By the shock of temptation, how frequently have the 
 most virtuous intentions been overthrown? Under the pressure 
 of disaster, how often has the greatest constancy sunk] "Every 
 good, and every perfect gift, is from above." Wisdom and 
 virtue, as well as "riches and honour, come from God." Des* 
 titute of his favour, you are in no better situation, with all 
 your boasted abilities, than orphans left to wander in a track- 
 less desert, without any guide to conduct them, or any shelter 
 to cover them from the gathering storm. 
 
 20 Correct, then, this ill-founded arrogance. Expect not, 
 that your happiness can be independent of Him who made you, 
 By faith and repentance, apply to the Redeemer of the world. 
 By piety and prayer seek the protection of the God of heaven. 
 
 211 conclude with the solemn words, in which a great 
 prince delivered his dying charge to his son ; words, which 
 every young person ought to consider as addressed to himself, 
 and to engrave deeply on his heart : " Solomon, my son, know 
 thou the God of thy fathers ; and serve him with a perfect 
 heart, and with a willing mind. For the Lord searcheth all 
 hearts, and understacdeth all the imaginations of the thoughts. 
 If thou seek him, he will be found of thee; but if thou forsake 
 him, he will cast thee off forever." BLAIR. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 
 
 -~*}o~- 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 Earthquake at Calabria^ in the year 1638. 
 
 AN account of this dreadful earthquake, is given by the 
 
 celebrated father Kircher. It happened whilst lie was on hia 
 
 journey to visit mount JEtna, and the rest of the wonders that 
 
 lie towards the South of Italy. Kircher is considered, by 
 
CHAP. IX PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 127 
 
 scholars, as one of the greatest prodigies of learning. " Having 
 hired a boat, in company with four more, (two friars of the 
 order of St. Francis, and two seculars,) we launched from the 
 harbour of Messina, in Sicily ; and arrived, the same day, 
 at the promontory of Pelorus. Our destination was for the 
 city of Euphsemia, in Calabria, where we had some business 
 to transact, and where we designed to tarry for some time. 
 
 2 " However, Providence seemed willing to cross our de- 
 sign; for we were obliged to continue three days at Pelorus, 
 on account of the weather; and though we often put out to 
 sea, yet were as often driven back. At length, wearied with 
 the delay, we resolved to prosecute our voyage ; and, although 
 the sea seemed more than usually agitated, we ventured forward. 
 
 3 " The gulf of Charybdis, which we approached, seemed 
 whirled round in such a manner, as to form a vast hollow, 
 
 erging to a point in the centre. Proceeding onward, and 
 turning my eyes to -Etna, I saw it cast forth large volumes of 
 emoke, of mountainous sizes, which entirely covered the 
 island, and blotted out the very shores from my view. This, 
 together with the dreadful noise, and the sulphurous stench 
 which was strongly perceived, filled me with apprehensions, 
 that some more dreadful calamity was impending. 
 
 4 " The sea itself seemed to wear a very unusual appear- 
 ance : they who have seen a lake in a violent shower of rain, 
 covered all over with bubbles, will conceive some idea of its 
 agitations. My surprise was still increased, by the calmness 
 and serenity of the weather ; not a breeze, not a cloud, which 
 might be supposed to put all nature thus into motion. I there- 
 fore warned my companions, that an earthquake was approach- 
 ing; and, after some time, making for the shore with all 
 possible diligence, we landed at Tropa^a, happy and thankful 
 for having escaped the threatening dangers of the sea. 
 
 5 " But our triumphs at land were of short duration ; for 
 we had scarcely arrived at the Jesuits' College, in that city, 
 when our ears were stunned with a horrid sound, resembling 
 that of an infinite number of chariots, driven fiercely forward ; 
 the wheels rattling, and the thongs cracking. Soon after this, 
 a most dreadful earthquake ensued; the whole tract up on which 
 we stood seemed to vibrate, as if we were in the scale of a ba- 
 lance that continued wavering. This motion, however, soon 
 grew more violent ; and being no longer able to keep my legs, 
 I was thrown prostrate upon the ground. In the mean time, 
 the universal ruin round me redoubled my amazement. 
 
 6 " The crash of falling houses, the tottering of towers, and 
 the groans of the dying, all contributed to raisre my terror 
 
128 THE ENGLISH READER. PAHT I 
 
 mnd despair. On every side of me, I saw nothing but a scene 
 of ruin ; and danger threatening wherever I should fly. 1 
 recommended myself to God, as my last great refuge. 
 
 7 " At that hour, O how vain was every sublunary happi- 
 ness ! Wealth, honour, empire, wisdom, all mere useless 
 sounds, and as empty as the bubbles of the deep ! Just stand- 
 ing on the threshold of eternity, nothing but God was my plea- 
 sure ; and the nearei I approached, I only loved him the more. 
 
 8 " After some time, however, finding that I remained un- 
 hurt, amidst the general concussion, I resolved to venture for 
 safety ; and running as fast as I could, I reached the shore, 
 but almost terrified out of my reason. I did not search long 
 here, till I found the boat in which I had landed, and my 
 companions also, whose terrors were even greater than mine. 
 Our meeting was not of that kind, where every one is desirous 
 of telling his own happy escape ; it was all silence, and a 
 gloomy dread of impending terrors. 
 
 9 " Leaving this seat of desolation, we prosecuted our voy- 
 age along the coast ; and the next day came to Rochetta, 
 where we landed, although the earth still continued in violent 
 agitations. But we had scarcely arrived at our inn, when we 
 were once more obliged to return to the boat ; and, in about 
 half an hour, we saw the greater part of the town, and the 
 inn at which we had put up, dashed to the ground, and burying 
 the inhabitants beneath the ruins. 
 
 10 "In this manner, proceeding onward in our little ves- 
 sel, finding no safety at land, and yet, from the smallness of 
 our boat, having but a very dangerous continuance at sea, we 
 at length landed at Lopizium, a castle midway between Tro- 
 psea and Euphaemia, the city to which, as I said before, we 
 v ere bound. Here, wherever I turned my eyes, nothing 
 but scenes of ruin and horror appeared ; towns and castles 
 levelled to the ground ; Stromboli, though at sixty miles dis- 
 tance, belching forth flames in an unusual manner, and with 
 fc noise which I could distinctly hear. 
 
 1 1 * But my attention was quickly turned from more re- 
 mote, te contiguous danger. The rumbling sound of an ap- 
 proaching earthquake, which we by this time were grown 
 acquainted with, alarmed us for the consequences ; it every 
 moment seemed to grow louder, and to approach nearer. 
 The place on which we stood now began to shake most dread- 
 fully : so that being unable to stand, my companions arid l 
 caught hold of whatever shrub grew next to us, and support- 
 ed ourselves in that manner. 
 
 12 " After some time, this violent paroxysm creasing, w 
 
CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 129 
 
 again stood up, in order to prosecute our voyage to Euphse- 
 mia, which lay within sight. In the mean time, while we 
 were preparing for this purpose, I turned my eyes towards the 
 city, but could see only a frightful dark cloud, that seemed to 
 rest upon the place. This the more surprised us, as the 
 weather was so very serene. 
 
 13 " We waited, therefore, till the cloud had passed away : 
 then turning to look for the city, it was totally sunk. Won- 
 derful to tell ! nothing hut a dismal and putrid lake was seen 
 where it stood. We looked about to find some one that could 
 tell us of its sad catastrophe, but could see no person. All was 
 become a melancholy solitude ; a scene of hideous desolation. 
 
 14 u Thus proceeding pensively along, in quest of some 
 human being that could give us a little information, we at 
 length saw a hoy sitting by the shore, and appearing stupified 
 with terror. Of him, therefore, we enquired concerning tire 
 fate of the city ; but he could not be prevailed on to give us 
 an answer. 
 
 15 " We entreated him, with every expression of tenderness 
 and pity, to tell us; but his senses were quite wrapt up i$ the 
 contemplation of the danger he had escaped. We offered 
 liim some victuals, but he seenied to loath the sight. We still 
 persisted in our offices of kindness ; but he only pointed to 
 the place of the city, like one out of his senses ; and then, 
 running up into the woods, was never heard of after. Sucb 
 \vas the fate of the city of Euphsemia. 
 
 16 "As we continued our melancholy course along the 
 shore, the whole coast, for the space of two hundred miles > 
 presented nothing but the remains of cities; and men scatter- 
 ed, without a habitation, over the fields. Proceeding thus 
 along, we at length ended our distressful voyage by arriving 
 at Naples, after having escaped a thousand dangers both at 
 sea arid land." GOLDSMITH. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 Letter from PLINY to GEMINIUS. 
 
 DO we riot sometimes observe a sort of people, who 
 though they are themselves under the abject dominion of every 
 vice, show a kind of malicious resentment against the errors 
 of others, and are most severe upon those whom they most 
 resemble 1 yet, surely a lenity of disposition, even in persons 
 who have the least occasion for clemency themselves, is of all 
 virtues the most becoming. 
 
 2. The highest of all characters, in my estimation, is his 
 who is as ready to pardon the errors of mankind, as if he were 
 ivery day guilty of some himself j and, at the same time, as 
 
130 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. 
 
 cautious of committing a fault, as if he never forgave one. 
 it is a rule, then, which we should, upon all occasions, both 
 private and public, most religiously observe : " to be inexo- 
 rable to our own failings, while we treat those of the rest of the 
 world with tenderness ; not excepting even such as forgive 
 none but themselves." 
 
 3 I shall, perhaps, be asked, who it is that has given occa- 
 sion to these reflections. Know then that a certain person 
 lately but of that when we meet though, upon second 
 thoughts, not even then; lest, whilst I condemn and expose 
 his conduct, I shall act counter to that maxim I particularly 
 recommend. Whoever, therefore, and whatever he is, shall 
 remain ir> silence : for though there may be some use, per- 
 haps, in setting a mark upon the man, for the sake of exam- 
 ple, there will be more, however, in sparing him for the sake 
 of humanity. Farewell. MELMOTH'S PLINY. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 Letter from PLINY to MARCELLINUS on the death of an 
 amiable young Woman. 
 
 1 WRITE this under the utmost oppression of sorrow : the 
 youngest daughter of my friend Fundanus, is dead ! Never, 
 surely, was there a more agreeable, and more amiable young 
 person ; or one wbo better deserved to have enjoyed a long, I 
 had almost said, an immortal life ! She had all the wisdom ol 
 age, and discretion of a matron, joined with youthful sweet- 
 ness and virgin modesty. 
 
 2 With what an engaging fondness did she behave to her 
 father! How kindly and respectfully receive his friends ! How 
 affectionately treat all those who, in their respective offices, 
 had the care and education of her! She employed much of 
 her time in reading, in which she discovered great strength of 
 judgment ; she indulged herself in few diversions, and those 
 with much caution. With what forbearance, with what pa- 
 tience, with what courage did she endure her last illness ! 
 
 3 She complied with all the directions of her physicians ; 
 she encouraged her sister, and her father; and, when all her 
 strength of body was exhausted, supported herself by the sin- 
 gle vigour of her mind. That, indeed, continued, even to 
 her last moments, unbroken by the pain of a long illness, or 
 the terrors of approaching death; and it is a reflection which 
 makes the louss of her so much the more to be lamented. A 
 loss infinitely severe! and more severe by the particular con* 
 juncture in which it happened ! 
 
 4 She was contracted to a most worthy youth ; the wed- 
 ding day was fixed, and we were all invited. How sad a 
 
CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 131 
 
 change, from the highest joy to the deepest sorrow ! How 
 shall I express the wound that pierced my heart, when 1 
 heard Fundarius himself, (as grief is ever finding out circum- 
 stances to aggravate its afflictions,) ordering the money he had 
 designed to lay out upon clothes and jewels for her mar- 
 riage, to be employed in myrrh and spices for her funeral! 
 
 5 He is a man of great learning and good sense, who has 
 applied himself, from his earliest youth, to the noblest and 
 most elevated studies: but all the maxims of fortitude which 
 he has received from books, or advanced himself, he now ab- 
 solutely rejects ; and every other virtue of his heart gives ^place 
 to all a parent's tenderness. We shall excuse, we shall even 
 approve his sorrows when we consider what he has lost. He 
 has lost a daughter, who resembled him in his manners, as well 
 as his person ; and exactly copied out all her father. 
 
 6 If his friend Marcellinus shall think proper to write to 
 him, upon the subject of so reasonable a grief, let me remind 
 him not to use the rougher arguments of consolation, and 
 such as seem to carry a sort of reproof with them ; but those 
 of kind and sympathizing humanity. 
 
 7 Time will render him more open to the dictates of reason. 
 for as a fresh wound shrinks back from the hand of the sur- 
 geon, but by degrees submits to, and even requires the means 
 of its cure ; so a mind, under the first impressions of a mis- 
 fortune, shuns and rejects all arguments of consolation ; but 
 at length, if applied with tenderness, calmly and willingly 
 acquiesces in them. Farewell. MELMOTH'S PLINY. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 On Discretion. 
 
 1 HAVE often thought, if the minds of men were laid open, 
 we should see but little difference between that of a wise man, 
 and that o* a fool. There are infinite reveries, numberless 
 extravagances, and a succession of vanities, which pass 
 through both. The great difference is, that the first knows 
 how to pick and cull his thoughts for conversation, by sup- 
 pressing some, and communicating others ; whereas the other 
 lets them all indifferently fly out in wordsl This sort of dis- 
 cretion, however, has no place in private conversation be- 
 tween intimate friends. On such occasions, the wisest men 
 very often talk like the weakest; for, indeed, talking with a 
 friend is nothing else than thinking 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 room to become 
 fcis Irierid; and with his- frientl !n such a mannter, that- If 
 
132 THE ENGLISH READER. 
 
 he 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 dig- 
 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 
 ^s just enough to accuse the perfidiousness of the friend, ra- 
 ther than 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 sprightly in errors, and active to his own prejudice* 
 
 4 Discretion does not only make a man the master of his 
 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 may observe, that it is 
 the discreet man, not the witty, norjhe learned, nor the brave, 
 who guides the conversation, and gives measures to society. 
 A man with great talents, but void of discretion, is like Po- 
 lyphemus in the fable, strong and blind ; endued with an ir- 
 resistible force, which, for want of sight, is of no use to him. 
 
 5 Though a man has all other perfections, .yet \ c 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 
 bu a common share of others, he may do what he pleases in 
 his particular station of life. 
 
 6 At the same time that I think discretion the most usefu, 
 talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the 
 accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discre- 
 tion points out the noblest ends to us, and pursues the most 
 proper and laudable methods of attaining them : cunning has 
 only private, selfish aims, and sticks at nothing which may 
 make them succeed. 
 
 7 Discretion kas large and extended views ; and, like a 
 well-form*** eye, .commands a whole horizon : cunning is a 
 
CHAP- IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. . 31 
 
 kind of shcrt-sightedness, that discovers the minutest object? 
 which are near at hand, but is not able to discern things at o 
 distance. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greatei 
 authority to the person who possesses it : cunning, when it is 
 once detected, loses its force, and makes a man incapable of 
 bringing about even those events which he* 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 ; cunning is a kind of instinct, that 
 only looks out after bur immediate interest and welfare. 
 Discretion 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 persons who are but the fewest removes from 
 them. In short, cunning is only the mimic of discretion ; 
 and it may pass on weak men, in the same manner as vivacity 
 is often mistaken for wit, and gravity for wisdom. 
 
 9 The cast of mind which is natural to a discreet man, 
 makes him look forward into futurity, and consider what will 
 be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is 
 at present. He knows that the misery or happiness which 
 is reserved for him in another world, loses nothing of its re- 
 ality by being placed at a greater distance from him. The 
 objects do not appear little to him because they are remote. He 
 considers, that those pleasures and pains which lie hid in eternity, 
 approach nearer to him every moment; and will be present with 
 dim with theirfull weight and measure, as much as those pains 
 and pleasures which he feels at this very instant. For this rea- 
 son, he is careful to secure to himself that which is the proper 
 happiness of his nature, and the ultimate design of his being. 
 
 10 He carries his thoughts to the end of every action; 
 arid considers the most distant, as well as the most immediate 
 effects of it. He supersedes every little prospecc 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 that knows his true interest, 
 arid how to pursue it by proper methods. ADDISON 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 On the government of our Tlioughts. 
 A MULTITUDE of cases occur, in which we are no less 
 accountable for what we think, than for what we do. As, first, 
 when the introduction of any train of thoughts depends upon 
 ourselves, and is our voluntary act, by turning our attention 
 to wards such objects, awakening such passions, or engaging m 
 
134 THE ENGLISH READER. 
 
 such employments, as we know must give a peculiar determin- 
 ation to our thoughts. Next, when thoughts, by whatever ac- 
 cident they may have been originally suggested, are indulged 
 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 
 first, like unbidden guests; but if, when entered, they are 
 made welcome, and kindly entertained, the case is the same 
 as if they had been invited from the beginning. 
 
 3 If we are thus accountable to God for thoughts, either 
 voluntarily introduced, or deliberately indulged, we are no less 
 so, in the last place, for those which find admittance into our 
 nearts from supine negligence, from total relaxation of attention, 
 from allowing our imagination to rove with entire license, 
 "like the eyes 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 oui 
 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 effectual 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. 
 
 5 But when we descend into our breasts, and examine how 
 far we have studied to keep this object in view, who can tell 
 " how oft he hath offended ?" 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 
 marked with any permanent or useful effect? 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 1 
 
 i 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 tl* 
 
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 durst not reveal ! 
 
 8 Even when men imagine their thoughts to 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 im 
 fit the mind for applying with vigour to rational pursuits, or 
 for acquiescing in sober plans of conduct. From that ideal 
 world in which it allows itself to dwell, it returns to the com- 
 merce of men, unbent and relaxed, sickly and tainted, averse 
 to discharging the duties, and sometimes disqualified even for 
 relishing the pleasures, of ordinary life. 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 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 this subject, two things may be assumed as princi- 
 ples: first, that through the present weakness of the under- 
 standing, our passions are 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. On these two points* 
 then, turns the whole government of our passions : first, to 
 ascertain the proper objects of their pursuit; and next, to 
 restrain them in that pursuit, when they would carry 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, 01 
 habitually discomposes our temper ; which unfits us for pro 
 perly discharging the duties, or disqualifies us for cheerfully 
 
36 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. 
 
 enjoying the comforts of life, we may certainly conclude it to 
 nave gained a dangerous ascendant. The great object which 
 we ought to propose to' ourselves, is, to acquire a firm and 
 steadfast mind, which 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 one 
 of the highest attainments of the rational nature. Arguments 
 to show its importance crowd upon us from every quarter. 
 If there be any fertile source of mischief to human life, it is, 
 oeyond 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 great scenes of public calamity, which we be 
 nold 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, hi every age, have 
 furnished too copious materials for the orator's pathetic decla- 
 mation, and for Che 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 concluding pangs of bitter remorse. Through all 
 the stages of this fatal course, how many have heretofore run ? 
 What multitudes do we daily behold pursuing it, with blind 
 and headlong steps? BLAIR, 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 Oii the proper state of our Temper with respect to one another. 
 
 IT is evident, in the general, that if we consult either pub- 
 lic welfare or private happiness, Christian charity ought to 
 
CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 1^7 
 
 regulate our disposition in mutual intercourse. But as this 
 great principle admits of several diversified appearances, let 
 us consider some of the chief forms under which it ought to 
 show itself in the usual tenor of life. 
 
 2 What first presents itself to be recommended, is a 
 peaceable temper; a disposition averse to give offence and 
 desirous of cultivating harmony, and amicable intercourse in 
 society. This supposes yielding and condescending manners, 
 unwillingness to contend with others about trifles, and, in 
 contests that are unavoidable, proper moderation of spirit. 
 
 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 
 bane of society. They seem destined to blast the small share 
 of comfort which 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 frequently it is their lot to perish. 
 
 4 A peaceable temper must be supported by a candid one, 
 or a disposition to view the conduct of others with fairness and 
 impartiality* This stands opposed to a jealous and suspicious 
 temper which ascribes every action to the worst motive, and 
 throws ablack shade over every character. If we would be hap- 
 py in ourselves, or in our connexions with others, let us guard 
 rgainst this malignant spirit. Let us study that charity " which 
 thinketh no evil ;" that temper which, without degenerating 
 into credulity will dispose us to be just ; and which can al- 
 low us to observe an error, without imputing it as a crime. 
 Thus we shall be kept free from that continual irritation, which 
 imaginary injuries raise in a suspicious breast ; and shall walk 
 among men as our brethren, not as our enemies. 
 
 5 But to be peaceable, and to be candid, is not all that is 
 required of a good man. He must cultivate a kind, gene- 
 rous and sympathizing temper, which feels for distress, 
 wherever it is beheld ; which enters into the concerns of his 
 friends with ardour ; and to all with whom he has intercourse, 
 is gentle, obliging, and humane. How amiable appears 
 such a disposition, when contrasted with a malicious or envi- 
 ous temper, which wraps itself up in its own narrow interest^, 
 looks with an evil eye on the success of others, and, with an 
 unnatural satisfaction, feeds on their disappointments or 
 miseries! How little does he know of the true happiness of 
 life, who is a stringer to that intercourse of good offices and 
 
 M2 
 
138 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L 
 
 kind affections, which, by a pleasing charm, attaches men 
 to one another, and circulates joy from heart to heart ! 
 
 6 We are not to imagine that a benevolent temper finds no 
 exercise, unless when opportunities offer of performing actions 
 of high generosity, or of extensive utility These seldom 
 occur. The condition of the greater part of mankind in a 
 good measure, precludes them.. But, in the ordinary round of 
 
 uman affairs, many occasions daily present themselves of mid- 
 ting the vexations which others suffer; of soothing their m-inds ; 
 of aiding their interest: of promoting their cheerfulness, or 
 ease. Such occasions may relate to the smaller incidents of life. 
 
 7 But let us remember, that of small incidents the system 
 of human life is chiefly composed. The attentions which re 
 spect these, when suggested by real benignity of temper, are 
 often more material to the happiness of those around us, than 
 notions which carry the appearance of greater dignity and 
 splendour. No wise or good man, ought to account any 
 rules of behaviour as below his regard which tend to cement 
 the great brotherhood of mankind in comfortable union. Par- 
 ticularly amidst that familiar intercourse which belongs to 
 domestic life, all the virtues of temper find an ample range. 
 
 8 It is very unfortunate, that within that circle, men too 
 often think themselves at liberty to give unrestrained vent to 
 the caprice of passion and humour. Whereas there, on the 
 contrary, more than any where else, it concerns them to at- 
 tend to the government of their heart ; to check what 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- 
 guise 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 
 that which is closest and most intimate, let us cultivate a 
 peaceable, a candid, a gentle, and friendly temper. This 
 is the temper to which, by repeated injunctions, our holy re- 
 ligion seeks to form us. This was the temper of Christ. 
 This is the temper of Heaven. BLAIR 
 
 SECTION VIII. 
 
 Excellence of the Holy Scriptures. 
 
 IS it bigotry to believe the sublime truths of the Gospel, 
 with full assurance of faith? I glory in such bigotry. I would 
 not part with it for a thousand w r orlds. I congratulate the 
 man who is possessed of it ; for amidst all the vicissitudes and 
 calamities of the present state, that man enjoys an inexhausti- 
 
CHAP IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 139 
 
 ble 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 favourable to all the 
 Kind, and all the sublime affections ; or so unfriendly to hatred 
 and persecution, to tyranny, to injustice, and every sort of 
 malevolence, as the Gospel. It breathes nothing throughout, 
 f>ut mercy, benevolence, and peace. 
 
 3 Poetry is sublime, when it awakens in the mind any great 
 :md good affection, as piety, or patriotism. This is one of the 
 noblest effects of the art. The Psalms are remarkable, beyond 
 all other writings, for their power of inspiring devout emotions. 
 But it is not in this respect only, that they are sublime. Of 
 the divine nature, they contain the most magnificent descrip- 
 tions, that the soul of man can comprehend. The hundred and 
 fourth Psalm, in particular, displays the power and goodness of 
 Providence, in creating and preserving the world, and the vari- 
 ous tribes of animals in it, with such majestic brevity and bean 
 ty, as it is vain to look for in any human composition. 
 
 4 Such of the doctrines of the Gospel as are level to human 
 capacity, appear to be agreeable to the purest truth, and the 
 soundest morality. All the genius and learning of the heathen 
 world ; all the penetration of Pythagoras, Socrates, and Aris- 
 totle, had never been able to produce such a system of moral 
 duty, and so rational an account of Providence and of man, as 
 <tre to be found in the New Testament. Compared, indeed, 
 with this, all other moral and theological wisdom 
 
 ' Loses, discountenanc'd, and like folly shows". BEATT1E 
 
 SECTION IX. 
 
 Reflections occasioned by a review of the Blessings pronounced 
 by Christ on his Disciples, in his Sermon on the Mount, 
 WHAT abundant reason have we to thank God, that this 
 large and instructive discourse of our blessed Redeemer, is 
 so particularly recorded by the sacred historian. Let every 
 one that " hath ears to hear," attend to it : for surely no man 
 ever spoke as our Lord did on this occasion. Let us fix our 
 minds in a posture of humble attention, that we may " re- 
 ceive the law from his mouth." 
 
 2 He opened it with blessings, repeated and most important 
 blessings. But on whom are they pronounced? and whom are 
 we taught to think the happiest of mankind? The meek and 
 the humble ; the penitent and the merciful ; the peaceful anc 
 the pure; those that hunger and thirst atter righteousness ; t] K( 
 that, labour, but faint not, under persecution Lord ! how eM 
 ierent are thy maxims from those of the children of this we {,' 
 
140 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I 
 
 3 They call the proud happy ; and admire the gay, the ricl*, 
 the powerful, and the victorious. But let a vain world take 
 its gaudy trifles, and dress up the foolish creatures that pursue 
 them. May our souls share in that happiness which the 
 Son of God came to recommend and to procure ! May we 
 obtain mercy of the Lord ; may we be owned as his children ; 
 enjoy his presence ; and inherit his kingdom ! With these 
 enjoyments, and these hopes, we will cheerfully welcome the 
 lowest, or the most painful circumstances. 
 
 4 Let us be animated to cultivate those amiable virtues 
 which are here recommended to us ; this humility and meek- 
 ness ; this penitent sense of sin ; this ardent desire after right- 
 eousness; this compassion and purity; this peacefulness 
 and fortitude of soul; and, in a word, this universal good- 
 ness which becomes us, as we sustain the character of " the 
 salt of the earth," and "the light of the world." 
 
 5 Is there not reason to lament, that we answer the cha- 
 racter no better] Is there not reason to exclaim with a good 
 man in former times : " Blessed Lord! either these are not 
 thy words, or we are not Christians!" Oh, season our hearts 
 more effectually with ihy grace ! Pour forth that divine oil on 
 our lamps! Then shall the flame brighten; then shall the 
 ancient honours of thy religion be revived ; and multitudes be 
 awakened and animated, by ihe lustre of it, " to glorify our 
 Father in heaven." DODDRIDGE. 
 
 SECTION X. 
 Schemes of Life often illusory. 
 
 OMAR, the son of Hassan, had passed seventy-five years in 
 Honour and prosperity. The favour of three successive califs 
 had filled his house with gold aiid silver ; and whenever he 
 appeared, the benedictions of the people proclaimed his passage. 
 
 2 Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. The bright- 
 ness of the flame is wasting its fuel ; the fragrant flower is 
 passing away in its own odours. The vigour . of Omar began 
 to fail ; the curls of beauty fell from his head ; strength "de- 
 parted from his hands ; and agility from his feet. He gave 
 back to the calif the keys of trust, and the seals of secrecy ; and 
 sought no other pleasure for the remains of life, than the con- 
 verse of the wise, and the gratitude of the good, 
 
 3 The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. His cham- 
 ber was filled by visitants, eager to catch the dictates of expe- 
 rience, and officious to pay the tribute of admiration. Ca!ed, 
 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 arid 
 preserved it, are to thee no longer necessary or useful ; impart 
 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 : m " 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 I 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 diverted from my de- 
 sign. I had no visible impediments without, nor any ungovern- 
 able passions within. I regarded knowledge as the highest ho- 
 our, 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 : I 
 
142 THE EIS T GLISir READER. PART!. 
 
 
 
 was found able to speak upon doubtful questions ; and was 
 commanded to stand at the footstool of the calif. I was heard 
 with attention ; I was consulted with confidence ; and the love 
 of praise fastened on my heart. 
 
 10 " I still wished to see distant countries ; listened with 
 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 
 business hurried me along. Sometimes T was afraid lest 1 
 should be charged with ingratitude ; but I still proposed U 
 travel, and therefore would not confine myself by marriage. 
 
 11 " In my fiftieth year, I began to suspect that the time o-. 
 travelling was past ; and thought, it best to lay hold on the /e- 
 licity yet in my power, and indulge myself in domestic plea- 
 sures. But at fifty no man easily finds a woman beautifm &4 
 the Houries, and wise as Zobeide. I inquired and rejer .ed, 
 consulted and deliberated, till the sixty-second year made me 
 ashamed of wishing to marry. I had now nothing left tout 
 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 desire of see- 
 ing different countries, I have always resided in the same 
 
 tf city; with the highest expectation of connubial felicity, I 
 have lived unmarried; and with unalterable resolutions of con- 
 templative retirement, I am going to die within the walls of 
 Hagdat " DR. JOHNSON 
 
 SECTION XL 
 
 The Pleasures of virtuous Sensibility. 
 THE good effects of true sensibility, on general virtue and 
 happiness, admit of no dispute. Let us consider its effect on 
 the happiness of him who possesses it, and the various 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 of 
 others. 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 satisfaction to him which 
 the insensible can never know. The profusion of goodness 
 which he beholds poured forth on the universe, dilates his heart 
 with the thought, that innumerable multitudes around him are 
 blest and happy. When he sees the labours of men appearing 
 Q prosper, and views a country flourishing in wealth and iu 
 
CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 143 
 
 ' 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 ail its fruits ; he lifts his affections with gratitude to the 
 ^reat Father of all, and rejoices in the general felicity and joy 
 
 3 It may, indeed, be objected, that the same sensibility Jays 
 open the hesrrt 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. But let it be consider- 
 ed, that the tender melancholy of sympathy is accompanied 
 vrith a sensation which they who feel it would not exchange for 
 the gratifications of the selfish. When the heart is strongly 
 moved by any of the kind affections, even when it pours itself 
 forth in virtuous sorrow, a secret attractive charm mingles with 
 the painful emotion ; there is a joy in the midst of grief. 
 
 4 Let it be farther considered, that the griefs which sensibi- 
 lity introduces, are counterbalanced by pleasures which flo*.v 
 from the same source. Sensibility heightens in general the 
 human powers, and is connected with acuteness in all our feel- 
 ings. If it makes 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. 
 lie is obliged to repeat the same gratifications, till they become 
 insipid. But the man of virtuous sensibility moves in a wider 
 sphere of felicity, fr-s powers are much more frequently 
 railed forth into occupations of pleasing activity. Number- 
 less occasions open to him of indulging his favourite taste, by 
 wnvevine satisfaction to others. Often it is in his power, m 
 one way V 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 
 uocent happiness, is enjoyed by him. Every native expres 
 sion of kindness and affection among others, is felt by him, 
 even though he be not the object of it. In a circle of friends 
 enjoying one another, he is as hnppy as the happiest. ^ 
 
 7 In a word, he lives in a different sort of world, iroin 
 diat which the selfish man inhabits. He possesses a new sense 
 that enables him to behold objects which the selfish cannot 
 see. At the same time, his enjoyments are not of that km< 
 which remain merely on the surface of the mmd. They pe- 
 uetvate the heart. They enlarge and elevate, they refin 
 
144 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I 
 
 and ennoble it. To all the pleasing emotions of affection, 
 they add the dignified consciousness of virtue. 
 
 8 Children of men ! men formed by natura to live and to 
 feel as brethren! how long will ye continue to estrange your- 
 selves from one another by competitions and jealousies, when 
 in cordial union ye might be so much more blest 1 How Ions 
 will ye seek your happiness in selfish gratifications alone, neg- 
 lecting those purer and better sources of joy which flow 
 from the affections and the heart ? BLAIE, 
 
 SECTION XII. 
 
 On the true Honour of Man. 
 
 THE proper honour of man arises not from some of those 
 splendid actions and abilities which excite high admiration. 
 Courage and prowess, military renown, signal victories and 
 conquests, may render the name of a man famous without 
 rendering his character truly honourable. To many brave 
 men, to many heroes renowned in story, we look up with 
 wonder. Their exploits are recorded* Their praises are 
 sung. They stand, as on an eminence, above the rest of man- 
 kind. Their eminence, nevertheless, may not be of that sort 
 before which we bow with inward esteem and respect. Some 
 thing more is wanted for 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 and the orphan. 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, perhaps odious, when we examine it more close- 
 ly. It is like the Colossal statue, whose immense size .struck 
 the spectator afar off with astonishment ; but when nearly 
 viewed, it appears disproportioned, unshapely, and rude." 
 
 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 genius 
 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 which become 
 highly valuable, when employed in advancing the good of man- 
 kind. Hence they frequently give rise to fame. But a dis 
 Unction is to be made between fame and true honour. 
 
 4 The statesman, the orator, or the poet, may be famous ; 
 M hile yet the man himself is far from being honoured. We 
 
CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES, 145 
 
 envy his abilities. We wish to rival them. But we would 
 not choose to be classed with him who possesses them. In- 
 stances of this sort are too often found in every record of an- 
 cient or modern history. 
 
 5 From all this it follows, that in order to discern where 
 man's true honour lies, we must look, not to any adventitious 
 circumstances of fortune; not to any single sparkling quality ; 
 but to ;the whole of what forms a man ; what entitles him as 
 such, to rank high among that class of beings to which he be- 
 ongs ; in a word, we must look to the mind and the soul. 
 
 6 A mind superior to fear, to selfish interest and corruption ; 
 A niind governed by the principles of uniform rectitude and in- 
 *egrity ; the same in prosperity and adversity ; which no bribe 
 can seduce, nor terror overawe ; neither by pleasure melted into 
 effeminacy, nor by distress sunk into dejection : such is the 
 mind which forms the distinction and eminence of man. 
 
 7 One who, in no situation of life, is either ashamed or afraid 
 of discharging his duty, and acting his proper part with firm- 
 ness and constancy; true to the God whom he worships, and 
 true to the faith in which he professes to believe ; full of af- 
 fection to his brethren of mankind ; faithful to his friends, gen- 
 erous to his enemies, warm with compassion to the unfortu- 
 nate ; self-denying to little private interests and pleasures, 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 feel- 
 ings ; on whose word we can entirely rely ; whose counten- 
 ance never deceives us ; whose professions of kindness are the 
 effusions of his heart : one, in fine, whom, independently of 
 any views of advantage, we should choose for a superior, 
 could trust in as a friend, and could love as a brother this is 
 the man, whom, in our heart, above all others, we do, we 
 must honour. BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION XIII. 
 
 The influence of Devotion on the happiness of Life. 
 WHATEVER promotes and strengthens virtue, whatever 
 calms and regulates the temper, is a source of happiness. De- 
 votion produces these effects in a remarkable degree. It in- 
 spires composure of spirit, mildness, 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 and 
 placid tenor. 
 
 2 Besides exerting this habitual influence on the mind, de- 
 rotion opens a field of enjoyments, to which the vicious are 
 entire strangers ; enjoyments the more valuable, as they pecu- 
 
 N 
 
146 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I 
 
 liarly belong to retirement, when the world leaves us ; and to 
 adversity, 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 him from distress. There wil. 
 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 
 *ieart. 
 
 5 If the world has been empty and delusive, It gladdens him 
 ivith the prospect of a higher and better order of things, about 
 to arise. If men have been ungrateful and base, it displays 
 nefore him the faithfulness of that Supreme Being, who, though 
 every other friend fail, will never forsake him. 
 
 6 Let us consult our experience, and we shall find, that the 
 two greatest sources of inward joy, are, the exercise of love 
 directed towards a deserving object, and the exercise of hope 
 terminating on some high and assured happiness. Bath these 
 are supplied by devotion ; and, therefore, we have no reason to 
 be surprised, if, on some occasions, it fills the hearts of good 
 I'it-n with a satisfaction not to be expressed. 
 
 7 The refined pleasures of a pious mind are, in many re- 
 spects, superior to the coarse gratifications of sense. They are 
 pleasures wnicn 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, and leaves an 
 empty and offensive channel. But the pleasures of devotioa 
 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. 
 
CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 147 
 
 9 To thee, Devotion! we owe the highest improvement 
 of our nature, and much of the enjoyment of our life. Thou 
 art the support of our virtue, and the rest of our souls, in this 
 turbulent world. Thou composest the thoughts. Thou calmest 
 the passions. Thou exaltest the heart. Thy communications, 
 and thine only, are imparted to the low, no less than to the 
 high ; to the poor, as well as to the rich. 
 
 10 In thy presence worldljfcdistinctions cease; and, under 
 thy influence, worldly sorrows are forgotten. Thou art tha 
 balm of the wounded mind. Thy sanctuary is ever open to 
 the miserable; inaccessible only to the unrighteous and impure 
 Thou beginnest on earth the temper of heaven. In thee the 
 hosts of angels and blessed spirits eternally rejoice. BLAIR. 
 
 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 dwell 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 
 ?eas, and skies of their own ; are furnished with all accom- 
 modations for animal subsistence, and are supposed to be the 
 abodes of intellectual life ; all which, together with our earth- 
 ly habitation, are dependent on that grand dispenser of Divine 
 munificence, the sun ; receive their light from the distribution 
 of his rays, and derive their comfort from his benign agency. 
 
 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 rolL 
 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 its circumference^ 
 
148 THE ENGLISH READER. PART t. 
 
 would require a length of millions. Were its solid content? 
 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 ; and 
 keeps alive, from age to age, so enormous a mass of flame !" 
 
 let us attend our philosophicaljguides, and we shall be brought 
 noquainted 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 
 in appearance no bigger than the diamond that glitters upon a 
 lady's ring, is really a vast globe, like the sun in size and in 
 glory ; no less spacious, no less luminous, than the radiant 
 source of day. So that every star, is not barely a world, 
 but the centre of a magnificent system ; has a retinue of worlds, 
 irradiated by its beams, and revolving round its attractive in- 
 fluence, all which are lost to our sight in unmeasurable wilds 
 of ether. 
 
 6 That 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 
 seven 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 
 all 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 writer, that if 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, be 
 so very diminutive, what is a kingdom, or a country ? What 
 re a few lordships, or the so much atimired patrimonies of 
 
CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 149 
 
 those who are styled wealthy 1 When 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 XY. 
 
 Ouihepoicer of Custom, and the usestcwhichit may be applied 
 THERE is not a common saying, which has a better turn 
 of sense in it, than what we often hear in the mouths of the 
 vulgar, that " Custom is a second nature." It is indeed able to 
 i >nn the man anew ; and give him inclinations and capacities 
 altogether different from those he was born with. 
 
 2 A person who is addicted to play or gaming, though he took 
 m\\. 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 been 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 how 
 our delight in any particular study, art, or science, rises and 
 improves, in proportion to the application which we bestow 
 upon it. Thus, what was at first an exercise, becomes at length 
 Hn entertainment. 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 i! 
 has been used to walk. 
 
 4 If we attentively consider this property of human nature, 
 it may instruct us in very fine moralities. In the first place, 1 
 ivould have no man discouraged with that kind of life, or series 
 of action, in which the choice of others, or his own necessities, 
 may have engaged him. It may, perhaps, be very disagreeable 
 to him, at first; but use and application will certainly render it 
 not only less painf'il, but pleasing and satisfactory. 
 
 5 In the second place, I would recommend to every one, 
 the adnr.rable precept, which Pythagoras is said to have given 
 to his disciples, and which that philosopher ipust have drawn 
 from the observation I have enlarged upon : " Piten upon that 
 course of life which is the most excellent, and custom will ren- 
 der it the most delightful." 
 
 6 Men, wbose circumstances will permit them to choose 
 their own way of life, are inexcusable if they do not pursue 
 tint whichtheir judgment tells them is the most laudabk?. Tha 
 
 N 2 
 
150 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. 
 
 voice of reason is more to be regarded, than the bent of any 
 present inclination ; since by the rule above mentioned, inclina- 
 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 irreligious man, to overlook those hardships and 
 difficulties which are apt to discourage him from the prosecu- 
 tion of a virtuous life. " The gods," said Hesiod, "have placed 
 labour before virtue ; the way to her is at first rough and diffi- 
 cult, but grows more smooth and easy the farther we advance 
 in it." The man who proceeds in it with steadiness and reso- 
 lution, will, in a little time, find that " her ways are ways oi 
 pleasantness, and that all her paths are peace." 
 
 8 To enforce this consideration, we may further observe, 
 that the practice of religion will not only be attended with thai 
 pleasure which naturally accompanies those actions to which 
 we are habituated, but with those supernumerary joys of heart, 
 that rise from the consciousness of such a pleasure ; from the 
 satisfaction of acting up to the dictates of reason; and from the 
 prospect of a happy immortality. 
 
 9 In the fourth place, we may learn from this observation, 
 which we have made on the mind of man, to take particu'ar 
 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 cf virtuous actions, and by degrees, ex- 
 change that pleasure which it takes in the performance of its 
 duty, for delights of a much inferior and an unprofitable nature. 
 
 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 make us happy in the next. The seeds of those 
 spiritual joys and raptures, which are to rise up and flourish in 
 the soul to all eternity, must be planted in it during this its present 
 state of probation. In short, heaven is not to be looked upoi: 
 only as the reward, but as the natural effect of a religious life. 
 
 SECTION XVI. 
 
 The pleasures resulting from a proper use of our Faculties. 
 
 HAPPY that man, who, unembarrassed by vulgar cares, 
 
 master of himself, his time, and fortune, spends bis Uaae in 
 
CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 151 
 
 making himself wiser ; and his fortune, in making others 
 (and therefore himself) happier; who, as the will and un- 
 derstanding are th'e two ennobling faculties of the 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 
 fhe 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 business to 
 ilo, 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 riot in so glaring a 
 manner : and when he sees him, he adores him with fhe tri- 
 bute of a grateful heart. SEED. 
 
 SECTION XVII. 
 
 Description of Candour. 
 
 TRUE candour is altogether different from that guarded, 
 inoffensive language, and that studied openness of behaviour 
 n-hich we so frequently meet with among men of the world. 
 Smiling, very often, is the aspect, and smooth are the words 
 )f 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 Tts place with a humane and generous liberality of sen- 
 timent. Its manners are unaffected, and its professions cor- 
 dial. Exempt, on one hand, from the dark jea/ousy of a 
 suspicious mind, it 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 necessary guard. It is only when it ex 
 ceeds the bounds of prudent caution, that it degenerates into 
 vice. There is a proper mean between undistinguished cre- 
 dulity, and universal jealousy, which a sound understanding 
 
132 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1 
 
 discerns, and which the man of candour studies to pre 
 serve, 
 
 4 He makes allowance for the mixture of evil with good 
 which is to be found in every human character. He expect 
 none to be faultless, and he is unwilling to believe that therf- 
 is any without some commendable qualities. In the midst ol 
 many defects, he can discover a virtue. Under the influence 01 
 personal resentment, he can be just to the merit of an enemy. 
 
 5 He never lends an open ear to those defamatory reports 
 and dark suggestions, which, among the tribes of the censo- 
 rious, circulate with so much rapidity, and meet with so ready 
 acceptance. He is not hasty to judge ; and he requires fuR 
 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 
 worst. 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 ; 
 and without those aggravations which the severity of others 
 adds to the crime. He listens calmly to the apology of the of- 
 fender, and readily admits every extenuating circumstance, 
 which equity can suggest. 
 
 7 How much soever he may blame the principles of any 
 sect or party, he nevel 1 confounds, under one general censure, 
 all 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 
 subversion 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 he would think it reasonable that they should judge 
 of him. In a word, he views men and actions in the clear 
 sunshine of charity and good nature ; and not in that dark and 
 sullen shade which jealousy and party spirit throw over all 
 characters. 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 
 embellished with the pomp of much description. But I shall 
 tudiously avoid exaggeration, and only point out a threefold 
 
CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 153 
 
 vanity inhuman life, which every impartial observer cannot but 
 admit; disappointment in pursuit, dissatisfaction in enjoyment, 
 uncertainty in possession. 
 
 2 First, disappointment in pursuit. When we look around 
 us on the world, we every where behold a busy multitude, in* 
 tent on the prosecution of various designs, which their wants 
 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 fruit ? in 
 comparison of the crowd who have toiled in vain, how small 
 is the number of the successful ! Or rather, where is the man 
 who will declare that in every point he has completed his plan, 
 und attained his utmost wish 1 
 
 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 always 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 aspire 
 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 from afar, without drawing personal instruc- 
 tion from events so much above them. 
 
 6 But alas ! when we descend into the regions of private 
 life, we find disappointment and blasted hope equally prevalent 
 there. Neither the moderation of our views, nor the justice of 
 our pretensions, can ensure success. But " time and chance 
 happen to all." Against the stream of events both the worthy 
 and the undeserving are obliged to struggle ; and both are fre- 
 quently overborne alike by the current. 
 
 7 Besides disappointment in pursuit, dissatisfaction in enjoy- 
 ment is a farther vanity, to which the human state is subject. 
 This is the severest of all mortifications ; after having been suc- 
 cessful in the pursuit, to be baffled in the enjoyment itself. Yet 
 this is found to be an evil still more general than the former. 
 Some maybe so fortunate as to attain what they have pursued ;but 
 none areVendered completely happy by what they have attained. 
 
 8 Disappointed hope is misery ; and yet successful hope is 
 
154 THE ENGLISH HEADER. PART 1 
 
 only imperfect bliss. Look through all the ranks of mankind. 
 Examine the condition of those who appear most prosperous; 
 and you will find that they are never just what they desire to 
 be. If retired, they languish for action ; if busy, they com- 
 plain of fatigue. If in middle life, they are impatient for dis- 
 tinction : if in high stations, they sigh after freedom and ease, 
 Something is still wanting to that plenitude of satisfaction, 
 which they expected to acquire. Together with every wish 
 that it? gratified, a new demand arises. One void opens in the 
 heart, as another is filled. On wishes, wishes grow ; and to 
 the end, it is rather the expectation of what they have not, 
 than the enjoyment of what they have, which occupies and in- 
 terests the most successful. 
 
 9 This dissatisfaction in the midst of human pleasure, springs 
 partly from the nature of our enjoyments themselves, and part- 
 ly from circumstances which corrupt them. No worldly en- 
 joyments are adequate to the high desires and powers of an 
 immortal spirit. Fancy paints them at a distance with splen- 
 did colours ; but possession unveils the fallacy. The eager 
 ness of passion bestows upon them, at first, a brisk and lively 
 relish. But it is their fate always to pall by familiarity, and 
 sometimes to pass from satiety into disgust. 
 
 1 Happy would the poor man think himself, if he could 
 enter on all the pleasures of the rich ; and happy for a short 
 time he might be ; but before he had long contemplated and 
 admired his state, his possessions would seem to lessen, and 
 his cares would grow. 
 
 1 1 Add to the unsatisfying nature of our pleasures, the at- 
 tending circumstances which never fail to corrupt them. For, 
 such as they are, they are at no time possessed unmixed. To 
 human lips it is not given to taste the cup of pure joy. When 
 external circumstances show fairest to the world, the envied 
 man groans in private under his own burden. Some vexation 
 disquiets, some passion corrodes him ; some distress, either 
 felt or feared, gnaws, like a worm, the root of his felicity. 
 When there is nothing from without to disturb the prosperous, 
 a secret poison operates within. For worldly happiness ever 
 tends to destroy itself, by corrupting the heart. It fosters the 
 loose and the violent passions. It engenders noxious habits ; 
 and taints the mind with false delicacy, which makes it feel a 
 thousand unreal evils. 
 
 12 But put the case in the most favourable light. 'Lay aside 
 from human pleasures both disappointment in pursuit, and de- 
 ceitfulness in enjoyment; suppose them to be fully attainable, 
 and completely satisfactory; still there remains to be considered 
 
CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 155 
 
 the vanity of uncertain possession and short duration. Were 
 there in worldly things any fixed point of security which we could 
 gain, the mind would then have some basis on which to rest. 
 
 13 But our condition is such, that every thing wavers and 
 totters around us. " Boast not thyself of to-morrow ; for 
 thou knowest not what a day may bring forth." It is much 
 if, during its course, thou nearest not of somewhat to disquiet 
 or alarm thee. For life never proceeds long in a uniform 
 train. It is continually varied by unexpected events. 
 
 14 The seeds ef alteration are every where sown; and the 
 sunshine of prosperity commonly accelerates their growth. 1 f 
 our enjoyments are numerous, we lie more open on different 
 sides to be wounded. If we have possessed them long, we 
 fiave greater cause to dread an approaching change. By slow 
 degrees prosperity rises ; but rapid is the progress of evil. It 
 requires no preparation to bring it forward. 
 
 15 The edifice which it cost much time and labour to erect, 
 one inauspicious event, one sudden blow, can level with the dust. 
 Even supposing the accidents of life to leave us untouched, hu- 
 Tian bliss must still be transitory; for man changes of himself. 
 No course of enjoyment can delight us long. What amused 
 our youth, loses its charm in maturer age. As years advance, 
 our powers are blunted, and our pleasurable feelings decline. 
 
 16 The silent lapse of time is ever carrying somewhat from 
 us, till at length the period comes, when all must be swept 
 away. The prospect of this termination of our labours and 
 pursuits, is sufficient to mark our state with vanity. " Our 
 days are a hand's breadth, and our age is as nothing." With- 
 in that little sp?ce is all our enterprise bounded. We crowd 
 it with toils and cares, with contention and strife. We pro- 
 ject great designs, entertain high hopes, and then leave our 
 plans unfinished, and sink into oblivion. 
 
 17 This much let it suffice to have said concerning the vani- 
 ty of the world. That too much has not been said, must ap- 
 peor to every one who considers how generally mankind lean 
 to the opposite side ; and how often, by undue attachment to 
 the present state, they both feed the most sinful passions, and 
 " pierce themselves through with many sorrows." BLAIR 
 
 SECTION XIX. 
 
 What are the real and solid enjoyments of Human Life. 
 
 IT must be admitted, that unmixed and complete happi- 
 ness is unknown on earth. No regulation of conduct can 
 altogether prevent passions from disturbing our peace, and 
 misfortunes from woupding our heart. But after this conces- 
 
156 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. 
 
 sion is made, will it follow, that there is no object on earth 
 which deserves our pursuit, or that all enjoyment becomes con- 
 temptible which is not perfect 1 Let us survey our state with 
 an impartial 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 sufficient 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 with God> 
 through the great Redeemer of mankind ; in the firm confi- 
 dence of being conducted through all the trials of life, by in- 
 finite Wisdom and Goodness ; and in the joyful prospect of 
 arriving, in the end, at immortal felicity, they possess a hap- 
 piness which, descending from a purer and more perfect re 
 gion than this world, partakes not of its vanity. 
 
 3 Besides the enjoyments peculiar to religion, there are other 
 pleasures of our present state, which, though of an inferior or- 
 der, must not be overlooked in the estimate of human life. It 
 is necessary to call the attention to these, in order to check that 
 repining and unthankful spirit to which man is always too prone. 
 
 4 Some degree of importance must be allowed to the com- 
 forts of health, to the innocent gratifications of sense, and to 
 the entertainment afforded us by all the beautiful scenes of na- 
 ture ; some to the pursuits and harmless amusements of social 
 life ; and more to the internal enjoyments of thought and re- 
 flection, and 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 that 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. 
 
 5 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 the arro- 
 gance of complaints and murmurs. What art thou, O son 
 of man ! who, having sprung but yesterday out of the dust, 
 darest to lift up thy voice against thy Maker, and to arraign 
 his Providence, because all things are not ordered according 
 
 o thy wish] 
 
 6 What title hast thou to find fault with the order of the 
 v averse, whose lot is so much beyond what thy virtue or me- 
 rif gave thee ground to claim ! Is it nothing to thee to have 
 
CHAP* IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES- 157 
 
 been introduced into this magnificent world ; to nave been ad- 
 mitted as a spectator of the Divine wisdom and works: and to 
 have had access to all the comforts which nature, with a boun- 
 tiful hand, has poured forth around thee? Are all the hours for- 
 gotten which thou hast passed in ease, in complacency, or joy ? 
 7 Is it a small favour in thy eyes, that the hand of Divine 
 Mercy has been stretched forth to aid thee ; and, if thou re- 
 ject not its proffered assistance, is ready to conduct thee to a 
 aappier state of existence? When thou comparest thy condi- 
 tion with thy desert, blush, and be ashamed of thy complaints. 
 Be silent, be grateful, and adore. Receive with thankfulness 
 the blessings which are allowed thee. Revere that 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. BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION XX. 
 
 Scale of Beings. 
 
 THOUGH there is a great deal of pleasure in contemplating 
 the material world, by w r hich 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 those 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 other animal, 
 in which our glasses do not discover myriads of living creatures. 
 We find, even in the most solid bodies, as in marble itself, in- 
 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 with 
 numberless kinds of living creatures. We find every moun- 
 tain and marsh, wilderness and wood, plentifully stocked with 
 birds and beasts; and e?efy part of matter affording proper 
 necessaries and conveniences, for the livelihood of the multi- 
 tudes which inhabit it. 
 
 4 The author of "the Plurality of Worlds," draws a very 
 
 C 
 
153 THE ENGLISH READEK. PART I. 
 
 good argument from this consideration, for the peopling of 
 every planet; as indeed it seems very probable, from the an 
 alogy of reason, that if no part of matter, with which we are 
 acquainted, lies waste arid useless, those greater bodies, which 
 are at such a distance from us, are not desert and unpeopled; 
 but rather, that they are furnished with beings adapted to their 
 respective situations. 
 
 5 Existence is a blessing to those beings only which are 
 endowed with perception ; and is in a manner thrown away 
 upon dead matter, any farther than as it is subservient to beings 
 which are conscious of their existence. Accordingly we find, 
 from the bodies which lie under our observation, that matter is 
 only made as the basis and support of animals; and that there 
 is no more of the one than what is necessary for the existence 
 of the other. 
 
 6 Infinite Goodness is of so communicative a nature, that it 
 seems to delight in conferring existence upon every degree of 
 perceptive being. As this is a speculation, which 1 have of- 
 ten pursued with great pleasure to myself, I shall enlarge fur- 
 ther upon it, by considering that part of the scale of beings, 
 which comes within our knowledge. 
 
 7 There are some, living creatures, which are raised but just 
 above dead matter. To mention only that species of shell-fish, 
 which is formed in the fashion of a cone ; that grows to the 
 surface of several rocks ; and immediately dies, on being se- 
 vered from the place \vhere it grew. There are many other 
 creatures but one remove from these, which have no othei 
 sense than that of feeling and taste. Others have still an ad . 
 ditional one of hearing ; others of smell ; and others of sight. 
 
 8 It is wonderful to observe, by what a gradual progress thf. 
 world of life advances, through a prodigious variety of species, 
 before a creature is formed that is complete in all its senses i 
 and even among these, there is such a different degree of per- 
 fection, in the sense which one animal enjoys beyond what ap 
 pears in another, that though the sense in <' Afferent animals 11* 
 distinguished by the same common denomination, it seems al 
 most of a different nature. 
 
 9 If, after this, we look into the several inward perfectioi 9 
 of cunning and sagacity, or what we generally call instinct, \\s 
 find them rising, after the same manner, imperceptibly one abov o 
 another; and receiving additional improvements, accordingto 
 the species in which they are implanted. This progress in n.* - 
 ture is so very gradual, that the most perfect of an inferior spe- 
 cies, comes very near to the most in.perfect of that which ia 
 jfruuediately above it, 
 
CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 1*9 
 
 10 The exuberant and overflowing goodness of the Supreme 
 Being, whose mercy extends to ail his works, is plainly seen, 
 as I have hefore hinted, in his having made so very little mat- 
 ter, at least what falls within our knowledge, that does not 
 swarm with life. Nor is his goodness less seen in the diversi- 
 ty, than in the multitude of living creatures. Had he made but 
 one species of animals, none of the rest would have enjoyed the 
 happiness of existence: he has, there fore, specified, his crea 
 tion, every degree of life, every capacity of being. 
 
 1 1 The whole chasm of nature, from a plant to a man, is 
 filled up with divers kinds of creatures, rsing one after ano- 
 ther, by an ascent so gentle and easy, that the little transitions 
 and deviations from one species to another, are almost insen- 
 sible. This intermediate space is so well husbanded and 
 managed, that there is scarcely a degree of perception, which 
 does not appear in some one part of the world of life. Is the 
 goodness, or the wisdom of the Divine Being, more manifest- 
 ed in this his proceeding! 
 
 12 There is a consequence, besides those I have already 
 mentioned, which seems very naturally deducible from the 
 foregoing considerations. If the scale of being rises by so re- 
 gular a progress, so high as man, we may, by parity of reason, 
 suppose, that it still proceeds gradually through those beings 
 which are of a superior nature to him ; since there is infinitely 
 greater space and room for different degrees of perfection, be- 
 tween the Supreme Being and man, than oetween man and 
 the most despicable insect. 
 
 13 In this great system of being, there is no creature so 
 wonderful in its nature, and which so much deserves 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 who is that link m the chain of being, 
 which forms the connection between both. So that ne who, 
 in one respect, is associated with angels and archangels, and 
 
 r may look upon a being of infinite perfection as his father, ana 
 the highest order of spirits as his brethren, may, in another re* 
 epect, say to "corruption, thou art my father," and to the 
 ivorm, " thou art my mother and my sister." ADDISON, 
 
 SECTION XXI. 
 
 Trust in me care of Providence recommended. 
 
 MAN, considered in himself, is a very helpless, and a very 
 
 wretched being. He is subject every moment to the greatest 
 
 calamities and misfortunes. He is beset with dangers on all 
 
 iides; and may become unhappy by numberless casualties, 
 
160 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I 
 
 which he could not foresee, nor have prevented had he fore 
 seen them. 
 
 2 It is our comfort, while we are obnoxious to so many acci- 
 dents, that we are under the fare of ONE who directs contin- 
 gencies, and has in his hands the management of every thin? 
 that is capable of annoying or offending us; who knows the 
 assistance we stand in need of, and is always ready to bestow 
 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 i 
 him, for deliverance out of all such dangers and difficulties a* 
 may befal us. 
 
 4 The man who always lives in this disposition of mind, has 
 not the same dark and melancholy views of human nature, as 
 he who considers himself abstractedly from this relation to 
 the Supreme Being. At the same time that he reflects upon 
 his own weakness and imperfection, he comforts himself with 
 the contemplation of those divine attributes, which are 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 sensible of his own want of strength, when 
 he knows that his helper is Almighty. 
 
 5 In short, the person who has a firm trust in the Supreme 
 Being, is powerful in his power, wise by his wisdom, happy by 
 his happiness. He reaps the benefit of every divine attri 
 bute ; and loses his own insufficiency in the fullness 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 shouid 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 arid 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 
 that he acts in the sight of his friend, often exerts himself be- 
 yond his abilities; and does wonders, that are not to be matched 
 bj *ne who is not animated with such a confidence of success* 
 
CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 101 
 
 Trust in the assistance of an Almighty Being, naturally pro- 
 duces patience, hope, cheerfulness, and all other dispositions 
 of mind, which alleviate those calamities that we are not able 
 to remove. 
 
 8 The practice of this virtue administers great comfort to 
 the mind of man, in times of poverty and affliction ; but most 
 of all, in the hour of death. When the soul is hovering, in the 
 last moments of its separation ; when it is just entering on ano- 
 ther state of existence, to converse with scenes, and objects, 
 and companions, that are altogether 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 ? ADDISON. 
 
 SECTION XXII. 
 
 Piety and Gratitude enliven Prosperity. 
 
 PIETY, and gratitude to God, contribute, in a high degree, 
 to enliven prosperity. Gratitude is a pleasing emotion. The 
 sense of being distinguished by the kindness of another, glad- 
 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, often, of mean 
 or trifling incidents, which occasionally favoured their de- 
 signs ; with what superior satisfaction does the servant of 
 God remark the hand of that gracious Power which hath 
 raised him up; which hath happily conducted him through 
 the various steps of life, and crowned him with the most fa- 
 vourable distinction beyond his equals? 
 
 3 Let us farther consider, that not only gratitude for the 
 past, but a cheering sense of divine favour at the present, en 
 02 
 
162 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. 
 
 ters into the pious emotion. They are only the virtuous, who 
 in their prosperous days hear this voice addressed to them, 
 "Go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wino 
 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 rejoicing and 
 salvation." A lustre unknown to others, invests, in their 
 sight, the whole face of nature. 
 
 5 Their piety reflects a sunshine from heaven upon the 
 prosperity of the world ; unites in one point of view, the 
 smiling aspect, both of the powers above, and of the objects 
 below. Not only have they as fuil a relish as others, for the in- 
 nocent pleasures of life, but, moreover, in these they hold 
 communion with their divine Benefactor. 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 affection 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 cheerful enjoyment of a prosperous state, which king 
 David had when he wrote the twentj^-third psalm ; and com- 
 pare the highest pleasures of the riotous sinner, with the happy 
 and 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 ii 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 jhe had made to overflow: 
 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 
 oo evil, as long as " the rod and the staff" of his Divine Shep- 
 
CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 163 
 
 herd are with him ; and, through 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 shall 
 dwell in the house of the Lord for ever." 
 
 8 What a purified, sentimental enjoyment of prosperity is 
 heie 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 contingencies, and the 
 weak efforts 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 ! BLAIR. 
 
 SECTION XXIII. 
 Firfow, when deeply rooted, is not subject to the influence oj 
 
 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 that 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, 
 who 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 him 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 admonished him, when he snould be 
 seated on the throne, and have a nation in his power, not to 
 forget the humble condition from which he had been raised. 
 
 4 All this, at the first, appeared to Abdolonymus as an illu- 
 sion of the fancy, or an insult offered to his poverty. He re- 
 quested them not to trouble him farther with their impertinr 
 
164 THE ENGLISH READER. PART t 
 
 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. 
 
 Q.UINTUS CURTHJS. 
 
 SECTION XXIV. 
 
 The Speech of FABRICIUS, a Roman ambassador, to king 
 Pyrrhus, who attempted to bribe him to his interests, by the 
 offer of a great sum of money. 
 
 "WITH regard to my poverty, the king has, indeed, been 
 justly informed. My whole estate consists in a house of but 
 mean appearance, and a little spot of ground ; from which, 
 by my own labour, I draw my support. But if, by any 
 means, thou hast been persuaded to think that this poverty 
 renders me of less 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 ; and if I am without superfluities, 
 I am also free from the desire of them. With these, 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 am, upon a level with the richest : for Rome knows no 
 qualifications for great employments, but virtue and ability. 
 She appoints me to officiate in the most august ceremonies ol 
 i eligion ; 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 me for that very poverty. 
 
CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 165 
 
 which king Pyrrhus considers as a disg'race. They know the 
 many opportunities I have had to enrich myself, without cen- 
 sure; they are convinced of my disinterested zeal for their 
 prosperity : and if I have any thing to complain of, in the re- 
 turn they make me, it is only the excess of their applause. 
 What value, then, can I put upon thy gold and silver I What 
 king can add any thing to my fortune 1 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 of JAMES I. king of England. 
 NO prince, so little enterprising and so inoffensive, was 
 ever so much exposed to the opposite extremes of calumny 
 arid flattery, of satire and panegyric. And the factions which 
 began in his time, being still continued, have made his cha 
 racter be as much disputed to this day, as is commonly that 
 of princes who are our contemporaries. 
 
 2 Many virtues, however, it must be owned, he was pos 
 sessed of ; but not one of them pure, or free from the conta 
 gion of the neighbouring vices. His generosity bordered on. 
 profusion, his learning on pedantry, his pacific disposition on 
 pusillanimity, his wisdom on cunning, his friendship on lighl 
 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 his pretensions, to have encroached 
 on the liberties of his people. While he endeavoured, by an 
 exact neutrality, to acquire the good-will of all his neighbouis, 
 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 his manners, he was 
 ill qualified to command respect : partial and undiscerning in 
 his affections, he was little fitted to acquire general love. Of 
 a feeble temper, more than of a frugal judgment ; exposed to 
 our ridicule 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 thence chiefly is derived the strong 
 prejudice, which prevails against his personal bravery : an 
 
166 THE ENGLISH READER. 
 
 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 oi 
 man, took the extraordinary resolution, to resign his king- 
 doms ; and to withdraw entirely from any concern in business 
 or the affairs of this world, in order that he might spend the 
 remainder of his days in retirement and solitude. 
 
 2 Though it requires neither deep reflection, 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, and 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 thi 
 resolution rashly, and repented of it as soon a:? 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 hoi if 
 ing the reins of government, who ever resigned them from 
 deliberate choice ; and who continued, during 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 Charles's resignation should fill 
 all Europe with astonishment ; and give rise, both among his 
 contemporaries, and among the historians of that period, tc 
 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 und 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 ol 
 ivhich was placed his son, and on the other, his sister the 
 
<*HAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 167 
 
 queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands, 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 son 
 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 oi 
 years, in support of his government. 
 
 8 Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on the shoul- 
 der of the prince of Orange, because he was unable to stand 
 without support, he addressed himself to the audience ; and, 
 from a paper which he held in his hand, in order to assist his 
 memory, he recounted, with dignity, but without ostentation, 
 all the great things which he had undertaken and performed 
 ?ince the commencement of his administration. 
 
 9 He observed, that from the seventeenth year of Lis age, 
 he had dedicated all his thoughts and attention to public ob- 
 jects, reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of his 
 ease, and very little for the enjoyment of private pleasure ; 
 that either in a 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 
 nis health permitted him to discharge his duty, and the vigour 
 of his constitution was equal, 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, his growing infirmities admonished 
 him to retire ; nor was he so fond of reigning, as to retain 
 the sceptre in an impotent hand, which was no longer able to 
 protect his 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 oC youth, all the atten- 
 tion and sagacity of maturer years ; that if during the course 
 of a long administration, he had committed any material er- 
 ror in government, or if, under the pressure of so many and 
 great affairs, and amidst the attention which he had been 
 obliged to give to them, he had either neglected or injured any 
 
168 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1. 
 
 of his subjects, he now implored their forgiveness; that, for 
 his part, he should ever retain a grateful sense of their fidelity 
 and attachment, and would carry the remembrance of it along 
 with him to the place of his retreat, as his sweetest consola- 
 tion, as well as the best reward for all his services ; and in 
 his last prayers to Almighty God, would pour forth his ar 
 dent wishes for their welfare. 
 
 10 Then turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees and 
 kissed his father's hand, " If," says he, "I had left you, by my 
 death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made such large 
 additions, some regard would have been justly due to my 
 memory on that account; but now, when I voluntarily resign 
 to you what I might have still retained, I may well expect the 
 warmest expressions of thanks on your part. With these, 
 however, I dispense ; and shall consider your concern for the 
 welfare of your subjects, and your love of them, ns the best 
 and most acceptable testimony of your gratitude to me. It is 
 in your power, by a wise and virtuous administration, to jus- 
 tify the extraordinary proof which I give this day of my pa- 
 ternal affection, and to demonstrate that you are worthy of 
 the confidence which I repose in you. Preserve an inviola- 
 ble regard for reKgion ; 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 the 
 tranquillity of private life, may you have a son endowed with 
 such qualities, that you can resign your sceptre to him, with 
 as much satisfaction as I give up mine to you." 
 
 1 1 As soon as Charles had finished this long address to his 
 subjects, and to their new sovereign, he sunk into the chair, 
 exhausted and ready to faint with the fatigue of so extraordi- 
 nary an effort. During his discourse the whole audience 
 melted into tears; some from admiration of his magnanimity; 
 others softened by the expressions of tenderness towards his 
 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 his 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, 
 with all the territories depending on them, both in the old and 
 in the new world. Of all these vast possessions, he reserved 
 
CHAP. 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 
 afford him a small sum for acts of beneficence and charity. 
 
 2 Nothjng now remained to detain him from that retreat 
 for which he languished. Every thing having been prepared 
 some time for his voyage, he set out for Zuitburg in Zealand, 
 \vhere the fleet had orders to rendezvous. In his way thither, 
 ne passed through Ghent : and after stopping there a fen 
 days, to indulge that tender and pleasing melancholy, which 
 arises in the mind of every man in the decline of life, on visit- 
 ing the place of his nativity, and viewing the scenes and ob- 
 jects familiar to him in his early youth, he pursued his jour- 
 ney, accompanied by his son Philip, his daughter the arch- 
 duchess, his sisters the dowager queens of France and Hun- 
 gary, Maximilian his son-in-law, and a numerous retinue of 
 the Flemish nobility. Before he went on board, he dismissed 
 them, with marks of nis attention and regard ; and taking 
 leave of Philip with all the tenderness of a father who em- 
 braced his son for the last tim, he set sail .under convoy of 
 a large fleet of Spanish, Flemish, and 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 now 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 Yalladolid. 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- 
 ciser, to which he had consecrated the remainder of his days. 
 
 4 From Valladolid, he continued his journey to Plazencia 
 in.Estremadura. He had passed through that city a great 
 many years before; and' having been struck at that timeVith 
 the ielightful situation of the monastery of St. Justus, belong- 
 ing to the orde; of St. Jerome, not many miles distant from 
 that place, he had then observed to some of his attendants, that 
 this was a spot to which Dioclesian might have retired with 
 pleasure. The impression had remained so strong on his- 
 mind, that he pitched upon it as the place of his retreat. 
 
 5 It was seated in a vale of no great extent, watered by a 
 small brook, and surrounded by rising grounds, covered with 
 
170 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L 
 
 lofty trees. From the nature of the soil, as well as the tem- 
 perature of the climate, it was esteemed the 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 hit 
 accommodation; but he gave strict orders that the style of the 
 building should be such as suited his present station, rather thar, 
 his former dignity. It consisted only of six rooms, four of their 
 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 chapei 
 of the monastery, in which he was to perform his devotions. 
 
 7 Into this humble retreat, hardly sufficient for the comfort a- 
 Dle 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 half a century, had alarmed and agitated 
 Europe ; filling 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 of a moderate fortune. His table was neat but plain ; his 
 domestics few ; his intercourse with them familiar ; all the 
 cumbersome and ceremonious forms of attendance on bis 
 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 complate 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 inquiry concerning them ; 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 of having dis- 
 entangled himself from its cares. DR. ROBERTCOK . 
 
THE ENGLISH READER. 
 
 PART II. 
 PIECES IN POETRY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SELECT SENTENCES AND PARAGRAPH* 
 
 SECTION I. % 
 Short and Easy Sente&zes. 
 _ Education. 
 
 5HPIS education forms the common mind ; 
 - Just as the twig is bent, the tree 's hici& v 
 
 Candour. .. 
 
 With pleasure let us own our errors pst j 
 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 easily attain* * 
 Our needful knowledge, like our needful food, 
 Unhedg'd, lies open in life's common field; 
 And bids all welcome to the vital feast. 
 
 Disappointment. 
 
 Disappointment lurks in many a prize, 
 As bees in flow' rs ; and stings us with success. 
 
 Virtuous elevation. 
 
 The mind that would be happy, must be great; 
 Great in its wishes ; great in its surveys. 
 Ex f ended views a narrow mind extend. 
 
 Natural and fanciful life. 
 Who lives to nature, rarely can be poor; 
 Who lives to fancy, never can be rich. 
 
 NOTE. In the first chapter the Compiler has exhibited a cpnsH .*] 
 poatical construction, for the young reader's nreparatory ^xerciee. 
 
172 THE ENGLISH READER. PART ii 
 
 Charily. 
 
 In faith and hope the world will disagree; 
 But all mankind's concern is charity. 
 
 The prize of Virtue. 
 
 What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, 
 The soul's calm sunshine, and the heart-felt joy, 
 Is virtue's prize. 
 
 Sense and modesty connected. 
 
 Distrustful sense with modest caution 'speaks ; i 
 It still looks home, and short excursions makes; 
 But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks. 
 Moral discipline salutary. 
 
 Heav'n gives us friends to bless the present scene , 
 Resumes them to prepare us for the next. 
 All evils natural, are moral goods ; 
 All discipline, indulgence, on the whole. 
 
 Present blessings undervalued- 
 Like birds, whose beauties languish, half conceal'd 
 Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes 
 Expanded, shine with azure, green, and gold, 
 How blessings brighten as they take their flight ! 
 
 Hope. 
 
 Hope, of all passions, most befriends us here ; 
 Passibns 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 compos'd 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 wears, 
 No gem, that twinkling hangs from beauty's ears, 
 Nor the bright stars, which night's blue arch adorn, 
 
CHAP. I SELECT SENTENCES. 17? 
 
 Nor rising suns that gild the vernal morn, 
 Shine with such lustre, as the tear that breaks, 
 For others' wo, down Virtue's manly cheeks. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 VERSES IN WHICH THE LINES ARE OF DIFFERENT LENGTH. 
 
 Bliss of celestial Origin. 
 . RESTLESS mortals toil for nought; 
 Bliss in vain from earth is sought ; 
 Bliss, a native of the sky, 
 Never wanders. Mortals, try ; 
 There you cannot seek in vain ; 
 For to seek her, is to gain. 
 
 The passions. 
 
 The passions are a numerous crowd, 
 
 Imperious, positive, and loud. 
 
 Curb these licentious sons of strife ; 
 
 Hence chiefly rise the storms of life ; 
 
 If they grow mutinous, and rave, 
 
 They are thy masters, thou their slave. 
 
 Trust in Providence recommended. 
 
 'Tis Providence alone secures, 
 
 In every change, both mine and yours. 
 
 Safety consists not in escape 
 
 From dangers of a frightful shape : 
 
 An earthquake may be bid to spare 
 
 The man that's strangled by a hair. 
 Fate steals along with silent tread, 
 Found oft'nest in what least we dread ; 
 Frowns in the storm with angry brow, 
 But in the sunshine strikes the blow. 
 
 Epitaph. 
 
 How lov'd, how valu'd once, avails thee not; 
 To whom related, or by whom begot: 
 A heap of dust alone remains of thee ; 
 'Tis all thou art. and all the proud shall be. 
 
 Fame. 
 
 All fame is foreign, but of true desert ; 
 Plays ronnd the head, but comes not to the heart 
 .One self-approving hour, whole years outweighs 
 : Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas ; 
 And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels, 
 Than Caesar with a senate at his heels. 
 P 2 
 
174 THE ENGLISH READER. PA;,. 11 
 
 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 hark 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, 
 Illum'd with fluid gold, his near approach 
 Betoken glad. Lo, now, apparent all 
 Aslant the daw-bright earth, and coloured air, 
 He looks in boundless majesty abroad ; 
 And sheds 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, 
 Lay a shepherd swain, and viewed the rolling billow. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 VERSES CONTAINING EXCLAMATIONS, INTERROGATIONS, ANU 
 PARENTHESIS. 
 
 Competence. 
 
 A COMPETENCE is all we can enjoy : 
 Oh ! be content, where Heaven can give no 
 Reflection essential to Happiness. 
 Much joy not only speaks small happiness, 
 But happiness that shortly must expire. 
 Can joy unbottom'd in reflection, stand ? 
 And, in a tempest, can reflection live ? 
 
 Friendship. 
 
 Can gold gain friendship? Impudence of hope 
 As well mere man an angel might beget. 
 Love, and love only, is the loan for love. 
 Lorenzo ! pride repress ; nor hope to find 
 
CHAP L SELECT SENTENCES. 175 
 
 A friend, but what has found a friend in thee. 
 All like the purchase ; few the price will pay ! 
 And this makes friends such miracles below 
 
 Patience. 
 
 Beware of desp'rate steps. The darkest day, 
 (Live till to-morrow) will have pass'd away. 
 
 Luxury. 
 
 O luxury! 
 
 Bane of elated life, of affluent states, 
 What dreary change, what ruin is not thine ! 
 How doth thy bowl intoxicate the mind ! 
 To the soft entrance of thy rosy cave, 
 How dost thou lure the fortunate and great ! 
 Dreadful attraction ! 
 
 Virtuous Activity. 
 
 Seize, mortals ! seize the transient hour ; 
 Improve each moment as it flies? 
 Life's a short summer- man a flow'r ; 
 He dies Alas ! how soon he dies I 
 
 The Source of Happiness 
 Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, 
 Lie in three words ; health, peace, and competence 
 But health consists with temperance alone $ 
 And peace, O, virtue ! peace is all thy own. 
 
 Placid Emotion. 
 
 Who can forbear to smile with nature ? Can 
 The stormy passions in the bosom roll, 
 While every gale is peace, and every grove 
 Is melody ? 
 
 Solitude.* 
 
 O "sacred solitude ! divine retreat ! 
 Choice of the prudent ! envy of the great ! 
 By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade, 
 We court fair wisdom, that celestial maid : 
 The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace, 
 (Strangers on earth) are innocence and peace. 
 There from the ways of men. laid safe ashore, 
 We smile to hear the distant tempest roar ; 
 There, bless'd with health, with business unperple 
 This life we relish, and ensure the next. 
 
 * By solitude here is meant, a temporary seclusion from the wcfe 
 
176 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II 
 
 Presume not on To-morrow. 
 In human hearts what bolder thoughts can rise, 
 Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn ? 
 Where is to-morrow ? In another world. 
 For numbers this is certain ; the reverse 
 Is sure to none. 
 
 Dura vivimus vivamus. Whale ice live, let us live. 
 
 " Live while you live," the epicure would say, 
 
 " And seize the pleasures of the present day." 
 
 " Live while you live," the sacred preacher cries ; 
 
 " And give to God each moment as it flies." 
 
 Lord ! in my views, let both united be ; 
 
 I live in pleasure, when I live to thee ! DOPDRIDGX 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 VERSES II? VARIOUS FORMS. 
 
 The security of Virtue. 
 LET coward guilt, with pallid fear, 
 
 To sheltering caverns fly, 
 And justly dread the vengeful fate, 
 
 That thunders through the sky. 
 Protected by that hand, whose law 
 
 The threatening storms obey, 
 intrepid virtue smiles secure, 
 
 As in the blaze of day. 
 
 Resignation. 
 And Oh ! by error's force subdu'd, 
 
 Since oft my stubborn will 
 Prepost'rous shuns the latent good, 
 
 And grasps the specious ill. 
 Not to my wish, but^to my want, 
 
 Do thou thy gifts apply ; 
 Unask'd, what good thou knowest grant ; 
 
 What ill, though ask'd, deny. 
 
 Compassion. 
 I have found out a gift for my fair ; 
 
 I have found where the wood-pigeons bree 
 But let me that plunder forbear! 
 
 She will say, 'tis a barbarous deed. 
 For he ne'er can be true she averr'd, 
 
 Who can rob a poor bird of its young : 
 And I lov'd her the more,. when I heard 
 
 Such tenderness fall from her tongue. 
 
CHAP. i. SELECT SKfrrkflCES 177 
 
 Epitaph. 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of 
 
 A youth to fortune ami to 
 Fair science frown'd not on his humble birih, 
 
 And melancholy mark'd him for her own. 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul si" f! ere ; 
 
 Heav'n did a recompense as largely fi?nd ; 
 He gave to mis'ry all he had a tear. 
 
 He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all h<? wish'd) a friend 
 No further seek his merits to disclose, 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread ^bode, 
 (There they alike in trembling hope rof^v%) 
 
 The bosom of his Father and his Go A . 
 
 Joy and Sorrow conn*c* f 
 Still, where rosy pleasure leads, 
 See a kindred grief pursue; 
 Behind the steps that niis'ry treads, 
 Approaching comforts view. 
 The hues of bliss more brightly glow, 
 Chastis'd by sable tints of woe ; 
 And blended form, ^ith artful strife, 
 The strength and harmony of life. 
 
 The golden JWean. 
 He that holds fast the golden mean, 
 And lives contentedly between 
 
 The little and the great, 
 Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, 
 Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, 
 
 Imbitt'ring all his state. 
 The tallest pines feel most the pow'r 
 Of wint'ry blast ; the loftiest tow'r 
 
 Comes heaviest to the ground. 
 The bolts that spare the mountain's side, 
 His cloud-capt eminence divide; 
 
 And spread the ruin round. 
 
 Moderate Views and Jlims recommended 
 With passions unruffled, untainted with pride, 
 
 By reason my life let me square ; 
 The wants of my nature are cheaply supplied ; 
 
 And the rest are but folly and care. 
 How vainly, through infinite trouble and strife 
 
 The many their labours employ ! 
 Since all that is truly delightful in life, 
 
 Is what all, if they please, may enjoy. 
 
V THE ENGLISH READER. PART 11 
 
 Attachment to Life. 
 
 The tree of deepest root is found 
 
 Least willing still to quit the ground : 
 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, 
 That love of life increased with years, 
 
 So much, that in our later stages, 
 
 When pain grow sharp, and sickness rages, 
 The greatest love of life appears. 
 
 Virtue's address to Pleasure*. 
 Vast happiness enjoy thy gay allies! 
 
 A youth of follies, an old age of cares ; 
 Young yet enervate, old yet never wise, 
 
 Vice wastes their vigour, and their mind impairs. 
 Tain, idle, delicate, in thoughtless ease, 
 
 Reserving woes for age, their prime they spend ; 
 All wretched, hopeless, in the evil days, 
 
 With sorrow to the verge of life they tend. 
 Griev'd with the present, of the past asham'd, 
 They live and are despisM; they die, nor more are nam'cr 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 VERSES IN WHICH SOUND CORRESPONDS TO SIGNIFICATION 
 
 Smooth and rough Verse. 
 SOFT is the strain when zephyr gently blows, 
 And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows. 
 But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, 
 The hoarse rough verse, should like the torrent roar. 
 
 Slow Motion imitated. 
 
 When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, 
 The line too labours, and the words move slow. 
 
 Swift and easy Motion. 
 Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, 
 Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the mam, 
 
 Felling Trees in a Wood. 
 
 Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes; 
 On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks 
 Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown; 
 Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down. 
 
 Sound of a Bow-string. 
 
 . The string let fly 
 
 Twang' d short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry 
 
 * Sensual Pleasure 
 
CHAP. I. SELECT SENTENCES. 179 
 
 The Pheasant. 
 
 See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, 
 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 rumbling caves, 
 The rough roc roars ; tumultuous boil the waves. 
 
 Boisterous and gentle Sounds. 
 Two Craggy rocks projecting to the main, 
 The roarings winds tempestuous rage restrain : 
 Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide ; 
 And ships secure without their halsers ride* 
 Laborious and impetuous Motion. 
 With many a weary step, and many a groan, 
 Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone: 
 The huge round stone resulting with a bound, 
 Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground* 
 
 Regular and slow Movement . 
 First march the heavy mules securely slow ; 
 O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go. 
 
 Motion sloiv and difficult. 
 A needless Alexandrine ends the song, 
 That like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. 
 
 A Rock torn from the Brew of a Mountain. 
 Still gath'ring force, it smokes, and urg'd amain, 
 Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain. 
 
 Extent and violence of the Waves. 
 The waves behind impel the waves before, 
 Wide rolling, foaming high, and tumbling to the shore. 
 
 Pensive Numbers. 
 
 In those deep solitudes and awful cells, 
 Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells, 
 And ever-musing melancholy reigns. 
 Battle, 
 
 Arms on armour clashing brayed 
 
 Horrible discord ; and the madding wheels 
 Of brazen fury rag'd. 
 
 Sound imitating Reluctance. 
 For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
 Thi pleasing unxious being e'er resigned ; 
 
180 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II 
 
 Left the warm precinct* of the cheerful day, 
 Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind I 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 PARAGRAPHS OF GREATER LENGTH. 
 
 Connubial Jlffection. 
 THE love that cheers life's latest stage, 
 Proof against sickness and old age, 
 Preserved by virtue from declension, 
 Becomes not weary of attention: 
 But lives, when that exterior grace, 
 Which first inspired the flame, decays. 
 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, 
 To faults compassionate, or blind ; 
 .4nd 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 convolved, 
 The quiv'ring nations sport ; till, tempest- wing'd, 
 Fierce winter sweeps them from the face of day. 
 Ev'n so, luxurious men, unheeding, pass 
 An idle summer life, in fortune's shine, 
 A season's glitter ! Thus they flutter on, 
 From toy to toy, from vanity to vice ; 
 Till, blown away by death, oblivion comes 
 Behind, and strikes them from the book of life. 
 
 Beneficence its own Reward,, 
 My fortune (for I'll mention all, 
 And more than you dare tell) is small; 
 5Tet ev'ry friend partakes my store, 
 And want goes smiling from my door. 
 Will forty shillings warm the breast 
 Of worth or industry distress'd ! 
 This sum I cheerfully impart; 
 "^is fourscore pleasures to my heart; 
 And you may make, by means like these, 
 Five talents ten, whene'er you please. 
 'Tis true, my little purse grows light; 
 But then I sleep so sweet at night ! 
 
CHAP. I. SELECT SENTENCES. 181 
 
 This grand specific will prevail, 
 When all the doctor's opiates fail. 
 
 Virtue the best Treasure. 
 Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul, 
 Is the best gift of Heav'n: a happiness 
 That, even above the smiles and frowns of fate, 
 Exalts great nature's favourites : a wealth 
 That ne'er encumbers ; nor to baser hands 
 Can be transferr'd. It is the only good 
 Man justly boasts of, or can call his own. 
 Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn'd. 
 But for one end, one much-neglected use, 
 Are riches worth our care ; (for nature's wants % 
 
 Are few, and 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, 
 
 Let me associate with the serious night, 
 
 And contemplation, her sedate compeer; 
 
 Let me shake off th' intrusive cares of day, 
 
 And lay the meddling senses all aside. 
 Where now, ye lying vanities of life I 
 
 Ye ever tempting, ever -cheating train ! 
 
 Where are you now? and what is your amount? 
 
 Vexation, disappointment, and remorse. 
 
 Sad, sick r ning thought ! And yet, deluded man 
 
 A scene of crude disjointed visions past, 
 And broken slumbers, rises still resolv'd, 
 
 With new flush'd hopes, to run the giddy round. 
 
 Pleasure of Piety. 
 A Deity believ'd, is joy begun ; 
 A Deity ador'd, is joy advanc'd ; 
 A Deity belov'd, is joy matur'd. 
 Each 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 sweeter still ; 
 
182 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II 
 
 Pray'r ardent opens heav'n, lets down a stream 
 Of glory, on the consecrated hour 
 Of man in audience with the Deitv. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 NARRATIVE PIECES. 
 
 SECTION 1. 
 
 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 7 d, 
 In artful cells, their luscious hoard ; 
 O'erjoy'd they seiz'd, with eager haste, 
 Luxurious on the rich repast. 
 Alarm'd at this, the little crew 
 About their ears 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 discreeter grown, 
 Too late their rashness they bemoan; 
 And this by dear experience gain, 
 That pleasure 7 s ever bought with pain. 
 So when the gilded baits of vice 
 Are placed 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 H. 
 
 The Nightingale and the Glow-worn 
 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, as well he might, 
 The keen demands of appetite ; 
 
CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. V* 
 
 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. 
 
 2 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 ; 
 That you with music, I with light, 
 Might beautify and cheer the night. r> 
 
 3 The songster heard his short oration, 
 And, warbling out his approbation f 
 Releas'd him, as my story tells, 
 
 And found a supper some where else. 
 Hence, jarring sectaries may learn, 
 Their real interest 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. 
 
 4 Those Christians best deserve the name, 
 Who studiously make peace their aim ; 
 Peace, both the duty and the prize 
 
 Of him that creeps, and him that flies. coi 
 
 SECTION III. 
 The trials of Fsrfue. 
 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. 
 2 But chief my fear the dangers movM, 
 
 That virtue's path enclose : 
 My heart the wise pursuit approved, 
 But O, what toils oppose ! 
 
184 THE ENGLISH READER PART. H 
 
 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 how shall I, with heart prepared, 
 
 Those terrors learn to meet ? 
 How, from the thousand snares to guard 
 My unexperienc'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 
 
 Observant as I 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. 
 
 9 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 ; 
 Jlest, 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 far, no further rage ; and here 
 < Let thy proud waves be stay'd.' " 
 
 12 I heard ; and lo ! at once controll'd, 
 
 The waves, in wild retreat, 
 Back on themselves reluctant roll'd, 
 
 And murm'ring left my feet. 
 
 }3 Deeps to assembling deeps in vain 
 
 Once more the signal gave : 
 
CHIP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. :85 
 
 The shores the rushing weight sustain, 
 And check th' usurping wave. 
 
 14 Convinc'd, in nature's volume wise. 
 
 The imag'd truth I read; 
 And sudden from my waking eyes 
 Th' instructive vision fled. 
 
 15 Then why thus heavy, O my soul? 
 
 Say, why distrustful still, 
 Thy. thoughts with vain impatience roll 
 O'er scenes of future ill] 
 
 16 Let faith suppress each rising fear, 
 
 Each anxious doubt exclude : 
 Thy Maker's will hath plac'd thce 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. 
 
 18 Then why thus heavy, O my soul! 
 
 Say, why distrustful still, 
 Thy thoughts with vain impatience roll. 
 O'er scenes of future ill? 
 
 19 Though griefs unntimber'd 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, 
 Wfcom Plato's philosophic care 
 Had form'd for virtue's nobler view, 
 By precept and example too, 
 Would often boast his matchless skill, 
 To curb the steed, arid guide the wheel ; 
 And as he pass'd the gazing thronff, 
 With graceful ease, and smack'd the thong 
 The idiot wonder they express'd, 
 Was praise and transport to his breast. 
 2 At length, quite vain, he needs would show 
 Pis master what his art could do; 
 
186 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II 
 
 And bade his slaves the chariot lead 
 To Academus* sacred shade. 
 The trembling grove confessed its fright, 
 The wood-nymphs started at the sight ; 
 The muses drop their learned lyre, 
 And to their inmost shades retire. 
 
 3 Howe'er, the youth, with forward air, 
 Bows to the sage, and mounts the car. 
 The lash resounds, the coursers spring, 
 The cnariot marks the rolling ring ; 
 And gathering crowds, with eager eyes, 
 And shouts, pursue him as he flies. 
 
 4 Triumphant to the goal returned, 
 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 seized the circling crowd; 
 The youths with emulation glow'd ; 
 Ev'n bearded sages haiPd the boy ; 
 And all but Plato gaz'd with joy. 
 
 5 For he, deep-judging sage, beheld 
 With pain the triumphs of the field; 
 And when the charioteer drew nigh, 
 
 And, flushed with hope, had caught his eye 
 
 " Alas ! unhappy youth," he cry'd, 
 
 *' Expect no praise from me," (and sigh'd.) 
 
 6 " With indignation I survey 
 
 Such skill and judgment thrown away : 
 
 The time profusely squandered there, 
 
 On vulgar arts beneath thy care, 
 
 If well employ'd, at less expense, 
 
 Had taught thee honour, virtue, sense ; 
 
 And raised thee from a coachman's fate, 
 
 To govern men, and guide the state." WHITEHKAP 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 Discourse between Adam and Eve, retiring to real 
 NOW came still ev'ning on, and twilight gray 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad. 
 Silenne accompanied ; for beast and bird, 
 They to their grassy couch, these to their nesto, 
 
CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 187 
 
 Were sunk ; all but the wakeful nightingale. 
 She all night long her am'rous descant sung; 
 Silence was pleas'd. Now glow'd the firmament 
 With living sapphires : Hesperus, that led 
 The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, 
 Rising in clouded majesty, at length, 
 Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light, 
 And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 
 
 2 When Adam thus to Eve : " Fair consort, th' houi 
 Of night, and all things now retir'd to rest, 
 Mind us of Hke 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 tmactive 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 fiow'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 growf* 
 Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, 
 That lie bestrown, unsightly and unsmooth, 
 Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease. 
 Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest." 
 4 To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorn'd 
 " My author and disposer, what thou bidst, 
 Unargu'd, I obey ; so God ordains. 
 With thee conversing, I forget all time ; 
 All seasons and their change, all please alike. 
 Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, 
 ' With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, 
 When first on this delightful land he spreads 
 His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flowV, 
 G list'ring with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth 
 After soft show'rs ; and sweet the coming on 
 
ft THE ENGLISH READER. PART II 
 
 Of grateful evening mild ; then silent niglit, 
 With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, 
 And these, the gems of heav'n, her starry train : 
 
 5 But neither breath of morn, when she ascends 
 With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun 
 On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flow'r, 
 GlistVmg with dew ; nor fragrance after show'rs ; 
 Nor grateful ev'ning mild ; nor silent night, 
 With this her solemn bird ; nor walk by moon, 
 Or glitt'ring star-light without thee is sweet. 
 But wherefore all night long shine these ? for whom 
 This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes ?" 
 To whom our gen'ral 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, 
 Tn order, though to nations yet unborn, 
 Minist'ring 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 stellar virtue on all kinds that grow 
 On earth, made hereby apter to receive 
 Perfection from the sun's more potent ray. 
 These, then, though unbeheld in deep of night, 
 Shine not in vain ; nor think, though men were none, 
 That heav'n would want spectators, God want praise 
 Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
 Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep. 
 All these with ceaseless praise his works behold, 
 Both day and night.' How often, from the steep 
 Of echoing hill or thicket, have we heard 
 Celestial voices to the midnight air. 
 Sole, or responsive each to others' note, 
 Singing their great Creator I Oft in bands, 
 While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk 
 With heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds, 
 In full harmonic number join'd, their songs 
 Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heav'n.* 
 
 8 Thus talking, hand in hand, alone they pass'd 
 On to the^r blissful bow'r. 
 
CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 189 
 
 -There arriv'd, both stood, 
 
 Both turn'd ; and under open sky ador'd 
 
 The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heav'n, 
 
 Which they beheld, the moon's resplendent globe, 
 
 And starr}' pole. "Thdu also mad'st the night, 
 
 Maker Omnipotent, and thou the day, 
 
 Which we, in our appointed work employed, 
 
 Have finish'd, 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, 
 
 To fill the earth, who shall with us extol 
 
 Thy goodness infinite, both when tve wake, 
 
 And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep." MI LI ON 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 Religion and Death. 
 LO ! a form, divinely bright, 
 Descends, and bursts upon my sight ; 
 A seraph of illustrious birth! 
 (Religion was her name on earth;) 
 Supremely sweet her radiant face, 
 And blooming with celestial grace ! 
 Three shining cherubs form'd her train, 
 Wav'd their light wings, and reach'd the plain : 
 Faith, with sublime and piercing eye 
 Ajid pinions fluttering 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 spoke " 'Tis Reason's part 
 To govern and to guard the heart; 
 To lull the wayward 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 then direct thy sail, 
 Disperse the clouds, or sink the gale? 
 
190 THE ENGLISH READER PART 1> 
 
 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 rae* 
 Must first be tutor'd for the place : 
 The joys above are understood, 
 And relish'd only by the good. 
 . Who shall assume this guardian care ; 
 Who shall secure their birth-right there? 
 So-als 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 !" 
 
 5 " But where's the passage to the skies ? 
 The road through death's black valley lies, 
 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 express'd 
 The raptures kindling in my breast ; 
 
 My soul a fix'd attention gave; 
 When the stern monarch of the grave, 
 With haughty strides approach'd : amaz'd 
 I stood, and trembled as I gaz'd. 
 The seraph calm'd each anxious fear, 
 And kindly wip'd the faLing tear ; 
 Then hasten'd, 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 whit'ning plumes display, 
 
 His burnisn d plumes, reflect the day ; 
 
 Light flows his shining azure vest, 
 
 And all the angel stands confess'd. 
 
 I view'd the change with sweet surprise : 
 
 And, Oh ! I panted for the skies ; 
 
 rhank'd heav'n, that e'er I drew my breath, 
 
 ind triumph'd in the thoughts of death. COTTON. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 DIDACTIC PIECES. 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 The vanity of Wealth. 
 tf more thus brooding o'er yon heap, 
 ^ th avVice painful vigils keep ; 
 Still unenjoy'd the present store, 
 Still endless sighs are breath'd 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 ? 
 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. JOHNSON. 
 
192 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 Nothing formed in vain. 
 LET no presuming impious railer tax 
 Creative wisdom, as if aught was form'd 
 In vain, or not for admirable ends. 
 Shall little haughty ignorance pronounce 
 His works unwise, of which the smallest part 
 Exceeds the narrow vision of her mind? 
 As if, upon a full-proportion'd dome, 
 On swelling columns heav'd, the pride of art, 
 A critic-fly, whose feeble ray scarce spreads 
 An Inch around, with blind presumption bold, 
 Sho ild 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 unfaul taring accent to conclude, 
 
 That this avail eth nought ? Has any seen 
 
 The mighty chain of beings, lessening down 
 
 From infinite perfection to the brink 
 
 Of dreary nothing, desolate abyss ! 
 
 From which astonished 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. THOMPSON. 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 On Pride. 
 
 OF all the causes, which conspire to blind 
 Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, 
 What the weak head with strongest bias rules, 
 Is pride ; the never failing vice of fools. 
 Whatever nature has in worth 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, swelled with wind. 
 Pride, where 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'ry friend and ev'ry foe 
 
CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 19 
 
 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. 
 8 Fir'd at first sight with what the muse imparts, 
 In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, 
 While, from the bounded level of our mind, 
 Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind ; 
 But more advanced, behold, with strange surprise 
 New distant scenes of endless science rise ! 
 So, pleas'd at first the towering Alps we try, 
 Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky ; 
 Th' eternal snows appear already past, 
 And the first clouds and mountains seem the last : 
 But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey 
 The growing labours of the lengthen'd way ; 
 Th' increasing prospect tires our wandering eyes ; 
 Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise. POPE. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 Cruelty to Brutes censured. 
 I WOULD not enter on my list of friends, 
 (Though grac'd with polish'd manners and fine sense, 
 Yet wanting sensibility,) the man 
 Wlio 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, and let the reptile live. 
 ? The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, 
 And charg'd perhaps with venom, that 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 take their pastime in the spacious field. 
 There they are privileg'd. And he that hunts 
 Or harms them there, is guilty of a wrong; 
 Disturbs th' economy of nature's realm, 
 Who when she form'd, design'd them an abode. 
 
 3 The sum is this: if man's convenience, health, 
 Or safety interfere, his rights and claims 
 
 R 
 
194 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. 
 
 Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs.' 
 Else they are all the meanest things that are 
 As free to live and to enjoy that life, 
 As God was free to form them at the first, 
 Who, in his sovereign wisdom, made them all. 
 
 4 Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons 
 To love it too. The spring time of our years 
 Is soon dishonoured and defil'd in most, 
 
 By budding ills that ask a prudent hand 
 
 To check them. But alas ! none sooner shoots 
 
 If unrestrain'd, into luxuriant growth, 
 
 Than cruelty, most dev'lish of them all. 
 
 5 Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule 
 And righteous limitation of its act, 
 
 By which heav'i moves in pardoning guilty man , 
 And he that shows none, being ripe in years, 
 And conscious of the outrage he commits, 
 Shall seek it, and not find it, in his turn. COWPER 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 , Jj Paraphrase on the latter part of the 6f/i chapter of 
 
 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 i ords of life! 
 Raptures deep-felt his do- trine did impart, 
 And thus he rais'd from e;-trth the drooping heart 
 
 2 " Think not, when all your scanty stores afford, 
 Is spread it 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 shiv'ring limbs again. 
 
 3 Say, does not life its nourishment exceed? 
 And the fair body its investing weed 1 
 Behold ! and look away your low despair- 
 See the light tenants of the barren air : 
 
 To them, nor stores nor granaries belong ; 
 Nought, but the woodland and the pleasing song; 
 Yet, your kind heav'nly Father bends his eye 
 On the least wing that flits along the sky. 
 
 4 To him they sing, when spring renews the plain ; i 
 To him they cry, in winter's pinching reign 
 
 Nor is their music, nor their plaint ia vain; 
 
CHIP. 111. DIDACTIC PIECES. 195 
 
 He hears the gay, and the distressful call ; 
 
 And with unsparing bounty fills them all." 
 6 " Observe the rising lily's snowy grace ; 
 
 Observe the various vegetable race : 
 
 They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow; 
 
 Fet see how warm they blush ! how bright they glow! 
 
 What regal vestments can with them compare ! 
 
 What king so shining! or what queen so fair!" 
 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 privileg'd 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 Bethesda your disease : 
 
 If unrestor'd by this, despair your cure. 
 t For, here, resistless demonstration dwells ; 
 
 A death-bed's a detector of the heart. 
 
 Here tir'd dissimulation drops,her mask, 
 
 Thro' life's grimace, that mistress of the scene ! 
 
 Here real, and apparent, are the same. 
 
 You see the man ; you see his hold on heav'n, 
 
 If sound his virtue, as Philander's sound. 
 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. YCUNG 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 
 Reflections an a Future State, from a review of Wtn\er. 
 '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 
 
196 THE ENGLISH READER. PART D. 
 
 Thy flow'ring 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 after fame? 
 Those restless cares 1 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 morn ! the second birth 
 Oi heav'n and earth ! aw r ak'ning nature, hears 
 The new-creating word, and starts to life, 
 In ev'ry heighten'd form, from pain and death 
 For ever free. The great eternal scheme, 
 Involving all, and in a perfect whole 
 Uniting as the prospect wider spreads, 
 To reason's eye refin'd clears up apace. 
 
 4 Ye vainly wise ! Ye blind presumptuous ! now, 
 Confounded in the dust, adore that Power 
 And Wisdom, oft argaign'd : see now the cause 
 Why unassuming vorth in secret liv'd, 
 
 And died neglected : why the gocd 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, xvore the red marks 
 Of superstition's scourge : why lice*is*d pain, 
 That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe, 
 Imbitter'd all our bliss. 
 
 6 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* 
 
CHAP III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 197 
 
 SECTION VIII. 
 
 Adam's advice to Eve, to avoid temptation. 
 O WOMAN, best are all things as the will 
 Of God ordain'd them ; his creating hand 
 Notmng imperfect or deficient left 
 Of all that he created, much less man, 
 Or aught that might his happy state secure, 
 Secure from outward force. Within himself 
 The danger lies, yet lies within his pow'r: 
 
 Against his will he can receive no harm. 
 2 But God left free the will ; for what obeys 
 
 Reason, is free, and reason he made right ; 
 
 But bid her well beware, and still erect, 
 
 Lest, by some fair appearing good surprised, 
 
 She dictate false* and misinform the will 
 
 To do what God expressly hath forbid. 
 
 Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins 
 
 That I should mind thee oft : and mind thou me 
 S 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 warned. 
 
 Seek riot temptation then, which to avoid 
 
 Were better, and most likely if from me 
 
 Thou sever not ; trial will come unsought. 
 4 Wouldst thou approve thy constancy ? approve 
 
 First thy obedience ; th' other who can know, 
 
 Not seeing thee attempted, who attest? 
 
 But if thou think, triaj unsought may find 
 
 Us both securer than thus warn'd thou seem'st, 
 
 Go ; for thy stay, not free, absents thee more 
 
 Go in thy native innocence ; rely 
 
 On what thou hast of virtue, summon all ; 
 
 For God towards thee hath done his part ; do thine." 
 
 MILTON. 
 
 SECTION IX. 
 
 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. 
 Year after year it steals, till all are fled; 
 R2 
 
^8 THE ENGLISH READER. PART. 1L 
 
 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 this reversion, takes up ready praise ; 
 At least their own ; their future selves applauds ; 
 How excellent that life they ne'er will lead ! 
 Time lodg'd in their own hands is folly's vails ; 
 That lodg'd in fate's, to wisdom they consign ; 
 The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone. 
 'Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool ; 
 And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 
 
 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 5 
 At fifty, chides his infamous delay ; 
 Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; 
 [nail the magnanimity of thought, 
 Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same. 
 
 4 And wh^ 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. 
 
 Ev'n with the tender tear which Nature sheds 
 
 O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. YOUNG. 
 
 SECTION X. 
 
 That Philosophy, which stop3 at Secondary Causes, reproved. 
 HAPPY the man who sees a God employed 
 In all the good and ill that checker life ! 
 Resolving all events, with their effects 
 And manifold results, into ( the will 
 
DIDACTIC PIECES. 193 
 
 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 oil originate ;) could chance 
 Find place in his dominion, or dispose 
 One lawless particle to thwart his plan ; 
 Then God might be surpris'd, and unforseen 
 Contingence might alarm him and disturb 
 The smooth and equal course of his affairs. 
 
 2 This truth, philosophy, though eagle-ey'd 
 In nature's tendencies, oft o'eriooks ; 
 And having found his instrument, forgets 
 Or disregards, or, more presumptuous 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 
 f n 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 ths golden ear ; he springs his mines 
 And desolates a nation at a blast : 
 
 Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells 
 Of homogeneal and discordant springs 
 And principles ; of causes, how they work 
 By necessary laws their sure effects, 
 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 discov'ry of the cause 
 Suspend th> effect, or heal it? Has not God 
 
 Still wrought by means since first he made the world ? 
 
 And did he not of old employ his means 
 
 To drown it ? 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 has taught ; 
 
 And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. COWPER 
 
200 THE ENGLISH READER. 
 
 SECTION XL 
 
 Indignant Sentiments on National Prejudices^ Slavery, 
 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 ev'ry day's report 
 
 ' Of wrong and outrage with which 'earth is fill'd. 
 There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart ; 
 It does not feel for man. The nat'ral bond 
 Of brotherhood is sever'd, 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 having pow'r 
 T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause 
 Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. 
 Lands intersected by a narrow frith 
 Abhor each other. Mountains interposM, 
 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 deplored, 
 As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 
 Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 
 With stripes, that mercy, with a bleeding heart, 
 W r eeps 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 have a slave to till my ground, 
 To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, 
 And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 
 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 bonds, that fasten them on him. 
 i We have no slaves at home then why abroad ? 
 And they themselves once ferried o'er the wave 
 That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. 
 
 6 Slaves cannot breathe in England . if their lungs 
 Receive our air, that moment they are free; 
 They tcuch our country, and their shackles fall. 
 That's noble, and bespeaks a nation 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. 
 
 Morning in Sun 
 THE meek-ey'd morn appears, mother of dews, 
 
 The Morning in Summer. 
 
 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. With quicken'd step 
 
 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 hare 
 Limps awkward : while along the forest-glade 
 The 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 soon-clad shepherd leaves 
 His mossy cottage, Where with peace he dwells ; 
 And from the crowded fold, in order, drives 
 
 His flock to taste the verdure of the morn. 
 Falsely luxurious, will not man awake ; 
 And springing from 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 T 
 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 feverish vanity alive, 
 
 Wilder'd, and tossing thro' distemper'd dreams 1 
 
 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 morning walk? THOMSON 
 
202 THE ENGLISH READER. PART D 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 Rural Sounds, as 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 fluttering all at once. 
 
 2 Nor less composure waits upon the roar 
 Of distant floods ; or on the softer voice 
 Of neighb'ring fountain ; or of rills that slip 
 Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall 
 Upon loose pebbles, 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. 
 
 3 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. COWPES 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 The Rose. 
 
 THE rose had been washed, just wash'd in a shor 
 
 Which Mary to Anna convey VI ; 
 The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flow'r 
 
 And weigh'd down its beautiful head. 
 
 2 The cup was all fiiPd, and the leaves were all we* 
 
 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, unfit as it was 
 
 For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd 5 
 
. IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 29? 
 
 And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 
 
 I snapped it it fell to the ground. 
 4 And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part, 
 
 Some act by the delicate mind ; 
 Regardless of wringing und breaking a heart, 
 
 Already to sorrow resign'd. 
 6 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. COWPEU 
 
 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. 
 
 2 Th> appointed tim 
 
 With pious toil fulfilled, the callow young, 
 WarmM and expanded into perfect life, 
 Their brittle bondage break, and come to Kght ; 
 A helpless family, demanding food 
 With constant clamour. what passions then, 
 What melting sentiments of kindly care, 
 On the new parents seize ! 
 
 S Away they *ly 
 
 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 gen'rous mould, 
 And charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar breast, 
 In some lone cot amid the distant woods, 
 Sustained alone by providential Heav'n, 
 Oft, as they weeping eye their infant train, 
 Cneck their own appetites and give them all. THOMSON 
 
 SECTION V. 
 Liitrty and Slavery contrasted. Part of a letter written 
 
 from Italy, by Mdison. 
 
 HOW has kind Heav'n adorn'd this happy land, 
 And scattered blessings with a wasteful hand I 
 
204 THE ENGLISH READER* PART 11- 
 
 But what avail her unexhausted stores, 
 Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores, 
 With all the gifts that heav'n and earth impart, 
 The smiles of nature, and the charms of art, 
 While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, 
 And tyranny usurps her happy plains 1 
 The poor inhabitant beholds in vain 
 The redd'ning orange, and the swelling grain ; 
 Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, 
 And in the myrtle's fragrant shade, repines. 
 2 Oh, Liberty, thou pow'r supremely bright, 
 Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight ! 
 Perpetual pleasures in 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 nature gay ; 
 Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. 
 On foreign mountains may the sun refine 
 The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine ; 
 With citron groves adorn a distant soil, 
 And the fat olive swell with floods of oil : 
 We envy not the warmer clime that lies 
 In ten degrees of more indulgent skies ; 
 Nor at the coarseness of our heav'n repine, 
 Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine : 
 'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, [smile. 
 
 And makes her barren rocks, and her bleak mountains 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 Charity. A Pan ^phrase on the I3lh Chapter of the First 
 Epistle to the Corinthians. 
 
 DID sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue, 
 Than ever man pronounc'd, or angel sung ; 
 Had I all knowledge, human and divine, 
 That thought can reach, or science can define ; 
 And had I pow'r to give that knowledge birth. 
 In all the speeches of the babbling earth ; 
 Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire, 
 To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire ; 
 Or had I faith like that which Israel saw, 
 When MOSPS gave them miracles, and law : 
 Yet, gracious charity, indulgent guest, 
 Were not thy power exerted in my breast; 
 
i 'HAP. IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 205 
 
 Those speeches v/ould send up unheeded pray'r; 
 That scorn of life would be but wild despair : 
 A cymbaPs sound were better than my voice ; 
 My faith were form ; my eloquence were noise. 
 
 2 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 heav'n. 
 
 3 Each other gift, which God on man bestows, 
 Its proper bounds, and clue restriction knows ; 
 To one fix'd purpose dedicates its pow'r, 
 And finishing' its act, exists no more. 
 
 Thus, in obedience to what Heav'n decrees, 
 
 Knowledge shall fail, and prophecy shall cease ; 
 
 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. 
 
 4 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 confirm'd by hope ; 
 Yet we are able only to survey, 
 Dawnings of beams, and promisee of day ; 
 Heav'n's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight ; 
 Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light, 
 
 5 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 pow'r, fair Charity, 
 Triumphant sister, greatest of the three, 
 S 
 
206 THE ENGLISH READER. PART It 
 
 Thy office, and thy nature still the same, 
 Lasting thy lamp, and unconsum'd thy flame, 
 Shalt still survive 
 
 Shalt stand before the hosts of heav'n confest, 
 For ever blessing, and for ever blest. PRIOR. 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 
 Picture of a Good Man. 
 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 j 
 All the black cares, and tumults of this life, 
 Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, 
 Excite his pity, not impair his peace. 
 t Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred, and the slavey 
 A mingled mob ! a wandering herd ! he sees, 
 Bewilder'd in the vale ; in all unlike ! 
 His full reverse in all ! What higher praise ? 
 (Vhat stronger demonstration of the right ? 
 Che present all their care ; the future his. 
 fVhen 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 compos'd possession of the true. 
 Alike throughout is his consistent piece, 
 All of one colour, and an even thread ; 
 While party-colour'd shades of hanpiness, 
 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 niakes them only smile, makes him adore. 
 Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees ; 
 An empire in his balance, weighs a grain. 
 They things terrestrial worship, as divine ; 
 His hopes immortal blow them by, as dust, 
 That dims his sight and shortens his survey, 
 Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound. 
 
CHAP. IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 207 
 
 Titles and honours (if they prove his fate) 
 He lays aside to find his dignity; 
 No dignity they find in aught besides. 
 They triumph in externals, (which conceal 
 Man's real glory,) proud of an eclipse : 
 Himself too much he prizes to be proud ; 
 And nothing thinks so great in man, as man* 
 Too dear he holds his interest to neglect 
 Another's welfare, or his right invade ; 
 Their interest, like a lion, lives on prey. 
 
 6 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, but what wounds his virtue, wounds his*pt *, 
 A covered heart their character defends ; 
 A cover'd heart denies him half his praise, 
 
 7 With nakedness his innocence agrees! 
 While their broad foliage testifies their fall ! 
 Their no joys end, where his full feast begins : 
 His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss. 
 To triumph in 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.-Youwo 
 
 SECTION VIII. 
 
 The pleasures of Retirement. 
 O KNEW he but his happiness, of men 
 The happiest he ! who, far from public rage, 
 Deep in the vale, with a choice few retir'd, 
 Drinks the pure pleasures of 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 1 
 Vile intercourse ! What though the glittering robe. 
 Of ev'ry 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 neaps 
 With luxury, and death ? What tho' his bowl 
 Flames not with costly juice ; nor sunk in beds 
 Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night, 
 
208 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II 
 
 Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state ? 
 What tho' he knows not thnse fantastic joys, 
 That still amuse the wanton, still deceive ; 
 A face of pleasure, hut a heart of pain ; 
 Their hollow moments undelighted all ? 
 Sure peace is his ; a solid life estrang'd 
 To disappointment and fallacious hope. 
 
 3 Rich in content, in nature's bounty rich, 
 
 In herbs and fruits ; whatever greens the spring, 
 
 When heaven descends in showers ; or bends the bough 
 
 When summer reddens, and when autumn beams : 
 
 Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies 
 
 Conceal'd, and fattens with the richest sap : 
 
 Ttfese are not wanting ; nor the milky drove, 
 
 Luxuriant spread o'er all tfie lowing vale ; 
 
 Nor bleating mountains ; 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 Pleasure and Benefit of an improved and well-directci 
 
 Imagination. 
 
 OH ! blest of Heav'n, who not the languid songs 
 Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes 
 Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoLs 
 Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave 
 Those ever-blooming sweets, which, from the store 
 Of nature, fair imagination culls, 
 To chaimth' enliven'd soul ! What tho' not 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. 
 
 2 His the city's pomp. 
 
 The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns 
 
. FV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 309 
 
 The princely dome, the column, and the arch, 
 The breathing marble and the sculptur'd gold, 
 Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, 
 His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring 
 Distils her dews, and from the silken gem 
 Its lucid leaves unfolds : for him, the hand 
 Of autumn tinges every fertile branch 
 With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn. 
 Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings ; 
 And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, 
 And loves unfelt attract him. 
 
 Not a breeze 
 
 Flies o'er the meadow ; not a cloud imbibes 
 The setting sun's effulgence ; not a strain 
 From all the tenants W the warbling shade 
 Ascends ; but whence his bosom can partake 
 Fresh pleasure, unreprov'd. Nor thence partake j 
 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 y home, 
 To find a kindred order ; to exert 
 Within herself this elegance of love, 
 This fair inspir'd delight : her temper'd pow'rs 
 Refine at length, and every passion wears 
 A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. 
 But if to ampler prospects, if 'to gaze 
 On nature's form, w r here, negligent of 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 1 
 Would sordid policies, the barb'rous 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, 
 JJe meant, he made us to behold and love 
 S 2 
 
210 THE ENGLISH READER. PARI H 
 
 What he beholds and loves, the general orb 
 
 Of life and being ; to be great like Hini, 
 
 Beneficent and active. Thus the men 
 
 Whom nature's works instruct, with God himoeL" 
 
 Hold converse ; grow familiar, day by day, 
 
 With his conceptions ; act upon his plan ; 
 
 And form to his, the relish oMieir souls. AKENSIDE 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 ojo,~- 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 The Hemiit. 
 AT the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, 
 
 And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove ; 
 When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, 
 
 And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove ; 
 ? Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar, 
 
 While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began; 
 No more with himself or with nature at war, 
 
 He thought as a sage, tho' he felt as a man. 
 
 2 " Ah ! why, all abandon'd to darkness and wo ; 
 
 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 ; 
 sooth him whose pleasures like thine pass away ; 
 
 Full quickly they pass but they never return. 
 
 3 " Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, 
 
 The moon half extinguished her crescent displays ; 
 But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high 
 
 She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. 
 Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue 
 
 The path that conducts thee to splendour again : 
 But man's faded glory what change shall renew ! 
 
 Ah fool ! to exult in a glory so vain ! 
 
 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 
 Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; 
 
 Kind nature the embryo blossom will save : 
 
, V. PATHETIC PIECES. 211 
 
 But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ! 
 when shall clay dawn on the night of the grave ! 
 
 5 " 'Twas thus by the glare of false science betray'd, 
 
 That leads, to bewilder, and dazzles, to blind ; 
 My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, 
 
 Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
 O pity, great Father of light, then I cried, 
 
 Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee. 
 Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride ; 
 
 From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free 
 
 6 " And darkness uncl doubt are now flying away ; 
 
 TsTo longer I roarn in conjecture forlorn : 
 So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, 
 
 The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn 
 See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending, 
 
 And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! 
 On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending; 
 
 And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." 
 
 BEATTIE. 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 The Beggar's Petition. 
 PITY the sorrows of a poor old man, 
 
 Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your doo; 
 Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ; 
 
 Oh ! give relief, and Heaven will bless your stort. 
 
 2 These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak ; 
 
 These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years ; 
 And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek, 
 Has been the channel to a flood of tears. 
 
 3 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. 
 
 4 Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor ! 
 
 Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread 
 A parnper'd menial drove me from the door 
 To seek a shelter in an humbler shed. 
 
 5 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. 
 
 6 Should I reveal the sources of my grief, 
 
 If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, 
 Your hands would not withhold tfie kind relief, 
 And tears of pity, wou fo not be represt. 
 
212 THE ENGLISH READER. PART P 
 
 7 Heav'n sends misfortunes ; why should we repine ? 
 
 >Tis Heav'n has brought me to the state you see; 
 And your condition may be soon like mine, 
 The child of sorrow and of misery. 
 
 8 A little farm was my paternal lot; 
 
 Then, like the lark, I sprightly haiPd 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 oi my age, 
 
 JLur'd by a villain from her native home, 
 Is cast abandoned on the world's wide stage, 
 And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam. 
 
 ,-*) My tender wife, sweet soother of my care ! 
 
 Struck with sad anguish at the stem decree, 
 Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair ! 
 
 And left the world to wretchedness and me. 
 
 5 . l?ity the sorrows of a poor old man, 
 
 Whose trembling limbs have born him to your do f k 
 Who%e days are dwindled to the shortest span ; 
 Oh ! gfre relief, and Heav'n will bless your stc\ 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 Unhappy close of Life. 
 
 HOW shocking must thy summons be, Deat> i 
 To him that is at ease in his possessions ! 
 Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, 
 Is quite unfurnish'd for the world to come ! 
 In that dread moment, how the frantic soul 
 Raves round the walls of 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 inurd'rer, steady to his purpose, 
 Pursues her close, thro' ev'ry lane of life ; 
 Nor misses once the track ; but presses on, 
 Till, forc'd at last to the tremendous verge, 
 At once she sinks to everlasting ruin. BLAIR 
 
CHAP. V. PATHETIC PIECES. 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 bless. 
 
 2 Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey 
 
 From flow'ry meads, can with that sigh compare ; 
 Not dew-drops glitt'ring 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 upraisM to give the blow. 
 
 5 And when the air with heat meridian glows, 
 
 And nature droops beneath the conqu'ring 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 ; 
 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, 
 
 Ar>d sinking nature own the dread decay, 
 Some soul congenial then may lend its aid, 
 And gild the close of life's eventful day. 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during 
 his 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. 
 
214 THE ENGLISH HEADER. PAKT 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. 
 
 2 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. 
 
 3 Society, friendship, and love, 
 
 Divinely bestow'd upon man, 
 Oh, had I the wings of a dove, 
 
 How soon would I taste you again! 
 My sorrows I the^ might assuage 
 
 In the ways of religion and truth ; 
 Might learn from the wisdom of age, 
 
 And be cheer' d by the sallies of youth 
 
 4 Religion ! what treasure untold 
 
 Resides in that heavenly word ! 
 More 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 smil'd when a sabbath appear'd. 
 
 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 friead, 
 
 Though a friend I am never to see 
 
 6 How fleet is a glance of the mind ! 
 
 Compar'd 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. 
 
MAP* V. PATHETIC PIECES. 
 
 7 But the sea-fowl has gone to her nesV, 
 
 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. COWPER 
 
 SECTION VI 
 
 Gratitude. 
 
 WHEN all thy mercies, O my God! 
 
 My rising soul surveys, 
 Transported with the view, I'm 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 sustain'd, 
 
 And all my wants redrest, 
 When hi the silent womb I lay, 
 And hung upon the breast. 
 1 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. 
 6 Unnumber'd comforts to my soul 
 
 Thy tender care bestow'd, 
 Before my infant heart conceiv'd 
 
 From whom those comforts flow'd. 
 
 6 When, in the slipp'ry paths of youth, 
 
 With heedless steps, I ran, 
 Thine arm, unseen, convey'd 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, 
 6 When worn with sickness, oft hast thou, 
 
 With health renew'd my face ; 
 And when in sins and sorrows sunk, 
 Reviv'd my soul with grace. 
 
216 THE ENGLISH READER FAUI II. 
 
 9 TL/ bounteous hand,' with worldly bliss, 
 
 Has 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 worlds,. 
 The glorious theme renew. 
 
 12 When nature fails, and day and night 
 
 Divide thy works no more, 
 My ever-grateful heart, Lord ! 
 
 Thy mercy shall adore. 
 3 Through all eternity, to thee 
 A joyful song I'll raise ; 
 For ! eternity's too short 
 
 To utter all thy praise. ADDISON. 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 
 b Man perishing in the Snoic ; from whence Reflections ar* 
 raised on the miseries of Life. 
 
 AS thus the snows arise ; and foul and fierce, 
 All winter drives along the darkened 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 wanders 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 forth 
 In many a vain attempt. 
 
 2 How sinks his soul ! 
 
 WTiat black despair, what horror fills his heart ! 
 When, for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd 
 His tufted cottage rising through the snow, 
 He meets the roughness of the middle waste, 
 Far from the track, and blest abode of man ; 
 While round him night resistless closes fast, 
 And ev'ry tempest howling o'er his head, 
 
CHAP. VIIL PATHETIC PIECES. 217 
 
 Renders the savage wilderness more wild. 
 3 Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, 
 Of covered pits, unfathomably deep, 
 A dire descent, beyond the pow'r of frost ! 
 Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge, 
 Smoothed up with snow; and what is land, unknown, 
 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 drift, 
 Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death, 
 
 MixM with the tender anguish nature shoots 
 Through the wrung bosom of the dying man, 
 His wife, his children, and his friends unseen, 
 
 5 In vain for him the officious wif 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 ; 
 Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve 
 The deadly winter seizes ; shuts up sense j 
 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, 
 And all the sad variety of pain ! 
 How many sink in the devouring flood, 
 Or more devouring flame ! How many bleed, 
 By shameful variance betwixt man and man ! 
 ? How many pine in want, 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 wintry winds, 
 How many shrink into the sordid hut 
 Of cheerless poverty ! How many shake 
 With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, 
 
 passion, madness, guilt, remorse I 
 
 r 
 
218 THE ENGLISH READER. PAPT II 
 
 8 How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop 
 In deep reiir'd distress ! How many stand 
 Around the death-bed of their dearest friends, 
 And point the parting anguish! Thought fond ma 
 Of these and'all the thousand nameless ills, 
 That one incessant struggle render life, 
 One scene of toil, of suffering and of fate, 
 Vice in his high career would stand appalPd, 
 And heedless rambling impulse learn to think ; 
 The conscious heart of charity would warm, 
 And her wide wish benevolence dilate ; 
 The social tear would rise, the social sigh ; 
 And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, 
 Refining still the social passions work. THOMSON. 
 
 SECTION VIII. 
 
 A morning Hymn. 
 
 THESE are thy glorious works, parent of good,, 
 Almighty, thine this universal frame r 
 Thus wond'rous fair ; thyself how wond'rous then 
 Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens, 
 To us, invisible, or dimly seen 
 In these thy lower works ; yet these declare 
 Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine. 
 
 2 Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 
 Angels ; for ye behold him, and with songs 
 And choral symphonies, day without night, 
 Circle his throne rejoicing ; ye, in heaven, 
 On earth, join all ye creatures to extol 
 Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end. 
 Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 
 If better thou belong not to the dawn, 
 Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn 
 With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, 
 While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
 Thou sun, of this great world, both eye and soul, 
 Acknowledge him thy greater, sound his praise 
 In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, 
 And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou falls"! 
 
 3 Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st 
 With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies ; 
 And ye five other wandering fires that move 
 In mystic dance, not without song resound 
 His praise, who out of darkness calPd \ip light* 
 Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth 
 
CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 219 
 
 Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run 
 Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix 
 And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change 
 Vary to our great MAKER still new praise. 
 
 4 Ye mists and exhalations that now rise 
 From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray, 
 Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 
 In honour to the world's great AUTHOR rise! 
 Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky, 
 Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs, 
 Rising or falling, still advance his praise. 
 
 5 His praise? ye winds, that from four quarters blow, 
 Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, 
 With evry plant, in sign of worship wave. 
 Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow 
 Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. 
 Join voices, all ye living souls ; ye birds, 
 
 That singing, up to heaven's gate ascend, 
 Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise-. 
 
 6 Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
 The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep, 
 Witness if I be silent, morn or even, 
 
 To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade 
 
 Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. 
 
 Hail, UNIVERSAL LORD ! be bounteous still 
 
 To give us only good ; and if the night 
 
 Has gather'd aught of evil, or conceal'd, 
 
 Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. MILTON 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 
 
 .oj~- 
 
 SECTION I. 
 
 Ode to Content. 
 
 O THOU, the nymph with placid eye! 
 O seldom found, yet ever nigh ! 
 
 Receive my temp'rate vow : 
 Not all the storms that shake the pole 
 Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul, 
 And smooth, unalter'd brow. 
 2 O come, in simplest vest array 'd, 
 With all thy sober cheer display 1 1/ 
 To bless my longing sight; 
 
220 THE ENGLISH READER. PART fJ 
 
 Thy mien composed, thy even pace, 
 
 Thy meek regard, thy matron grace, 
 
 And chaste subdu'd delight. 
 
 3 No more by varying passions beat, 
 O gently guide my pilgrim feet 
 
 To find thy hermit cell ; 
 Where in some pure and equal sky, 
 Beneath thy soft indulgent eye, 
 
 The modest virtues dwell. 
 
 4 Simplicity in attic vest, 
 
 And innocence, with candid breast, 
 
 And clear undaunted eye ; 
 And Hope, who points to distant years, - 
 Fair op'ning thro' this vale of tears 
 
 A vista to the sky. 
 
 5 There Health, thro' whose calm bosom glidt 
 The temp 'rate j ys in even tide, 
 
 That rarely ebb or flow ; 
 And Patience there, thy sister meek, 
 Presents her mild unvarying cheek, 
 
 To meet the offer'd blow. 
 
 6 Her influence taught the Phrygian sage 
 A tyrant master's wanton rage, 
 
 With settled smiles, to meet: 
 Inur'd to toil v and bitter bread, 
 He bow'd his meek submitted head, 
 
 And kiss'd thy sainted feet. 
 
 7 But thou, O nymph, retir'd and coy! 
 In what ferown hamlet dost thou joy 
 
 To tell thy tender tale? 
 The lowliest children of the ground, 
 Moss-rose and violet blossom round, 
 
 And lily of the vale. 
 
 8 O say what soft propitious hour 
 
 I best may choose to hail thy pow'r, 
 
 And court thy gentle sway? 
 When autumn, friendly to the muse, 
 Shall thy own modest tints diffuse. 
 And shed thy milder day? 
 
 9 When eve, her dewy star beneath, 
 Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe. 
 
 And ev'ry storm is laid ? 
 If such an hour was e'er thy choice, 
 Oft let me hear thy soothing voice. 
 
 Low whisp'ring through the shut* BARBAULD 
 
CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 221 
 
 SECTION II. 
 
 The Shepherd and the Philosopher. 
 REMOTE from cities liv'd a swain, 
 Unvex'd with all the cares of gain ; 
 His head was silver'd o'er with age, 
 And long experience made him sage ; 
 In summer's heat and winter's cold, % 
 He fed his flock, and penn'd the fold ; 
 His hours in cheerful labour flew, 
 Nor envy, nor ambition knew : 
 His wisdom and his honest fame 
 Through all the country rais'd his name. 
 
 2 A deep philosopher (whose rules 
 
 Of moral life were drawn from schools) 
 The shepherd's homely cottage sought, 
 And thus explor'd his reach of thought. 
 
 " Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil 
 O'er books consum'd the midnight oil? 
 Hast thou old Greece aad Rome survey'd, 
 And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd ? 
 Hath Socrates thy soul reiin'd, 
 And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind ? 
 Or, like the wise Ulysses, thrown, 
 By various fates, on realms unknown, 
 Hast thou through many cities stray 'd, 
 Their customs, laws, and manners weigh'd ? w 
 
 3 The shepherd modestly replied, 
 
 " I ne'er the paths of learning tried ; 
 Nor have I 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 gain'd, 
 Was all from simple nature drain'd ; 
 Hence my life's maxims took their rke 
 Hence grew my settled hate of vice. 
 
 4 The daily labours of the bee 
 Awake my soul to industry. 
 Who can observe the careful ant, 
 And not provide for future want 1 
 My dog (the trustiest of his kind) 
 With gratitude inflames my mind. 
 
222 THE ENGLISH READEF ?A*T 11 
 
 1 mark his true, his 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 ev'ry fowl that flies at large, 
 Instructs me in a parent's charge. 
 
 5 From nature too I 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 ? 
 51y 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 I, with felonious flight, 
 By stealth invade my neighbour's right. 
 
 6 Rapacious animals we hate ; 
 
 Kites, hawks, and wolves, deserve theb fat 
 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 affected are as men : 
 
 But he who studies nature's laws, 
 From certain truth his maxims draws ; 
 And those, without our schools, suffice 
 To make men moral, good, and wise." GAI 
 
 SECTION III. 
 
 The Road to Happiness open to all Men. 
 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 : 
 
CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 223 
 
 Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, 
 O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool and wise ; 
 Plant of celestial seed, if dropt below, 
 Say, in what mortal soil thou deign'st to grow? 
 
 2 Fair op'ning to some court's propitious shrine, 
 Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine? 
 Twin'd with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, 
 Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field ? 
 
 Where grows? where grows it not? if vain our'toil, 
 
 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 thee. 
 
 3 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 pain ; 
 Some swell'd to gods, confess ev'n virtue vain : 
 
 Or indolent, to each extreme they fall, 
 To trust in ev'ry thing, or doubt of all. 
 
 4 Who thus define it, say they more or less 
 Than this, that happiness is happiness ? 
 Take nature's path, and mad opinions leave ; 
 All states can reach it, and all heads conceive ; 
 Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell ; 
 There needs but thinking right, and meaning well : 
 And mourn our various portions as we please, 
 Equal is common sense, and common ease. 
 
 Remember, man, " the universal cause 
 Acts net by partial, but by gen- ral laws ;" 
 And makes what happiness we justly call, 
 Subsist not in the good of one, but all. POPE. 
 
 SECTION IV. 
 
 The Goodness of Providence- 
 THE Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
 Ar.d 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 all my midnight hours defend. 
 I When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
 Or on the thirsty mountains pant : 
 
224 THE ENGLISH READER PART II 
 
 To fertile vales, and dewy meads, 
 My weary wand'ring steps he leads ; 
 "Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, 
 Amid the verdant landscape flow. 
 3 Tho' in the paths of death I tread, 
 With glooming horrors overspread, 
 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. 
 Tho' in a bare and rugged way, 
 Through devious lonely wilds I stray, 
 Thy bounty shall my pains beguile ; 
 The barren wilderness shall smile, 
 With sudden greens and herbage crown'd, 
 And streams shall murmur all around. ADDISOK 
 
 SECTION V. 
 
 The Creator's Works attest his greatness. 
 
 THE spacious firmament on high, 
 With all the blue ethereal sky, 
 And spangPd heav'ns, a shining frame, 
 Their great Original proclaim ; 
 Th' unweari'd sun, from day to day, 
 Does his Creator's pow'r display, 
 And publishes to ev'ry land, 
 The work of an Almighty hand. 
 
 2 Soon as the ev'ning shades prevail, 
 The moon takes up the wond'rous tale ; 
 And, nightly, to the list'ning earth, 
 Repeats the story of her birth; 
 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 fho' 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 that made us, is Divine." ADDHO* 
 
Ciur. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 225 
 
 SECTION VI. 
 
 An Address to the Deity. 
 
 O THOU ! whose balance does the mountains wei#fc ; 
 Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey ; 
 Whose breath can turn those wat'ry worlds to flam* 
 That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame ; 
 Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls,, 
 And on the bounty of thy goodness calls. 
 t O ! give the winds all past offence to sweep, 
 To scatter wide, or bury in the deep. 
 Thy pow'r, my weakness, may I ever see, 
 And wholly dedicate my soul to thee. 
 Reign o'er my will ; my passions ebb and flow 
 At thy command, nor human motive know ! 
 If anger boil, let anger be my praise, 
 And sin the graceful indignation raise. 
 My love be warm to succour the distress'd, 
 And lift the burden from the soul oppress'd. 
 
 3 may my understanding ever read 
 
 This glorious volume which thy wisdom made ! 
 
 May sea and land, and earth and heav'n, be join'd, 
 
 To bring th* eternal Author to my mind ! 
 
 When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll, 
 
 May thoughts of thy dread vengeance, shake my soul I 
 
 When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine, 
 
 Adore, my heart, the Majesty divine ! 
 
 4 Grant I may ever, at the morning ray, 
 Open with pray'r the consecrated day ; 
 Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise, 
 And with the mounting sun ascend the skies ; 
 As that advances, let my zeal improve, 
 
 And glow with ardour of consummate love ; 
 
 Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun 
 
 My endless worship shall be still begun. 
 6 And oh ! permit the gloom of solemn night, 
 
 To sacred thought may forcibly invite. 
 
 When this world's shut, and awful planets rise, 
 
 Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies ! 
 
 Compose our souls with a less dazzling sight, 
 
 And show all nature in a milder light ; 
 
 How ev'ry boist'rous thought in calm subsides ; 
 
 How the smooth'd spirit into goodness glides ! 
 6 Oh how divine ! to tread the milky way, 
 
 To the bright palace of the Lord of Day ; 
 
226 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. 
 
 His cqurt admire, or for his favour sue, 
 Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew ; 
 Pleas'd to look down and see the world asleep ; 
 While I long vigils to its Founder keep ! 
 
 Canst thou not shake the centre ? Oh, control, 
 Subdue by force, the rebel in my soul ; 
 Thou, who canst still the raging of the flood, 
 Restrain the various tumults of my blood ; 
 Teach me, with equal firmness, to sustain 
 Alluring pleasure, and assaulting pain. 
 7 O may I pant for thee in each desire \ 
 And with strong faith foment the holy fire ! 
 Stretch out rny soul in hope, and grasp the prize, 
 Which in eternity's deep bosom lies ! 
 At the great day of recompense behold, 
 Devoid of fear, the fatal book unfold ! 
 Then wafted upward to the blissful seat, 
 From age to age my grateful song repeat ; 
 My Light, my Life, my God, my Saviour see, 
 And rival angels in the praise of thee ! YOUNG. 
 
 SECTION VII. 
 
 The pursuit of Happiness often ill-directed. 
 THE midnight moon serenely smiles 
 
 O'er nature's soft repose ; 
 No low'ring cloud obscures the sky, 
 
 Nor ruffling tempest blows. 
 
 2 Now every passion sinks to rest, 
 
 The throbbing heart lies still ; 
 And varying schemes of life no more 
 Distract the laboring will. 
 
 3 In silence, hush'd to reason's voice, 
 
 Attends each mental pow'r ; 
 Come, dear Emilia, and enjoy 
 Reflection's fav'rite hour. 
 
 4 Come, while the peaceful scene invites, 
 
 Let's search this ample round ; 
 Where shall the lovely fleeting form 
 Of happiness be found ? 
 
 5 Does it amidst the frolic mirth 
 
 Of gay assemblies dwell ; 
 Or hide beneath the solemn gloom, 
 That shades the hermit's cell ? 
 
 6 How oft the laughing brow of joy 
 
 A sick'ning heart conceals ! 
 
u* VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 227 
 
 And, through the cloister's deep recess, 
 Invading sorrow steals. 
 
 7 In vain, through beauty, fortune, wit. 
 
 The fugitive we trace ; 
 It dwells not in the faithless smile, 
 That brightens Clodia's face. 
 
 8 Perhaps the joy to these deny'd, 
 
 The heart in friendship finds 
 Ah ! dear delusion, gay conceit 
 Of visionary minds ! 
 
 9 Howe'er our varying notions rove, 
 
 Yet all agree in one, 
 To place its being in some state, 
 At distance from our own. 
 
 10 O blind to each indulgent aim, 
 
 Of power supremely wise, 
 Who fancy happiness in aught 
 The hand of Heav'n denies ! 
 
 11 Yain is alike the joy we seek, 
 
 And vain what we possess, 
 Unless harmonious reason tunes, 
 The passions into peace. 
 
 12 To tempered wishes, just desires, 
 
 Is happiness confin'd ; 
 And deaf to folly's call, attends 
 The music of the mind. CARTEK 
 
 SECTION YIIL 
 
 The Fire-Side. 
 
 DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd, 
 The vain, the wealthy, and the proui v 
 
 In folly's maze advance ; 
 Tho' singularity and pride 
 Be cali'd our choice, we'll step aside, 
 
 Nor join the giddy dance. 
 2 From the gay world, we'll oft retire 
 To our own family and fire, 
 
 Where love our hours employs ; 
 No noisy neighbour enters here, 
 No intermeddling stranger near, 
 
 To spoil our heart-felt joys. 
 2 If solid happiness we prize, 
 Within our breast this jewel lies ; 
 
 And they are fools who roam s 
 
228 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II 
 
 The world has nothing to bestow ; 
 From our own selves our joys must flow, 
 And that dear hut, our home. 
 
 4 Of rest was Noah's dove bereft, 
 When with impatient wing she left 
 
 That safe retreat, the ark ; 
 Giving her vain excursion o'er, 
 The disappointed bird once more 
 
 Explor'd the sacred bark. 
 
 5 Tho' fools spurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs, 
 We, who improve his golden hours, 
 
 By sweet experience know, 
 That marriage rightly understood, 
 Gives to the tender and the good 
 
 A paradise below. 
 
 6 Our babes shall richest comfort bring ; 
 If tutor'd right, they'll prove a spring 
 
 Whence pleasures ever rise ; 
 We'll form their minds, with studious care, 
 To all that's manly, good, and fair, 
 
 And train them for the skies. 
 
 7 While they our wisest hours engage, 
 They'll joy our youth, support our age, 
 
 And crown our hoary hairs ! 
 They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day, 
 And thus our fondest loves repay, 
 
 And recompense our cares. 
 
 8 No borrow'd joys ! they're all our own, 
 While to the world we live unknown, 
 
 Or by the world forgot ; 
 Monarchs ! we envy not your state ; 
 We look with pity on the great, 
 
 And bless cmr humbler lot. 
 
 9 Our portion is not large indeed ! 
 But then how little do we need ! 
 
 For nature's calls are few : 
 In this the art of living lies, 
 To want no more than may suffice, 
 
 And make that little do. 
 10 We'll therefore relish, with content, 
 Whate'er kind Providence has sent, 
 
 Nor aim beyond our pow'r ; 
 For if our stock be very small, 
 'Tis prudence to enjoy it all, 
 
 Nor lose the present hour. 
 
CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES 229 
 
 11 To be resignM when ills betide, 
 Patient when favours are denied, 
 
 And pleas'd with favours giv'n : 
 Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part ; 
 This is that incense of the heart, 
 
 Whose fragrance smells to heav'n. 
 
 12 We'll ask no long protracted treat, 
 Since winter-life is seldom sweet ; 
 
 But when our feast is o ? er, 
 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, 
 
 W r ith cautious steps, we'll tread ; 
 Quit its vain scenes without a tear, 
 Without a trouble or a fear, 
 
 And mingle with the dead. 
 
 1 4 While conscience, like a faithful friend, 
 Shall thro' the gloomy vale attend, 
 
 And cheer our dying breath ; 
 Shall, when all other comforts cease, 
 Like a kind angel whisper peace, 
 
 And smooth the bed of death. COTTON. 
 
 SECTION IX. 
 Providence Vindicated in the present state of Man. 
 
 HEAV'N from all creatures, hides the book of fate v , 
 
 All but the page prescrib'd, their present state ; 
 
 From brutes what men, from men what spirits know 
 
 Or who could suffer being here below ? 
 
 The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
 
 Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? 
 
 Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food, 
 
 And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. 
 1 Oh blindness to the future ! kindly giv'n 
 
 That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n ; 
 
 Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
 
 A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ; 
 
 Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, 
 
 And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 
 $ Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar, 
 
 Wait the great teacher Death ; and God adore. 
 
 What future bliss he gives not thee to know, 
 
 But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
 
230 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1L 
 
 Hope springs eternal in the human breast : 
 Man never is, but always TO BE blest. 
 The soul, uneasy, and confin'd from home, 
 Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 
 
 4 Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind 
 Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; 
 His soul proud science never taught to stray 
 Far as the Solar Walk or Milky Way, 
 
 Yet, simple nature to his hope has giv'n. 
 Behind the cloud-topt hill, a. humbler heav'n ; 
 Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, 
 Some happier island in the watr'y waste ; 
 Where slaves once more their native land behold, 
 ' No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
 
 5 To BE, contents his natural desire ; 
 
 He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; 
 But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
 His faithful dog shall bear him company. 
 
 Go, wiser thou ! and in thy scale of sense, 
 Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 
 Call imperfection what thou fanciest such ; 
 Say here he gives too little, there too much. 
 
 6 In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies ; 
 All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. 
 Pride still is aiming at .the blest abodes ; 
 Men would be angels, angels would be gods. 
 Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, 
 Aspiring to be angels, men rebel : 
 
 And who but wishes to invert the laws 
 
 Of ORDER, sins against th* ETERNAL CAUSE. POPE. 
 
 SECTION X. 
 
 Selfishness Reproved. 
 
 HAS God, thou fool! work'd solely for thy good, 
 Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food 1 
 Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, 
 For him as kindly spreads the flow'ry lawn. 
 Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings ? 
 Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. 
 Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat ? 
 Loves of his own, and raptures swell the note. 
 3 The bounding steed you pompously bestride, 
 Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride 
 Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain 1 
 The birds of heav'n shall vindicate their grain 
 
CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 231 
 
 Thine the full harvest of the golden year ? 
 Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer. 
 The hog that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, 
 Lives on the labours of this lord of all. 
 
 3 Know, nature's children all divide her care ; 
 The fur that warms a monarch, warm'd a bear. 
 While man exclaims, " See all things for my use !" 
 " See man for mine !" replies a pamper'd goose. 
 And just as short of reason he must fall, 
 
 Who things all made for one, not one for all. 
 
 4 Grant that the pow'rful still the weak control ; 
 Be man the wit and tyrant of the whole : 
 Nature that tyrant checks ; he only knows, 
 And helps another creature's wants and woes. 
 Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, 
 Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove ? 
 Admires the jay the insect's gilded wings 1 
 
 Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings 1 
 Man cares for all : to birds he gives his woods, 
 To beasts his pastures, and to fish his floods ; 
 For some his int'rest prompts him to provide, 
 For more his pleasures, yet for more his pride. 
 All feed on one vain patron, and enjoy 
 Th' extensive blessing of his luxury. 
 6 That very life his learned hunger craves, 
 He saves from famine, from the savage saves ; 
 Nay, feasts the animal he dooms his feast ;^ 
 And, till he ends the being, makes it blest : 
 Which sees no more the stroke, nor feels the pain, 
 Than favour'd man by touch ethereal slain. 
 The creature had his feast of life before ; 
 Thou too must perish, when thy feast is o'er ! POPE 
 
 SECTION XI. 
 
 Human Frailty. 
 WEAK and irresolute is man ; 
 
 The purpose of to-day, 
 Woven with pains into his plan, 
 
 To-morrow rends away. 
 
 2 The bow well bent, and smart the spring, 
 
 Vice seems already slain ; 
 But passion rudely snaps the string, 
 And it revives again. 
 
 3 Some foe to his upright intent, 
 
 Finds out his weaker part ; 
 
832 THE ENGLISH READER. PART!!. 
 
 Virtue engages his assent, 
 But pleasure wins bis heart. 
 
 4 'Tis here the folly of the wise, 
 
 Through all his art, we view; 
 And while his tongue the charge denies, 
 His conscience owns it true; 
 
 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 tweets that I was wont to share, 
 
 The banquet of thy smiles 1 
 
 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 gladiy sacrificed 
 
 Whatever I lov'd before ; 
 And shall I see thee start away, 
 And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say ~ 
 
 Farewell, we meet no more ? cow/n. 
 
 SECTION XIII. 
 
 Ode to Adversity. 
 
 DAUGHTER of Heav'n, relentless power, 
 Thou tamer of the human breast, 
 
CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 233 
 
 Whose iron scourge, and tort'ring hour, 
 The bad affright, afflict the best ! 
 Bound in thy adamantine chain, 
 The proud are taught to taste of pain, 
 And purple tyrants vainly groan 
 With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. 
 
 2 When first thy sire to send on earth 
 Virtue, his darling child, designed, 
 To thee he gave the heav'nly birth, 
 And bade to form her infant mind. 
 Stern rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore 
 With patience many a year she bore. 
 What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know ; 
 
 And from her own she learn'd to melt at others wo. 
 
 3 Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly 
 Self-pleasing folly's idle brood, 
 
 Wild laughter, noise, and thoughtless joy, 
 And leave us leisure to be good. 
 Light they disperse ; and with them go 
 The summer friend, the flatt'ring foe. 
 By vain prosperity receiv'd, 
 To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'u. 
 
 4 Wisdom, in sable garb array'd, 
 Immers'd in rapt'rous thought profound, 
 And melancholy, silent 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 ^.vith the vengeful band, 
 (As by the impious thou art seen,) 
 With thundering voice, and threatening mien, 
 With screaming horror's fun'ral cry, 
 Despair, and fell disease, and ghastly poverty. 
 
 6 Thy form benign, propitious, wear, 
 Thy milder influence impart ; 
 
 Thy philosophic train be there, 
 To soften, not to wound my heart. 
 The gen'rous spark extinct revive ; 
 Teach me to love, and to forgive } 
 
*34 TITE ENGLISH UEA 
 
 Exact my own defects to scan ; 
 What others are to feel; and know myself a man. GRAI 
 
 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 wond'rous power proclaim ; 
 Tell how he form'd 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 list'ning saint above 
 Wake all the 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 heav'n of heav'ns, his vast abode ; 
 Ye clouds, proclaim your forming God, 
 
 Who call'd yon worlds from night: 
 " Ye shades dispel!" th' Eternal said; 
 , At once th' involving darkness fled, 
 And nature sprung to light. 
 
 6 Whate'er a blooming world contains, 
 That wings the air, that skims the plains, 
 
 United praise bestow ; 
 Ye dragons, sound his awful name 
 To heaven aloud ; and roar acclaim, 
 
 Ye swelling deeps below. 
 
 7 Let ev'ry element rejoice ; 
 
 Ye thunders burst with awful voice 
 *To HIM who bids you roll: 
 
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, bending low, 
 
 Your great Creator own ; 
 Tell, when affrighted nature shook, 
 How Sinai kindled at his look, 
 
 And trembled at his frown. 
 
 9 Ye flocks that haunt the humble vale, 
 Ye insects fluttering on the gale, 
 
 In mutual concourse rise ; 
 Crop the gay rose's vermeil bloom, 
 And waft its spoils, a sweet perfume, 
 
 In incense to the' skies. 
 *0 Wake all ye mounting tribes, and sing; 
 Ye plumy warblers of the spring, 
 
 Harmonious anthems raise 
 To HIM who shaped your finer mould, 
 Who tipp'd your glitt'ring wings with gold, 
 
 And tun'd your voice to praise. 
 
 1 1 Let man, by nobler passions sway'd, 
 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 gen'ral 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 powei 
 
 An image of hid own. 
 
 13 Ye fair, by nature form'd to move, 
 O 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. OGII.VIE, 
 
 SECTION XV. 
 
 The Universal 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 ! 
 
236 THE ENGLISH READER. PAUT II 
 
 2 Thou GREAT FIRST CAUSE, least understood, 
 
 Who all my sense confin'd, 
 To know but this, that Thou art good, 
 And that myself am blind ; 
 
 3 Yet gave me, in this dark estate,. 
 
 To see the good from ill ; 
 
 And binding nature fast in fate, 
 
 Left 1 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. 
 
 5 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 impart, 
 
 Still in the right 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. 
 
 1 1 Mean tho' I am, not wholly so, 
 
 Since quickeri'd by thy breath : 
 O lead me wheresoe'er I go, 
 Thro' &is day's life or death. 
 
 12 This day, be bread and peace my lot: 
 
 All else beneath the sun, 
 Thou know'st if best bestow'd 01 not* 
 And let thy will be done. 
 
CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 237 
 
 13 To thee, whose temple is all space, 
 
 Whose altar, earth, sea, skies ! 
 One chorus let all beings raise ! 
 All nature's incense rise.' POPE. 
 
 SECTION XVI. 
 
 Conscience. 
 
 TREACH'ROUS conscience ! while she seems to sleep, 
 On rose and myrtle, lull'd with syren song ; 
 While she seems nodding o'er her charge, to drop 
 On headlong appetite the slacken'd rein, 
 And gives us up to license, unrecall'd, 
 Unmark'd ; see, from behind her secret stand, 
 The sly informer minutes ev'ry fault, 
 And her 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, 
 List'ning o'erhears the whispers of our camp ; 
 Our dawning purposes of heart explores, 
 And steals our embryos of iniquity. 
 
 3 As all-rapacious usurers conceal 
 
 Their doomsday-book from all-consuming heirs, 
 
 Thus, with indulgence most severe, she treats 
 
 Us spendthrifts of inestimable time ; 
 
 Unnoted, notes each moment 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 
 
 Tbaii this ; and endless age in groans resound. rouNG 
 
 SECTION XVII. 
 
 On an Infant. 
 
 TO the dark and silent tomb, 
 
 Soon I haaten'd from the womb ; 
 
 Scarce the dawn of life began, 
 
 Ere I measured out my span. 
 2 I no smiling pleasures knew ; 
 
 I no gay delights could view : 
 
 Joyless sojourner was I, 
 
 Only born to weep and die. 
 Happy infant, early bless'd ! 
 
 Rest, in peaceful slumber, rest ; 
 
 Early rescu'd from the cares, 
 
 Which increase with growing years. 
 
236 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II 
 
 4 No delights are worth thy stay, 
 Smiling as they seem, and gay ; 
 Short and sickly 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 XVIIL 
 
 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 rohing year? 
 
 3 Delightful visitant i with thee 
 
 I hail the time of flow'rs, 
 When heav'n is filPd with music sweet, 
 Of birds among the bowr's. 
 
 4 The school-boy, wand'ring in the wood, 
 
 To pull the flow'rs 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; 
 Tnou hast no sorrow in thy song, 
 No winter in thy year! 
 
 7 O could I fly, I'd 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 parfo. 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. 
 
CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 239 
 
 2 Swiftly from the mountain's brow, 
 
 Shadows, nurs'd by night, retire ; 
 And the peeping sun-beam, now 
 
 Paints with gold the village spire. 
 8 Philomel forsakes the thorn, 
 
 Plaintive where she prates at ni^ht f 
 And the lark to meet the morn, 
 Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. 
 
 4 From thelow-roof'd cottage ridge, 
 
 See the chattering 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, uncloy'd, 
 
 (Restless till her task be done,) 
 Now the busy bee's employ'd, 
 
 Sipping dew before the sun. 
 f Trickling through the crevic'd rock, 
 
 Where the limpid stream distils, 
 Sweet refreshment waits the flock, 
 
 When 'tis sun-drove from the hills. 
 
 8 Colin's for the promis'd corn 
 
 (Ere the harvest hopes are ripe,) 
 
 Anxious ; whilst the huntsman's horn, 
 
 Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe. 
 
 9 Sweet O sweet, the warbling throng, 
 
 On the white emblossom'd spray ! 
 Nature's universal song 
 Echoes to the rising day. 
 NOON. 
 10 FERVID on the glitt'ring flood, 
 
 Now the noontide radiance glows : 
 Drooping o'er its infant bud, 
 
 Not a dew-drop's left the rcse. 
 
 j I By the brook the shepherd dines, 
 
 From the fierce meridian heat, 
 
 Shelter'd by the branching pines, 
 
 Pendant o'er his spcassy seat. 
 12 Now the flock forsakes the glade, 
 
 Where, uncheck'd, the sun-beams fall, 
 Sure to find a pleasing shade 
 By the iyy'd abbey wall. 
 
240 THE ENGLISH READER. 
 
 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. 
 
 16 Not a leaf has leave to stir; 
 
 Nature's lull'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; 
 Blithsome is the verdant scene, 
 Brighten'a oy the beams of Noon ! 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 19 O'ER the heath the heifer strays 
 
 Free ; (the furrow'd task is done ;) 
 Now the village windovs blaze, 
 Burnish'd by the setting sun. 
 
 20 Now he sets behind the hill, 
 
 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 bound,) 
 Giant-like their shadows grow, 
 
 Lengthen'd o'er the level ground. 
 52 Where the rising forest spreads 
 
 Shelter for the lordly dome; 
 To their high-built airy beds, 
 
 See the rooks returning home ! 
 23 As the lark, with vary'd tune, 
 
 Carols to the evening loud ; 
 Mark the mild resplendent moon, 
 
 Breaking through a parted cloud. 
 
CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 241 
 
 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, 
 Verges in successive rings. 
 
 26 Tripping through the silken grass, 
 
 O'er the path-divided dale, 
 Mark the rose-complexion'd lass, 
 With her well-pois'd milking pail! 
 
 27 Linnets with unnumber'd notes, 
 
 And the cuckoo bird with two, 
 Tuning sweet their mellow throats, 
 
 Bid the setting sun adieu. CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 SECTION XX. 
 
 The Order of Nature. 
 SEE, thro' this air, this ocean, and this eartn, 
 All matter quick, and bursting into birth. 
 Above, how high progressive life may go ! 
 Around, 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 glass can reach ; from infinite to thee, 
 From thee to nothing. On superior pow'rs 
 Were we to press, inferior might on ours : 
 Or in the full creation leave a void, 
 Where, one step broken, the great scale's destrc y'd : 
 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 ruling angels from their spheres be hurPd, 
 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. 
 All this dread ORDER break for whom ? for thee ! 
 Vile worm ! Oh madness ! pride ! knpiety ! 
 A. 
 
242 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II 
 
 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 1 
 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, chang'd thro' all, 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. 
 6 Cease then, nor ORDER imperfection name : 
 Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
 Know thy own point : this kind, this due degree 
 Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee 
 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, unknown to thee ; 
 All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ; 
 All discord, harmony not understood ; 
 All partial evil, universal good ; 
 And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, 
 One truth is clear WHATEVER is, is RIGHT. POPE. 
 
 SECTION XXL 
 
 Confidence in Divine protection, 
 How are thy servants blest, O Lord I 
 
 How sure is their defence ! 
 Eternal wisdom is their guide, 
 
 Their help omnipotence. 
 2 In foreign realms, and lands remote, 
 Supported by thy care, 
 
CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 243t 
 
 Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt, 
 And breath'd in tainted air. 
 
 3 Thy mercy sweeten'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 gulfs 
 O'ercame the pilot's art. 
 
 6 Yet 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 retir'd, 
 
 Obedient to thy will ; 
 The sea that roar'd at thy command, 
 At thy command was still. 
 
 9 In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths, 
 
 Thy goodness I'll 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 sbul 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 sott'ning air is balm ; 
 Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles, 
 And ev'ry sense, and ev'ry heart is joy. 
 2 Then comes Thy glory in (he summer months, 
 
JU TH ENGLISH READER. Fi*T II 
 
 With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun 
 Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; 
 And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
 And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
 By brooks and groves, in hollow- whisp'ring gales. 
 
 3 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 roll'd v 
 Majestic darkness! On the whirlwind'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 delightful mix'd, with such kind art, 
 Such beauty and beneficence combin'd ; 
 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, thenc 
 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 ! 
 
 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 blackening east ; 
 
 Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, 
 And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! 
 6 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. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 245 
 
 Flames on the Atlantic isles ; 'tis nought to me ; 
 Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
 In the void waste as in the city full ; 
 And where HE vital breathes there must be joy. 
 9 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 etill, 
 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 I woo, 
 And again your steps pursue. 
 'A Pium'd conceit himself surveying, 
 Folly with her shadow playing, 
 Purse-proud elbowing insolence, 
 Bloated empiric, pufPd 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 blood, 
 Fly thy presence , Solitude ! 
 ^v 2 
 
246 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II 
 
 3 Sage reflection, bent with year?, 
 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 air ; 
 Full-ey'd 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, 
 You mount, and nature with you sings. 
 
 5 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, 
 
 You 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 W r ith you roses brighter bloom, 
 Sweeter ev'ry sweet perfume ; 
 Purer ev'ry fountain flows, 
 Stronger ev'ry wilding grows. 
 Let those toil for gold who please, 
 Or for fame renounce their ease. 
 What is fame 1 An empty bubble ; 
 Gold ? A shining, constant trouble. 
 
CHAT. ^ . PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 247 
 
 Let them for their country bleed ! 
 
 Wh*t 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, 
 
 Bosom '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 I'll 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 bournless 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; 
 
 9 Fouth, 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 her feafjp 
 And yells of demons in ttie zephyr hears. 
 But if a hermit you're r^solv'd to 'dwell, 
 And bid to social life a last farewell ; 
 'Tis impious ... 
 
248 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. 
 
 10 God never made an independent man; 
 'Twould jar the concord of his general plan. 
 See ev'ry 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 through nature solitary roam, 
 
 His will his sovereign, every where his home, 
 
 What force would guard him from the lion's jaw ? 
 
 "What swiftness wing him from the panther's pawl 
 
 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, 
 
 Absolve the care of Heav'n, nor ask for more? 
 
 Though waters flow'd, flow'rs bloom'd, and Phoebus shone, 
 
 He'd sigh, he'd murmur, that he was alone. 
 
 Fo*r know, the Maker on the human breast, 
 
 A sense of kindred, country, man, impress'd. 
 
 1 1 Though nature's works the ruling mind declare, 
 And well deserve inquiry's serious care, 
 
 The God, (whate'er misanthrophy may say,) 
 Shines, beams in man with most unclouded ray. 
 What boots it thee to fly from pole to pole? 
 Hang o'er the sun, and with the planets roll ? 
 What boots through space's farthest bourns to roam 1 
 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; 
 Your life, your knowledge, to mankind you owe. 
 With Plato's olive wreath the bays entwine ; 
 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. 
 
 J3 Though man's ungrateful, or though fortune frown; 
 Js the reward of worth a song, or crowu? 
 
V/HAP. 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 mind ; 
 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. 
 
 * One of the accusers of Socrates. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
PARTI. 
 
 PIECES IN PROSE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. Pag*. 
 
 *> Select Sentences and Paragraphs, , 13 
 Sect. CHAPTER II. JVarrofiw Pieces. 
 
 \. No rank or possessions can make the guilty mind hapj*' 28 
 
 2. Change of external condition often adverse to vhtue, . 29 
 
 3. Haman ; .or the misery of pride, .30 
 
 4. Lady Jane Gray, . 3! 
 
 5. Ortogrul; or the vanity of riches, 34 
 
 6. The hill cf science, 36 
 
 % The journey of a day; a picture of human life, ... 39 
 
 CHAPTER III. Didactic Pieces. 
 
 1. The importance of a good education, 43 
 
 2. On gratitude, 44 
 
 3. On forgiveness, 45 
 
 4. Motives i-c the practice *>f gentleness, 16 
 
 5. A suspicious temper iK';. source of misery toils possessor, . 47 
 
 6. Comforts of religion, 48 
 
 7. Diffidence of our abilities a mark of wisdom, .... 49 
 
 8. On the importance of order in the distribution of our time, . 60 
 
 9. The dignity of virtue amidst corrupt examples, ... 51 
 
 10. The mortifications of vice greater than those of virtue, . . 53 
 
 11. On contentment, 64 
 
 12. Rank and riches afford no ground for envy, .... 57 
 
 13. Patience under provocations our interest as well as duty, . 58 
 
 14. Moderation in our wishes recommended, .... 60 
 
 15. Omniscience and omnipresence of the Deity, source of consolation. 62 
 
 CHAPTER IV. Argumentative Pieces. 
 
 1. Happiness is founded in rectitude of conduct, ... 65 
 
 2. Virtue man's highest interest, #. 
 
 3 The injustice of an uncharitable spirit, ..... 67 
 
 4. The misfortunes of men mostly chargeable on themselves, . 68 
 
 5. On disinterested friendship, ....... 70 
 
 6. On the immortality of the soul, 73 
 
 CHAPTER V. Descriptive Pieces. 
 
 \. The seasons, 76 
 
 2. The cataract of Niagara, in Canada, North America, 77 
 
 3. Grotto of Antiparos, 79 
 
 4. The grotto of Antiparos continued, 79 
 
 5. Earthquake at Catanea, ... ^ - 80 
 & Creation, ...... .... 
 
 f ? Charity, ----... 
 
 9. Prosperity is redoubled to a good man, - - . . - 83 
 
 9 On the beauties of the Psalms 84 
 
 16. Character of Alfred, king of England, 85 
 
 11 Character of Queen Elizabeth, 86 
 
 12. On the slavery of vice, - - --- 87 
 
 13. The man of integrity, -89 
 
 14. Gentleness, 16. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. Pathetic Pieces. 
 
 t. Trial and execution of the earl of S rafford, 92 
 
 2. An eminent instance of true fortitur e of mind, 93 
 
 . The goo-i man's comfort in afBictioti. . * .. $$ 
 
CONTENTS. 251 
 
 4. 1 he close of life, . . 95 
 
 5. Exalted society and the renewal of virtuous connexions, &c. . 97 
 
 6. The clemency and amiable character of ne patriarch Joseph, 93 
 
 7. Altamont, 100 
 
 CHAPTER VII. Dialogues. 
 
 1. Democritus PJid Heraclitus, . . , . . . .102 
 
 2. Dionysius, Pythias, and Damon, . . . . . .104 
 
 3. Locke and Bayle, . . . 106 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. Public Speeches. 
 
 1. Cicero against Verres, Ill 
 
 2. Speech of Adherbal to the Roman Senate, imploring protection; 114 
 
 3. The Apostle Paul's noble defence before Festus and Agrippa,. 117 
 
 4. Lord Mansfield's speech in the House of Lords, 1770 on the bill 
 
 for preventing the delays of justice^ &c. . . . .119 
 
 5. An Address to young persons, . . . . . . .123 
 
 CHAPTER IX. Promiscuous Puces. 
 
 1. Earthquake at Calabria, in the year 1538, . . . .126 
 
 2. Letter from Pliny 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, ..... 133 
 
 6. On the evils which flow from unrestrained passion, . . . 135 
 
 7. On the proper state of our temper, with respect to one another, 136 
 
 8. Excellence of the Holy Scriptures, 138 
 
 9. Reflections occasioned by a review of the blessings pronounced 
 
 by Christ, on his disciples, in his sermon on the mount, . 139 
 
 10. Schemes of life often illusory, 140 
 
 11. The pleasures of virtuous sensibility, 142 
 
 12. On the true honour of man, ....... 144 
 
 13. The influence of devotion on the happiness of life, . . . 145 
 
 14. The planetary and terrestrial worlds comparatively considered, 147 
 
 15. On the power of custom, and the uses to which it may be applied, 149 
 
 16. The pleasure resulting from a proper use of our faculties, . . 150 
 
 17. Description of Candour, . . . . . . . .151 
 
 18. On the imperfection of that happiness which rests solely on 
 worldly pleasures, ' .152 
 
 19. What are the real and solid enjoyments of human life, - - 155 
 
 20. Scale of beings, 157 
 
 21. Trust in the care of Providence recommended, ... 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 king Pyrrbus, 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 his dominions, &c. - 166 
 
 27. The same subject continued, 168 
 
 PART XX. 
 PIECES IN POETRY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. Select Sentences and Paragraphs. 
 
 1. Short and easy sentences, 
 
 2 Verses in which the lines are of different length, - 
 
 3. Verses containing exclamations, interrogations, parentheses, &c 174 
 
 4. Verses in various forms, - - .'.-'. " * - JJ5 
 
 5. Verses in which sound corresponds to signification, J / 
 
 6. Connubial Affection, ... 
 
 CHAPTER II. Narrative Pieces. 
 1. The bear* and the bees. 
 
252 CONTENTS. 
 
 2. The nightingale and the glow-worm, . .. . jgg 
 
 S. The trials of virtue, 183 
 
 4. The youth and the philosopher, - 185 
 
 5. Discourse between Adam and Eve retiring to rest, ... 186 
 
 6. Religion and death, ... ----189 
 
 CHAPTER III. Didactic Pieces. 
 
 1 The vanity of wealth, - - 191 
 
 2. Nothing formed in vain, . . - ..... 192 
 
 3. On pride, ----.--.-.. t7>. 
 
 4. Cruelty to brutes censured, - ... . 193 
 
 5. A paraphrase on the latter part of the 6th chapter of Matthew, 194 
 
 6. The death of a good man a strong incentive to virtue, . . 195 
 
 7. Reflections on the future state, from a review of winter, . . if>. 
 
 8. Adam's advice to Eve, to avoid temptation, .... 197 
 
 9. On procrastination, t'6. 
 
 10. That philosophy which stops at secondary causes, reproved, . 199 
 
 11. Indignant sentiments on national prejudice, slavery, &c. . 200 
 
 CHAPTER IV. Descriptive Pieces. 
 
 1. The morning in summer, 201 
 
 2. Rural sounds, as well as rural sights, delightful, . . . 202 
 
 3. The Rose, t&. 
 
 4. Care of birds for their young, 203 
 
 5. Liberty and slavery contrasted, ib. 
 
 6. Charity. A paraphrase on the 13th chap, to the Corinthians, . 204 
 
 7. Picture of a good man, 206 
 
 8. The pleasures of retirement, . . . . . . 207 
 
 9. The pleasures and benefit of an improved imagination, . . 208 
 
 CHAPTER V. Pathetic Pieces. 
 
 1. The Hermit 210 
 
 2. The Beggar's Petition, 211 
 
 3. Unhappy close of life, ; 212 
 
 4. Elegy to Pity, 213 
 
 5. Verses by Alex. Selkirk, in the island of Juan Fernandez, . ib. 
 
 6. Gratitude, , 215 
 
 7. A man perishing in the snow, with reflections, &c. &c. . . 216 
 
 8. A morning hymn, 218 
 
 CHAPTER VI. Promiscuous Pieces. 
 
 1 Ode to Content, . - . . 219 
 
 2 The Shepherd and the Philosopher, 221 
 
 3. The road to happiness open to all men, 222 
 
 4. The goodness of Providence, 223 
 
 5. The Creator's works attest his greatness, . . . . . 224 
 
 6. Address to the Deity, 225 
 
 7. The pursuit of happiness often ill-directed, .... 226 
 
 8. The fire-side, 227 
 
 9. Providence vindicated in the present state of man, ... 229 
 
 10. Selfishness reproved, ........ 230 
 
 11. Human frailty, . . 231 
 
 12. Ode to peace, 232 
 
 13. Ode to adversity, ib. 
 
 14. The creation required to praise its Author, - 234 
 
 15. The universal prayer, -. 235 
 
 16. Conscience, 537 
 
 17. On an infant, - ....... * . t '. 
 
 1 The Cuckoo, - 238 
 
 19. Day. A pastoral, in three part s ib. 
 
 20. The order of nature, --...-. 241 
 
 21. Confidence in Divine protection, ..... 242 
 22 Hymn on a review of the Seasons, . -.--,. 243 
 83 On Solitude, "1$ 
 
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