*%-*
l&UCATiQN DEFT.
SEQUEJL
TO
THE ENGLISH READER.
OR,
ELEGANT SELECTIONS
IJV PROSE JtND POETRY.
DESIGNED TO IMPROVE
THE HIGHEST CLASS OF LEARNERS IN READING.
TO ESTABLISH
A TASTE EpR JUST AND ACCURATE COMPOSITION
A3fD TO PROMOTE
THE INTERESTS OF PIETY AND VIRTUE.
BT LINDLET MURRAY,
AUTHOR OF AN tk ENGLISH GRAMMAR ADAPTED TO THE
DIFFERENT CLASSES OF LEARNERS," &C.
PRINTED FROM THE LAST ENGLISH EDITION.
PHILADELPHIA:
BRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY J. SHARPE.
1821.
i
RECOMMENDATIOXSr.
c We notice ^ his i^^ul volume of Mr. Murray, for
sa'ke of the additibii^Hnd improvements which it has re-
in r ^.
iw \V h-.ivc :?lre.'ily borne our testimony to the high me-
rit^^Mr. Murray, us an acute grammarian, MK! as blend-
ing in his various works, with uncommon haflBless, a de-
li rate and correct taste both in literature and morals. .We
are pleased, though not surprised, to sec that the pubiij^has
cU maruk'd a new edition of the respectable work now be-
fore us." Annual Revittv, 1804.
u We regard as a very valuable improvement, the bio-
graphical and critical A/ipt'/ufw, introduced into this edi-
tion, of the u Sequel to the English Reader." It contains
short, but instructive accounts, of all the authors from
whose works both these selections have been formed, those
excepted, \\; . living. This compilation (the Sequel)
appears more free from objectionable passages, and better
adapted to the imorovenv ni of youth, than any other of the
fchvl which \ve have seen/'' Eclectic . June, 1 OJ.
6i The second edition of this excellent school iDOok con-
tains the addition of nine extracts selected from Adciison,
C.rter, Hawkesworth, &c.- An Appendix also of 02 pages
is subjoined, ci;. Biograpiiical -Sk the au-
thors from whom this selection is rn^cie. Thev:e are execu-
ted wnh hr- y and iv.-;riu^ We have no hesir ;Uon is
r cciaitndiii^ L Utb selection, as the best of its kind/
Critical Rev
.
INTRODUCTION.
THE u English Reader" has been so favourably receiv-
ed by the public, as to encourage the Compiler to hop , t?' it
the present volume will not be deemed unworthy of atten-
tion.;. It pursues the same objects as the former.'Work ; it
preserves thesaran chaste attention to the ^morals (>f youth 5
its materials are taken from the most com ct and elegant
writers : and as the pieces are gent-rally more t xtendrd, and
contain a greater variety of style and composition, it is pre-
sumed that it forms a proper u Sequel to the Reader," and
is calculated to improve, both in schools and in private ia-
milies, the highest class of young readers.
In selecting materials for the po'etical . part, of his work 9
the Compiler met with few authors, the whole of whose
writings were unexceptionable. Some of them have had un-
guarded moments, in. which they have written what is not
proper to come under the notice of youth. He must not
therefore be understood as recommending every production
ot Al the poets who have contributed to his selection.^ Ju-
dicious parents and tutors, who feel the importance > a
guarded education, will find it incumbent upon them to se-
lect for their children and pupils, such writings, both in
prose and poetry, as are proper for their perusal ; and young
persons will evince their virtue and good sense, by cordi-
ally acquiescing in the judgment of those who are deeply
interested in their welfare. Perhaps the best reason that
can he off-red, in favour of poetical selections for the use
of young and innocent minds,, i?^ the tendency which they
have, when properly made, to preserve thr chastity of their
sentiments, and the purity of their mor 4s.
In " The Sequel," as well as in u The English Reader,"
peveral pieces are introduced, which in a striking manner
' j ,iuty and excellence of the Christian religion.
* Justice to the .authors from -whose writi ngs the extracts were made,,
re] to the credit of the present work, rendered the insertion
.;cnbabJe,
<\ 1 *.
INTRODUCTION.
.Extracts of this kind, if frequently diffused amongst the
elements of literature, \voukl doubtless produce happy ef-
fects on th minds of youth ; and contribute vrrv materially
to counteract, both the ojvn and the st.cn t labours of Infi-
delity. With these views, the Compiler derived particular
isfaction, in selecting those pieces which are calculated
to attach the young mind to a religion perfectly adapted to
th-e condition, of man ; and which not only furnishes the
most rational and sublime enjoyments in this life, but se-
cures complete and permanent felicity hereafter.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The second edition of this work lias received the Author's
particular attention Many oj the pieces in thejon.-trtdi-
tion, are omitted, and others imcrtec ivhich are oj superior
Gnanct;or more interesting 10 young pa-nons. The new
almon contain* also* in an Appendix^ Biographical Sketch-
es 'ft'ie auditors mentioned ni the *' Introduction to the Ln-
gli -n A'.W.r," the ^ English Header" itself ^ and the "Sequel
to the K; adcr** ivith occasional strictures on their writings^
ana references to the particular ivc.r&x Inj ivnich ttiey have
b' en most distinfuhhed* The strictures are derived from
an tli . r-v :f /a . ic and celebrity.
By ,'hese Biographical Sketches^ it is the Compiler's in-
not on 'y to gr at ?J i, the young reader's curiosity res-
p^'inig the authors r,J tne pieces he has perused ; but aho t9
present td inm such fucts and sentiments as are peculiarly
i> -.iruct've and interesting, and calculated to make durable
impressions on his mind. T/ie language too oj these sketches
ha* been sindiously regarded: that no want oj accur-ty or
per. picwty in the composition, might prevent this purl of
the book from forming an additional number of occasional
exerc2<.e$ in rtdd'^g.
In the THIRD edition, several Biographical Sketches will
be /; -nd, of authors iv/io died since the publication of the
iv r/?.
* Fi om t!ie difficulty of obtaining' accurate and impartial information,,
and from motives of delicacy, no account is given of living 1 authors
CONTENTS.
PAT1T I. PIECES IN PROSE,
CHAPTER I. NARRATIVE PIECES.
Page.
SEC. 1. Religion the foundation of content. An allegory, 7
2. The vision of Mirza; exhibiting a picture of
human life, 12
3. Endeavours of mankind to get rid of their bur-
dens ; a dream, 15
4. The same subject continued, 18
5. The vision of Almet, 21
6. Religion and superstition contrasted. A visiorij 35
CHAPTER II. DIDACTIC PIECES.
SEC. 1. Vicious connexions the ruin of virtue, 29
2. On Cheerfulness, . 3?
3. Happy effects of contemplating the works of na-
ture, 36
4. Refit ctions on the universal presence of the
Deity, 38
CHAPTER III. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES.
SEC. 1. Our imperfect knowledge of a future state, suit-
ed to the condition of man, 42
2. Youth the proper season for gaining knowledge,
and forming religious habits, 40
3. The truth of Christianity proved, from the con-
version of the Apostle Paul, 49
CHAPTER IV." DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
SEC. 1* The heavens and the earth show the glory and
the wisdom of their Creator. The earth hap-
pily adapted to the nature of man, $2
2. An eruption of mount Vesuvius, 5$
3* Description of the preparations made by Xerx-
es> the Persian monarch^ for invading 6r.tec, $7
CONTENTS.
fiC. 4. Character of Martin Luther, Gg
5. Tne good and the bad man compared, in the
seasn of adversity, 63
CHAPTER V, PATHETIC PIECES.
SEC. 1. Rome saved by female virtue, 66
2. Execution of Cranm&r, Archbishop of Canter-
bury, 72
3. Christianity furnishes the best consolation un-
der the evils of life, 74
4. Benefits to be derived from scenes of distress, 76
CHAPTER VI. DIALOGUES.
SEC. 1. Theron and Aspasio. Beauty and utility com-
bined in the productions of nature, 81
2. Cadmus and Hercules. Importance of litera-
ture, 83
3. Marcus Aurelius Philosophus and Servius
Tullius. An absolute and limited monarchy
compared, 87
1. Theron and Aspasio. On the excellence of the
Holy Scriptures, 90
CHAPTER VII. PUBLIC SPEECHES.
SEC. 1. The defence of Socrates before his Judges, 96
2. The Scythian ambassadors to Alexander, on his
making preparations to attack their country, 100
3. Speech of the earl of Chatham, on the subject
of employing Indians to fight against the
Americans, 103
CHAPTER VI 1 1. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
SEC. ! Tht Voyage of Lite; an allegory, 104
2. The vanity of those pursuits which have hu-
man approbation for their chief object, 10&
3. The folly and misery ot idleness, 112
4. Tnc choice of cmr situation in life, a point of
great importance,
CONTENTS.
Bage,
SEC. 5. No life pleasing to God, that is not useful to
man. An eastern narrative, 121
6. Character of the great Founder of Christianity, 12&
7. The spirit and laws of Christianity superior to
those of every other religion, 127
8. The vision of Carazan : or, social love and be-
neficence recommended, 13O
9. Creation the product of divine goodness, 134
10. The benefits of religious retirement, 136
11. History of ten days of Seged, emperor of
Ethiopia, 142
12. History of Seged continued, 14
13. The vision of Theodore, the hermit of Tene-
riffe, found in his cell, 149
14. The vision of Theodore continued, 154
15- The vision of Theodore continued. 157
PART II. PIECES IN POETRY.
CH AFTER I. NARRATIVE PIECES.
3EC. 1. The chameleon - r or pertinacity exposed, 161
2* The hare and many friends, 162
3. The three warnings, 164
4. The hermit, 167
CHAPTER II DIDACTIC PIECES.
SEC. 1. The love of the world detected, 173
2. On Friendship, 174
3. Improvement of time recommended. 17$
CHAPTKR III. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
3EC. 1. The Spring, Igf
2. Description of winter at Copenhagen, 182
3. Night described, 183
4. Grongar Hill, 185;
5. Description of a Parish poor-house, 187
6. A summer evening's meditation, 180
CONTENTS.
SEC. T. Cheerfulness,
8. Providence, 193
9. The last day. 194
CHAPTER IV. PATHETIC PIECES.
SEC. 1. Hvmn to humanity, 196
2. A night-piere on death, 198
3. In t . 'dition oi life, praise is due to the
Creator, 201
4. Folly of human pursuits, 202
5. An address to the D'/uy, 203
6. A monody on the death of lady Lyttleton. 2O5
CHAPTER V. PRO Ml . PIECES.
SEC. 1. Hvmn to contentment, 210
-2. \\\ il-^v writ; n in a country church-yard, 912
3. Ode to tti-dom, 2i5
4. The Rake ;md the Hermit, 217
5. The deserted village, 221
6. The (1 seit cl vill.ge continued, 226
6. The Traveller ; or, a prospect of society, 231
8. The Traveller continued, 235
9. The vanity of hum n wishes, 241
IP T ;, x ity oi human wishes continued; 245
APPENDIX. 251
SEQUE
TO THE
ENGLISH
PART I. PIECES JCV PROSE*
CHAPTER I. NARRATIVE PIECES.
S FCTION i. Religion the foundation of content. An Allegory.
OMAR, the hermit of the mountain Aubukabis, which ris s
in the east of Mecca, and overlooks the city, found one eve-
ning a man sitting pensive and alone, within a few paces of
his cell. Omar regarded him with attention, and perceived
that his looks were wild and haggard, and that his body vyasr
^feeble and emaciated. The man also seemed to gaze stead-
fastly on Omar; but such was the abstraction ol his mmd,
that his eye did not immediately take cognizance of its ob-
ject. In the moment of recollection he started as from a
dream ; he covered his face in confusion ; and bowed him-
self to the ground. u Son of affliction," said Omar, u who
art thou, and what is thy distress ?'' u My name," replied
the stranger, u is Hassan, tind I am a native of this city. The
angel of adversity has laid his hand upon me, and the wretch
whom thine eye compassionates thou canst not deliver."
" Fo deliver thee," said Omar, a belongs to HIM only from
whom we should receive with humility both good and evil/*
yet hide not thy life from me ; for the burden which I can-
not remove, I may at least enable thee to sustain.'* Hass^a
fixed his eyes upon the ground, and remained some time si-
lent ; then fetching a detp sigh, he looked up at the hermit,
and thus complied with his request.
kfc it is now six years since our mighty lord the caliph Al-
malic, whose memory be blessed, first came privauly to wor-
ship in the temple of the holy city. The blessing which he
petitioned of the prophet, as the prophet's vicegerent, he \vas
diligent to dispense. In the intervals of his devotion, th ir-
forc, he went about the city relieving distress and restrain-
1
ing oppression ; the widow smilici un- ii his protection, ;r '1
t!u weakness of age antl iolanty; ws hustaincd n-
t\ . I, who duadvd no evd u> sick
good bcAonii div r v;i,-ci ot n.\ labour, \\ as si&ignigju my
. Alui.ilic fiu-red "m iu li. lo k d
: N .d -uit.b n sin,!e .jl compile* ucy ; i .
ii was mean, it \\ as neat; and thoiiv>!i i v\ :is poor, i ;rj>p tr-
ed to be conunl. As iiis ruibil v\ a^ i,i.,[ 01 ;t ; i-g- >Hl, i n s-
teiKci to ntcivt him with .such , us in my
powt r ; and m\ iheei uci^ascd tlran re-
stiinn-'.d !>y his prisc-ncc. c-f-
it , he askrd me man\ qu ACTS
I liu-.iv S ctuk ivourcd in . ceiv-
e, iliat he grew thou^nti'i.i, vv.m a plicM hut
fixed Attention. I SUSJK..-: iu h.tl smiu- knowledge
of m<-, and th retort- mquind his country and his iruru'.
" Hassan," said he, ki i ha\\- r-iscd th\ curiosity, and it
shall he satisfied: he u ho now talks with thee., is Aimnlic,
th.- sovereign oi the i.mhiui, whose scat is tiv throne ot"
Medina, and u hos< commission is from ai>ov> . ' Th^se
\vords struck me dumb with astonishm- nt, though 1 had
some doubt of th ir truth: but Almalic throwing oaek ( .is
ga, tnent, discovered the peculiarity of his vest, and pm he
royal signet upon his fii-.gtr. I then started up, and was
about to prostrate m\ st If l>e(ore him, but he picvciite m :
41 Hassan, 1 ' snid he, il forbear: thou art greater than I ; and
from thee I have at once derived humility ana \vi-ciom." I
answered, " Mock not thy seivant, who is but a worm be-
fore thee ; life and death are in thv hand, and happin. ss and
misery are the daughters: of thy ^ ill." "Hassm," he re-
plied, u I can no otherwise give life and happiness, than by
not taking them away: thou art thyself beyon ! the reach of
my bounty ; and possessed of felicity which I can neither
communicate nor obtain M influence over oihers, fills my
bosom with perpetual solicitude nnd nxietv ; and yet my in-
fluence over others extends only to tueir vic< s, whc ther I
would reward .>r punish. By the br>v mng I can re ress
violence and fraud ; and by the delegation of power, I can
transfer the insatiable wishes of avarice and ambition horn
one object to another: but with respect to virtue, i >m un-
poient; ii I could reward it, I would reward it in thee. Thou
Narrative Pieces. &
a" content, and hast therefore neitlur av^rrce nor ambition.
To x ilt th A-, woul'l destroy th. simplicity o* thy life, and
diminish that tvipi^B^hich 1 have, too po er^ivht-s io -in-
crease OP to coming ie then rose up, and commanding
me not to disclose fflPPcret, departed.
" \s soon as I recovered from the confusion and aston-
i-h nenr in which tlv caliph left me, 1 began to regret that
m\ heh iviour had intercepted his bounty ; and accused that
cheerfulness of follv which was the concomitant of poverty
and labour. I now repined at the obscurity of my station^
\v ; )ich my former i sensibility h ul perpetuated. I neglected
my labour, because I despis d the reward ; I spent the d ::}<
in idleness, forming romantic projects to recover the advan-
t -gts which I had lost : and at night, instead of losing my-
self in that svvcet an ; refreshing sleep, from which I used ;Q
rise with new health, cheerfulness, and vigour, I dreamed of
splendid habits and a numerous retinu , of gardens, palaces,
feasting, and pleasures ; and waked only to regret the illu-
sions that had vanished, My health was at length impaired
by the inquietude of my mind ; 1 sold all my moveables for
subsistence ; and reserved only a mattress, upon which I
sometimes lay from one night to another.
" In the first moon ot the following year, the caliph came
again to Mecca, with the same secrecy, and for the same
purposes. He was willing once more to see the man, whom,
he, considered as deriving felicity from himself. But hci
found me, not singing at my work, ruddy with health, vivid
with cheerfulness ; but pale and dejected, sitting on the
ground, and chewing opium, which contributed to substitute
the phantoms of imagination for the realities of greatness,
He entered with a kind of joyful impatience in his counte-
nance, which, the moment he beheld me, was changed to a
mixture of wonder and pity. I had often wished for an-
other opportunity to address the caliph ; yet I was confound-
ed at his presence, and, throwing myself at his feet, I laid
m\ hand upon my head, and was speechless. u Hassan,"
said he, wv what canst thou have lost, whose wealth was the
labour of thine own hand ; and what can have made thee sad,
t: spring of whose joy was in thine own bosom ? What evil
h.uh M: fallen thrr ? ,eak< and if I can remove it, thou art
happy. 1 ' I was now encouraged to look up, and I replied.
to the English
iiy lord, forg;\t the presumption of his sen ant, whc
raiWc Vhan.i > ;) d, would be dumb lor ever, 1 am
loss of that which I never p<,
S wj||^kdeed I am not wor-
thy thou shoulds satisfy; but wh\B^ : B it be thought, that
h* who V) . , happy in obscurity a^^Pfligence, would not
have been rendered more happy by eminence and wealth.'*
" When I had finished this speech, Almaiic stood some
moments in suspense-, and I continued prostru him.
44 Hassan/' said he, U I perceive, not with indignationJ|
regret, that I mistook thy character. 1 now dis<.
n in thy heart, which , v ty torpid only ^
.ere too remote to rouse them. I can*-
dot therefore invest thee with authority, because I would
^abject my people to oppression ; and becans- I would
ompelled to punish thee for crimes which I tirst i n-
x')led thee to commit. But as I have taken from thue that
vhicii I cannot restore, I will at least gratify the wishes -that
I excited, lest thy heart accuse me of injustice, and thou
continue still a stranger to thyself. Arise, therefore, and
follow me.'' I sprung from the ground as it were with the
wings of an eagle ; .1 kissed the hem of his garment in an
cctacv of gratitude' and j oy ; and when [ ;vr;.t out 'A \
house, my heart leaped as it I had escaped from the den of
a lion. I followed Almaiic to the carav; nsaiy in which he
lodged ; and after he had fulfilled his vows, he took me with
him to Medina. He gave me an apaitment in the seraglio;
I was attended by his own servants ; my provisions were
sent from his own table ; I received every week a sum from
his treasury, which exceeded the most romantic of m\ ex-
pectations. But I soon discovered, that no dainty was. ^Q
tasteful, as the food to which lal>our procured an app^
no slumbers so sweet, as those which weariness invited ; and
no time so well enjoyed, as that in which diligence is expt-ct-
ing its reward. I rentember these enjoyments with regret;
and while I was sighing in the midst of superfluities, which,
though they encumbered life, yet I could not give up, they
^\ ere suddenly taken away. Almaiic, in the midst of the
glory of his kingdom, and in the full vigour of his life, ex-
pn - d suddenly in the bath: such thou owest was the des^
tiny which the Almighty had written upon his head*
Narrative Pieces, 1 1
t
within twelve hours I found myself in the streets of Medi-
na, indigent and friendless, exposed to hunger and d< risi n,
wiih all the habits of luxury, and all ilu sensibility of pride.
Oh ! let not thy heart despise me, thou whom experience has
not taught, that it is misery to lose that which it is not hap-
piness to possess Oh ! that for me this lesson had not been
written on the tablets of Providence ! 1 have travelled from
Medina to Mecca; but I cannot fly from myself. How dif-
ferent are the states in which I have been placed! The re-
membrance of both is bitter : for the pleasures of neither can
return.' 1 Hassan having thus ended his story, smote his
hands together ; and looking upwards, burt into tears,
* >mur having waited till this agony was past, went to him,
and taking him by the hand, u My son," said he, " more is
y-t in th\ power than Almalic could give, or Aububekirtake
away. The lesson of thy life the prophet has in mercy ap-
pointed m^ to explain.
1 Thou wast once content with poverty and labour, only
because they were become habitual, and ease and affluence
were placed beyond thy hope; for whui ease and affluence
approached thee, thou wast content with poverty and labour
no more. That which then became the object, was also the
bound of thy hope; and he, whose utmost hope is disappoint?*
ed, must inevitably be wretched. If thy supreme desire h;*d
been the delights of paradise, and thou h s not flfered. The content which was
onc<> enjoved, was but the lethargy of soul ; and the distress
which is now suffered, will but quick n it to action. Depart,
therefore, and be thankful for all th-n^s ; put thy trust in
Him, who alone cm gratifv the wish of reason, and satisfy
thy soul with gooJ ; fix thy hope upon that portion, in com-
parison of which the world is as the drop of the bucket, and
d..'S< or he Manet. Rvturu, my son, to thy labour; thy
iood shall be again tasteful, -nd thy rest shall be ewet*; to
l^liffh Reader. -
thy content also will be added stability, when it depends not
upon that which is possessed upon earth, but upon that which
is expected in heaven."
Hassan, upon whose mind the angel of instruction im-
pressed tht counsel of Omar, hastened to prostrate himself
in the temple of the prophet. Peace dawm d upon his mind,
like the radiance ot the morning: he returned to his labour
with cheerfulness; his devotion became fervent and habitual;
and the latter days of Hassan were happier than the first.
DR. JOHNSON.
SECTION ii. The Vision of Mirza; exhibiting a picture of
human /rjr.
On the fifth day of the moon, which, according to the cus-
tom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, after h.tving
Washed myself, and offered up my morning dovotions, I as-
cended the high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of
the day in meditation and prayer As I was here refreshing
myself on the tops of the mountains, I kll into a. profound
cont( mplation on the vanit\ of hum.m lite ; and passing from
one thought to anoth< r, Surely, said I, man is but a shadow,
and Hie a dream 1 . Whilst i was thus musing I cast my eyes
towards the summit of a rock th;;t u as not far from me,
where I discovered one in the habit ot a shepherd, but who
was in reality a being of superior nature . I u s\cst, s-;id he, is the vai- ot misery ; an . the
ti. e ot watev that thou setst, is p Jft of the great tide oi eur-
n . What i-. the reason, s-.iid I, thai the iiii I s< e, nses
ci-t(fi thick rris at one end, nd :r <*in loses itselt n> a (hick
at the other: W\*at tauu seeai, said he, is that puiuon
Narrative PI
of eternity \yhich is called Time, irreaaiired out by the sun,
and reaching from the beginning of the world to its consum-
? 4 m:ilion. Examine now, said he, this sea that 'is bounded wuh
c] irk ness at both ends, and tell me what thou ciiscov*. rest in
it. I see a bridge, said I, standing in the midst ot the tiue
The bridge thou seest, said he, is human life ; consider it
Attentively. Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I found
that it consisted of threescoie and ten entire archi s, with se-
veral broken arch; s, which, add d to those that were entire,
made up the number about a hundred. As I was counting
the arches, the genius told me that this bridge consisted at
first of a thousand ; but that a great flood swept away ihe
rest, and left the bridge in the ruinous condition I now be-
held it. But tell me turthi-r, said he, what thou discoverest
on it. I see multitudes of people passing over it, s^id I, and
a black cloud hanging on each ^nd of it. As I looked more
attentively, I saw several of th. passengers dropping through
the bridge into the great tide that flowed underneath it : and,
upon further examination, perceived there wire innihuera-
bie trap-doors that lay concealed in the bridge, which ;thc
passt ngers no sooner tr d upon, than they i< 11 through them
into the tide, and imnrudiately disappeared. 1'hest hidden
p;tialls were set very thick at the entrance of the bridge, so
that throngs of people no sooner broke through the cloud
\ th ."n mam fell into them. Th v grew thinner towards the
middle, bu multiplied and la\ closer together towards the
end of the arenas that were entire. There were indred ^ome
ptrsons, hut tht ir number was ver\ sin ill, that continued a
kind ot hobbling march on the hroke.n ht. ?^ul r i u us w* it-, v^-rv ' usy
th. pursuit ). *:'.ibhlr -. d in their t . e . -d
danced beiore them : but oUcn wiicn they thought them-
1* Sequel to the English Reader.
selves witlvn 'he re:u h of them, their lusting failed, and
down thcv sunk. In this conlu*ioh of objects, I observed
some with scimitars in their hands, an -1 otiu rs wim win. !.->,
u t in and fro upon tin bridg , thrusung several per-
sons on trap door-) which did not seem to ii in tilth- \
an-.l which ih< v m ^hi h .ve escaped had th< y not been tuns
forced upon them.
The genius seeing me indulge myself in this m lancholy
prospect, told me I had dweh long enough upon i>. Fake
thine eves oil' the oridge, said he, and t ll me if thou -
am- thing thou dost not compreh nd. Upon looking uj),
\\ r h.u n ! I, those great flights ot buds that aac ptr-
p-tn:ill\ hovering about the bridge, and strung u, on it iroin
time to time ? I see vultures, harpies, ravens, cormorants,
and, among manv oth r feathered creatures, several little
winded hovs that perch in great numbers Vipon the mui.ilc
arches. Fh- st , stiil us, arc env\ , avarice, sup, rsii -
tion, despair, love, with the like cares -nu j;assious that la-
fest human lift .
I here fetci ;> sigh. Al is, said I, mm was made
in v.iin ! how is he given aua\ to misery and mor aiuy ! tor-
tur, d in life, and swallowed up in death! The gi niu^ being
nioved with compassion towards me, bid nu quit so un* ni-
fortahK a prospect. Look no more, said he, uu m.tn in the
first stagt of nis exist' nee, in his selling out :or eternity ;
thi>u- eve on that thi' k mist into winch the tide
bears the several generations of mortals that iall into it. I
dirt cted m\ sight s I was ordered, and (\vhtthcr or not th
good genius strengthened it -./ith any suptrn;uu,il toict., or
dissipated p::rt of th< mist that was before UK> ihick ior the
eye to pen- .trait-) f saw th- v.ille) op ning at the farther end,
fcr !5pr* acting forth into an minK::se ocean thai had a huge
rock of ad*) ft) ant running through th< mi'-si i it and .ivid-
i i into two t-qudl {'-its Tht clouUs ^tiil ret on ne half
of it, insomuch that 1 could discover nothing in it; but the
othe> appear- cl to ne a vast 'Cenn, plantr-a u ith innunura-
ble islands, thut were covered with fruits and flowers, and
inti i-wo\in win- a thousand little shining seas th.tt ran among
their. I ronl oi iiow-
Narrative Pieces. 15
ers. Gladness grew in me at the discovery of so delightful
a sc^nt . I wished lor the wings of an eagle that I uugh; iiy
av av to those happy scats ; but the genius told me there was
no passage to them, except through the gates of death thttt
I saw opening every moment upon the bridge, i he islands,
saicl he, that lie so fresh and green beiore thee, and with
which the whole {ace of the ocean appears spotted as far as
thou canst see T are more in number than -the sands on the
sea-shore. There are myriads of islands behind those which
thou here discovertst, reaching further than thine eye, or
t\ en thine imagination, can extend itseii. I liese are me
mansions of good men alter death, who, according to the
degree and kinds of virtue in which they excelled, are dis-
tributed among these several islands, which abound with
pleasures of different kinds and fiegiees, suitable to the re-
lishes and perfections ot those who are settled in them: eve-
ry island is a paradise accommodated to its respective inha-
bitants. Are not these, O Mirza, habitations worth contend-
ing for? Does life appear miserable, that gives uiee oppor-
tunities of earning such a reward? Is death to be feared,
that will convey thee to so happy an existence ? Think not
man was made in vain, who has sucti an eternity reserved
for him. I gazed with inexpressible pleasure on these hap-
py islands. At length, said 1, show me now, I beseech fh- e,
the secrets that lie hid under those dark clouds, which cover
the ocean on the other side of the rock of adamant. The
genius making no answer, I turned about to address myself
to him a second time, but I founa" that h.- had ieit me. I
then turned again to the vision which I had been so long
contemplating ; but instead o/ th roiling tide, the arched
bndge, and the happy islands, I saw nothing but th- long
hollow valley of Bagdat, with oxen, sheep, and camels, graz-
ing upon the sides of it. ADDISON.
SI.CTION in Endeavours cf mankind to get rid oj their
burdens ; a dream.*
It is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that if all the mis-
fortunes of mankind were cast into a public stock, in order to
be equally distributed among tile whole species, those who
* Dr. Johnson used to sa\, t ! iat this Kssay of Addison's on the burdens
ind, was the most exquisite h us t ; , m
thos<> of nny ot'v r person would be, in case w c )>ld change
conditions wirh him.
As I was rir.iiiating on these two remarks, and sear d in
n^ ii, I insensibly tell Asleep, when, on a sudden,
I thought there was a proclamation made by Jupiter, that
fv iv mortal should bring in his grin's and calamities, and
throw them toother in a heap. The re was a l;jrg- plain
appointed lor this pu*poa I took inv stand in the cen-
tre or' it, and saw, with a great deal of pleasure, th*- whole
s marrhing one at> r anotb ', and throwing
down their several load*, which im in- l-at Iv err w
prodigious mountain, that seemed to rise above the clouds.
Th.-re was a certain lady of a thin airy shape, who w as-
very active in this solemnity. She carried a magnifying
glass in one of her hands, and was clothed in a loose (lowing
robe, embroidered with several figures of fiends and spec-
tics, ihat discovered themselves in a thousand chimerical
shapes, as h- r garment hovered in th< j wind. There was
something wild and distracted in her looks. Her name was
FANCY. She led up every mortal to the appointed place,
alter having verv oftl assisted him in making u:
pack, and laying it upon his shoulders. My heart m-
within me, to see my fellow-creatures groaning under their
respective burdens, and to consider that prodigious bulk of
human calamities which lav before me.
There were, however, several persons v.ho give me
diversion upon this occasion. I observed one bringing in u
f.idel ver\ carefully concealed under an old embroidered
cloak, which, upon his throwing it into the heap, I discover-
ed to be Poverty . Another, after a great deal of puffing,
thr--vv clnvn his iu^gig-.-, which, Ujr>n exami.urtg, I tousv.i lo
be his wife.
There were numbers of lovers saddled with very whim-
sical burdens composed of darts and flames ; but, what was
very odd, though the\ sighed as if their hearts would break
under these bundles of calamities, they could not pe-rbiuuk
themselves to cast them into the 'neap, when th; j y came up
to it: "Hi, niter a lew faint eiiorts* snook then ,1 a i;^ ihid
m Hichvd away as heavy laden as ilicy cauu . i \aa uui'ti-
tu us of old wormn throw down their wrinkles, aiui st v rid
von! g ont s who stripped tru ms<'Uvs ol a launy skin. There
Bvere very great neaps oi rea noses, lar^c lips, and rusty
teeth. I'he truth of it is, 1 was surpn-vd to sre the gi eat-
er part of the moumain made up of bodily determine-.. Or>-
ivmg one advanding towaids the heap, with a larger car-
go than ordinary upon his back, I lound, ayon his near ap-
proach, that it was only a natural hump, wnuh he disposed
of, with great joy ot heart, among this collection oi hum.in
miseries. There were likewise distempers oiall sorts ; though
I could not but observe, that there were many more imagi-
nary tliHii re.il. One little packet I could not but take no-
tice oi, which was a complication of all the diseases incident
to human nature, and was in th. hand of a great many fine
people : this was called the Spleen. But what most of all
surprised me, was a remark I made, that there was not a sin-
gle vice or folly thrown into the whole heap ; at which 1 was
very much astonished, having concluded within myself, that
every one would take this opportunity of getting rid of his
passions, prejudices, and frailties.
I took notice in particular oi a very profligate fellow, who
I did not question came loaded with his crimes : but upon
searching his bundl; , I found that, instead of throwing his
guilt irom him, he had only laid down hiarmemory. H was
followed by another worthless rogu.--, who flung away his
modesty instead of his ignoranc .
When the whole race of mankind had thus cast their bur-
dens, tne phantom which had been so busy on this occasion,
seeing me an idle spectator of what had passed, approached
towards me. I grew uneasy at her presence, when of a
sudden she held her magnifying glass full before my eyes.
I no soi.-n-r saw my race in it, but I was st rtled t the short-
ness of ir, wniv h now appeared to me in its utmost aggrava-
tion. ]>,e imaiodeiMte br<-,icith of the features mad, me
Vcrv much out of humour with my own countenance ; upon
which I threw it from me like a mask. It happened very
luckily, that one who stood by me had just beiore tnrown
down his visage, which it seems was too lo g for hi.n. It
v/as indted extended to a most shameful length ; 1 believe
18 the P ngSfth Reader.
the jgrv chin was modestly speaking as long as my wh )lf
far . We had both of us :m opportunity of mending o r
stives ; ana all the contributions being now biou^ht in, eve-
r\ man was at liberty to exchange his misfortunes lor those
pt another person. But as there arose manv new incidents
in th sequel o!' my vision, I shall reserve them for the sub-
ject of my next paper. /
SECTION iv. The .same subject continued.
In mv last p;per, I gave mv reader a sight of that moun-
tain ol miseries, which was m i'le up of those several calami-
ties that aiHict the minds of m.-n. I saw, with unspeakable
pleasure, the whole sptcies thus delivered from its sorrows ;
though, at the same time, as we stood round the heap, and
surveyed the several materials of which it was composed,
there was scarcely a mortal, in this vast multitude, who did
not discover what he thought pleasures of life ; and wonder-
eu how the owners of them ever came to look upon them as
burdens and grievances.
As we were regarding very attentively this confusion of
miseries, this chaos of calamity, Jupiter issued out a second
proclamation, that every one was now at liberty to exchange
his affliction, and to return to his habitation with any such
other bundle as should be delivered to him.
Upo:. this, FANCY began again to btstir herself, snd, par-
celling out the whole heap with incredible activity, recom-
mended to every one his particular packet. The hurry and
contusion at this time were not to be expressed. Sou.*- ob-
servations which I made upon this occasion, I shall commu-
nicate to the public. A venerable gray-headed man, who
had laid clown the colic, and who 1 found wanted an heir to
his estate, snatched up an undutitul son, that had br< n
thrown into the heap by an angry father. The graceless
youth, *n less than a quarter of hour, pulled the old gen le-
man by the beard, and like to have knocked his brains oui ;
so that meeting the true father, who came towards him with
a fir of the gripes, he begged him to take his son again, and
give him back his colic ; but they were incapable eitrur of
them to recede from the choice they had made. A po=.r
grilley slave, who had throun down his chains, look up t^e
gout in their stead, but made such wr> laces, that one
Narrative Pieces. 19
easily perceive he \v;is no great gainer by the bargain. It
\v .s pl< as.iiu enough to see the several exchanges that were
mad- tor sickness" agamst poverty, hunger against want of
appetite, and care against pain.
The female world were very busy among themselves in
bartering for features ; one was trucking a lock ol gray hairs
for a carbunkh ; and another was making <-ver a short waist
for a pair of round shoulders ; and a third cheapening a bad
face for a lost reputation : but on all these occasions, there
\vas not one of them who did not think the new blemish,
as soon as she had got it into her possession, much more
disagreeable than the old one. I made the same observa-
tion on every other misfortune or calamity, which every
one ifi the assembly brought upon himself, in lieu ot what
he had parted with ; whether it be that all the evils which
befall us are in some measure suited and proportioned to
our strength, or that every evil becomes more supportable
by our being accustomed to it, I shall not determine.
I could not for mv heart forbear pitying the poor hump-
backed gentleman, mentioned in the former paper, who
went off a very well-shaped person wich a stone in his blad-
der ; nor the fine gentleman who had struck up this bargain
with him, that limped through a whole assembly ol ladies
who used to admire him, with a pair of shoulders peeping
over his head.
I must not omit my own particular adventure. My
friend with the long visage had no sooner taken upon him
my short face, but he made so,grotesque a figure, th -t as
I looked upon him I could not forbear laughing at m\ self,
insomuch that I put my own face out 6f countenance. The
poor gentlem m was so sensible of the ridicule, that I found
he was ashamed of what he had done : on the other side, I
found that I myself had no great reason to triumph, for as
I went to touch mv forehead I missed the plate, and clas-
ped my finger uj" n my upper lip. Besides, as my nose
was exceedingly prominent, I gave it two or three unlucky
knocks as I was playing my hand about my face, and aim-
ing at some other part ot it. I saw two other gentlem. n by
me, who were in the same ridiculous circurltsian es.-
These had made a foolish exchange between a couple of
20 Sequel to the English Pea
thick bandy legs, and tvo long trap sticks that had ne
cal v os to them. One of these looked like a man walking
upon stilts, and was so lifted up into the air, above his or-
dinar\ height, that his head turned round with it; while
tht. other made so awkuard circles, as he attempted to
walk, that he scarcely kiuw how to move torward upon his
new supporters. Observing him to be a pleasant kind of
fellow, I stuck my cain in the ground, and told him 1 would
lay him a bottle of wine, that he did not march up to it, on
a line that I drew for him, in a quarter of an hour.
The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes,
who made a most piteous Mght, as they wandered up and
down under the pressure of their several burdens. The
whole plain was filK d with murmurs and complaints, groans
and lamentations. Jupiter, at length, taking Compassion on
the poor mortals, ordered them a second time to lay down
their loads, with a design to give every one his own again.
They discharged themselves with a great deal of pleasure:
after which, the phantom who had led them into such gross
delusions, was commanded to disappear. There was sent
in her stead a goddess of a quite diflf}
tio.js were steady and composed, and hi r as . :uus but
cheerful. Sir- < '. and then cast hei eyes towards
hi .:v.-n and fixed tlu-r.i upon Jupiter: her name was I'A-
ri NCE. She had no sooner placed herself by'the Mount of
S ws, but, what I thought very re.markahle., the whole
h< ap sunk to such a degree, that it did t a third
pan so big as it was before. She afterwards returned every
m/n his own proper calamity, and, teaching him how to
bear it in the most commodious manner, he marchtd off
with it contentedly, being ver\ well pUased that he had nut
been left to his own choice, as to the kind of evils winch
fell to his lot.
Besides the several pieces of morality to he drawn out c
this vision, I learned from it never toCepine at my own
misfortunes, or to envy the happiness of another, since it is
imnossible for any wan to form a right judgment of his
n^ labour's sufferings; for which reason also. I have de-
termined never to think too lightly of another's complaints,
bu'. to regard the sorrows of my fellow-creatures with
timents of humanity and compassion. ADDISOV.
ur rathe Plei .
SECTION v. The Vision of A Inn: t.
Fortune her gifts may variously dispose;
A;ul these be happy call'd, unhappy those ;
But Heaven's just balance equal will appear,
While those are piac'd in J,Iope, and these in Fear.
ALMET, the- dervise, who watched the sacred lai* ; in
the si-pulcre of the prophet, as he one day rose up from the
d wot ions of the morning, winch he had performed at the
gate of the temple, with his body turmd towards the tast,
and his forehead on the earth, saw before him a man in
splendid apparel, attended by a long retinue, who gaz,-d
stedfastly on him, with a look of mournful complacency,
and seemed desirous to speak, but unwilling to offend.
The dervise, after a short silence, advanced, and salut-,.
ing him with calm dignm which independence confers up-
on humility, requested that he would reveal his purpose.
ik Almet," said the stranger, u thou seest before thee a
man whom the hand of prosperity has overwhelmed with
wretchedness. Whatever I once desired as the means of
happiness, I now possess; but I am not yet happy, and
therefore I despair. I regret the lapse of time, because it
glides away without enjoyment ; and as I expect nothing in
the future but the vanities of the past, i do not wish that
the future should arrive. Yet I tremble lest it should be cut
off; and my heart sinks, when I anticipate the moment in
which eternity shall close over the vacuity of my life, like
the sea upon the path of a ship, and leave no traces of my
existence more durable than the furrow which remains af*
ter the waves have united. If in the treasures of thy wis-
dom, there is any precept to obtain felicity, vouchsafe it to
m- 1 . For this purpose I am come : a purpose which yet I
feared to reveal, lest, like all the former, it should be dis-
appointed." Almet listened with looks of astonishment and
pity, to this complaint of a being, in *whom reason was
known to be p pledge of immortality : but the serenity of
his countenance soon returned ; and stretching out his
h-mds towards heaven, a Stranger," said he, u the know-
ledge which I have received from the prophet, I will com-
municate to thee.
As I was sitting one evening at the porch of the temple?
$2 Seqi^l to the Xnglixh Reader.
pensive and alone, my e^je wandered among the multitude
thuwas -cattered Ix fore mr ; . 1IK 1 u -hii c 1 rema/ked the
\ve.;rinc-s3 and solicitude which were visible in >in-
tenanc< , I was suddenly struck with a sens-, of their condi-
iiou W\tchcd mortals, said 1, to \vhai purpose art- YOU
busy: It to prouiice happmess, by \\ horn is 't enjoyed? Do
the linens of Kgvpt, >ilks .-I Persia, bestow felicity
on those \\ hu Wi ar llu-m, t cjual to tilt- wi> tchedness of von-
der-l i\ .ding the caimLs that brine; thtTv.?
Is the fineness ol the trxiun,'oi t >e splendour of the tints,
n-g.-irdi-d with ddi^ht hv tbo.e, to whom custom ha3 r. i^-
dtred thvm iain'di ? -r can the power of habit renter
others insensible oi j- live onl\ to traverse the cfe-
sert ; a srt-n.- oi dr. adtui umionniiv, where a barren level
xinded onl\ In thi b^n/.'.n ; where no change of pros-
pect, or vari ty ol images, nhvvrs the tra\elkrs frni a
of toil and danger ; of whnluinds which in a m(;ment
may bury him in dv s :nd, and i thirst w)i. h the \v -dthy
n h It thi-ir possessions to aila\ ? D. thosr on
whom ber ditarv diamonds sparki.- v\ ith unregarded lustie,
gain from the possession what is lost by the w re tin who
st\ks t'HMti in the mine ; who lives excluded from the com-
mon bounties oJ nature ; to whom even the vicissitude of
day and night is not known ; who sighs in iperpetual dark-
ness, and whose lift- is one mournful alternative of insensi-
bility and labour? It those are not happy who possess, in
proportion as those ure wretched who bestow, how vain a *
dream is the life of man ! And if there is, indeed, such dif-
iVrence in the value of existence, how shall we acquit of
partialiu the hand by which this difference has been made?
While my thoughts thus multiplied, and my heart burn-
ed within mc% I became sensible of a sudden influence from
above. The streets and the crowds of Mecca disappeared,
I found mysr if sitting on the declivity of a mountain, and
perceived at my right hand an ang 1, whom I knew to be
Azoran, the minister of reproof. When I saw him, 1 was
ai'uiid. I cast mv eyes upon the ground, and was about to
deprecate his anger, when he commanded me to be sile.u.
* c -.Irnet," said he, " thoii hast devoted thy lite to medita-
tion, that th\ counsel might deliver ignorance from the
ol error, and deter presumption from the precipice
Narrative Pieces* 23
of guilt ; but the book oi nature t^mi hast read without un-
derstanding : It is again open before thee : look up, consi-
der it, and be wise."
I looked up, and beheld an enclosure, beautiful as the
gardens of paradise, but of a small extent. Through the
middle, there >vas A green walk ; at the end, a wild desertj
and beyond, impenetrable darkness. The walk was shaded
with trees of every kind, that were covered at once wi h
blossoms and fruit ; innumerable birds were singing in the
branches; the grass was intermingled with flowers, which
impregnated the breez" with fragrance, and painted the
path with beauty. On the one side flowed a gentle transpa-
rent stream, which was just heard to murmur over the. gol-
den sands that sparkled at the bottom ; and on the other,
were walks and bowers, fountains, grottos and cascades,
which diversified the scene with endless variety, but did
not conceal the bounds.
While I was gazing in a transport of delight and wonder
on this enchanting spot, I perceived a man stealing along
the walk with a thoughtful and deliberate pace. His eyes
were fixed upon the earth, and his arms crossed on his bo-
som ; he sometimes started as if a sudden pang had seiz d
him; his countenance expressed solicitude and terror; he
locked round with a sigh, and having gazed a moment *-n
the desert that lav before him, he seemed as if he wished
to stop, but was impelled forward by some invisible power.
His features, however, soon settlrd again into a calm me-
lancholy ; his eyes were again fixed on jthe ground, and he
went on as before, with apparent reluctance, but without
emotion. 1 was struck with his appearance ; and turning
hastily to the angel, was about to inquire, what could pro-
duce such infelicity in a being, surrounded with every ob-
ject that could gratify every sense ; but he prevented my
request : u The book of nature-," said he, fc4 is before thee ;
look up, consider it, and be wise." I looked, and beheld a
v.iiley between two mountains that were craggy and barren.
On the path there was no verdure, and the mountains af-
forded no shade ; the sun burned in the zmith, and every
spring was dried up : but the valley terminated in a country
th;t was pleaant and fertile-, shadrd with woods, and adorn*
&d with buidings. At a second view, 1 discovered a tnafc
Sequel to the English Reader*
in this valley, meagre indeed and naked, but his counte-
nance was cheerful, and his deportment active He kept his
eye fixed upon the country before him, and looked as if he
would have run, but that he was restrained, as the other
had been impelled, bv some secret influence. Someiim/s,
indeed, I p< rceived a sudden expression ol pain, and some-
times hi stepped short as if his foot was pierced by the as-
perities of the way ; but the sprightliness of his countenance
instantly returned, and he pressed forward without appear-
ance of repining or complaint.
I turned again towards the angel, impatient to inquire
from what secret source happiness was derived, in a situa-
tion so different from that in which it might h;ive been t K-
ptcted; but he again prevented my request : "Almet,'*
saul he, " remember what thoti hast seen, and let this r.io
znoiial be written upon the tablets of th\ heart. Re UK m-
ber, Almet, that the world in which thou art placed, is but
thr road to another; and that happine*- depends not upon
the path, but the end. The value of this period ot thy ex-
isunce, is fixed by hope and fear. The wretch who wish, d
to linger in the garden, who looked round upon its limits
with terror, was destitute of njoyment, because he was des-
titute ot hope, and was perpetually tormented by the dread
of losing that which yet he did not enjoy. Thr song of me
birds had been repeated till it was not heard, and the flow-
ers had so often recurred, that their beauty was not seen ;
the river glided by unnoticed, and he fean-d to lift his eye
to the prosp< ct, lest he should behold the waste that circum-
scribed it. But he that toiled through the valley was happy,
because he looked forward with hope. Thus, to the sojourn-
cr upon earth, it is of little moment whether the p. >.h he
tr- ads be strewed with flow* rs or with thorns, if he perceives
himself to approach those regions, in comparison of which
.horns and the flowers of this wilderness lose their ciis-
tim.it
s\.;ieh every station must be wretch* ., is acquired b\ vir-
tu. ; and virtue is possible to all. K< member, Almet, the
vision vbich thou h;st seen; and Je : my words h c w ' it-
3 n ,n ;.'. :-ibl, t n was
contracted into a thousand urnkles, her eves deep sunk in
he? head, and her complexion pale and livid as the counte-
narue of death. Her looks were filled with terror and uo
rc It min^ se\t-ric\, and her hands armed with whips and
3? o pions. As soon as she cam- near, with a horrid irown,
and . voice that chilled my vt ry blood, shr bad* me follow
her, 1 obeyed, and she led me- through rugged paths, e-
s<. i with briers ;;nd thorns, i to a deep solitary v 11. -y.
Wherever she passtal, ihe i, dnig verdure withe red I) u. /rri
her bieps j her pestilential breath infected the air with ma-
,'U'l to the .
vapours, obscured the lustn of the sun, and involv-
ed the tair lace of In- tven with ui ;;luo:n. Dismal
bowlines resounded through the ion st ; from every baleful
i h?s dreadful note ; and the
prospect v as filled with rirsolatiun and horror. In the
midst of tir- lous scene, my execrable guide addres-
sed me in the. following manner.
"Retire with m--, () rash, unthinking mortal! from the
vain allurements of a deceitful world ; and 1 am that plea-
sure was not designed the portion of human life. Man
w. s born to mourn and to be wretched. This is the con-
of ail l)i low i : and \vho-ever endeavour^ to
ts in contradiction to the will of heaven. Fly
tl.en fro * ii.imenfs of youth and social
i, and lv the solitary hours to lamentation
and wo. ?' of all sublunary beings; and
njoymeot D< ity, who is to be
tiu* mortification of even sen e of
lire, and the evu lasting ex -rcise of sighs and tears. ^
This rrn picture oi lite cjuite sunk my sp>rits
i-.ied to aiinihilai.- ever) p' -^ } >\>\t of 'joy wi hin me,
I th .1 blastd yew, where the winds
w cold and dismal round my head, and dreadful appre-
hensions chilled my heart. lie-re I resolved to lie till the
icj of dtuth, which I impatiently invoked, should put an
t-nd to the miseries ot a life so deplorably wretched. in
this sad situation I espied on one hand of me a deep mud-
d\ iiver, whose hea\ v u .. d on in slow .sullen mur-
murs. Her. I determined to plunge ; and wits just upon
the brink, when I found mysrlf suddenly drawn back. I
tumed about, and was surprised by the sight of the loveli-
est object I had ever beheld- The most engaging charms
o! youth and beauty appeared in all her form ; effulgent
glories sparkled in her e\ es, and their awful splendours
\vc-ic softened by the gentlest looks of compassion and
peace. At !ur approach, the frightful spectre, who had
In lore tormented im , vanished away, and with her all the
horrors she ha i cau-e , The gloomy clouds brightened in-
to checrml sunshine, tr.r grovts recovered their verdure,
and the whole region loukrd gay and blooming as tht gar-
den ol" Eden, i was quite transported at this unexpec-
Narrative Pieces. 27
ted change, and reviving pleasure b. gan to gladden my
thoughts ; when with a look of in; xpressible sweetness, my
beauttous deliverer thus utt red her diviiu instructions.
k ' IVjy name is Hi LIG ION- I am the- offspring of TRUTH
an' Jv VE. and the- pan nt of Bi NF.VOLI NCE. HOPK ; ud
Joy I hat monster, from \\hosc power I h *v Irt-t-d \ on,
is . lied SUPI RSTITION : shu is tin h;!d of DISCONTENT,
and her followers are FEAR and SORROW. Thus, . : ift e n-ally happy, must make the rlili.
and r ^ular ex< reis; of i, s nis chi
tion; adoring the perfections of his M iker, exj
goodwill to .aim; inward n c-
tiM i< . fo his lower fr;r-d*ies he must allow such gratifi-
cations as will, ' :<>rat^ his nobler pursuits..
In the regj; L tun s, unmir.^1- (1
l^' i; here with a perpi.tu.il
abundant strewn, nor my mound to cht-i k its course.
BC.MII^, r in illv (li.s.-i^.-d,
as all the hum in lo he, n
men )< .1 stricter --mmcm. \Vhoev r !
ly o( vol.jman- < it hoth to the
p-iinfdl working ')!" n ind luecllul avenues <;! -.in-di-
ci.ie, in onkr to his cure. Stili h<- is c-Mticled to a m>
.-:ns this fair
mansion of his merciful Parent ifl 'nsisteiit witl^ his
reeover-. . And in proportion as thi ; v advances,
the in- will spring from his secret st^nse of an a-
m nd;-cl .ind improved h' Art. Sf> far from the horrors of
d -pair is the concJH' nli\ . Shudder v pqor
mortal, at the thought of the gulph into which thou wast
just n"W going to plunge."
tk \Vhil the '.:ulty have every encouragement to
arm-nd, the more innocent soul will he .supported with still
sweeter '.->ns under all its experience of human in-
iirr, :dder.iv>g assurances, that i
j-y s rro.v them, shall he assisted,
act' I'o such a one, th . lowliest self-
ah ^em- it i (K epiaicl foundation lor the most tlevat-
ed hop s; sinre they who i'aithiuil' txamine and acknow-
K"Ij;\ what t'ne-v- are, shall he ennabled under my conduct, to
b^c -sire. The christian and the hero arc
ins-'pa-- : - of unassuming trust and
filial confidence, are set no hounds. To him who is ani-
mat-d uith \ vi-./w of obtaining approbation from the So-
vereign of. the .universe, no difficulty is insurmountable,
Secure in thi^ pursuit of every n edful aid, his conflict with
the severest pains and tri ih, is little more than the vigor-
ous exrrcis-s of a nuv! in health. His patient dependence
on that Providence which looks through all eternity, his
Narrative Pieces. 29
silent resignation, his ready accommodation of his thoughts
and behaviour to its inscrutable wa\ s, art; at once the most
excellent sort of self-denial, and a source oi the most i-x-
alted transports. Society is the true sphere of human vir-
tue. In social, active life, difficulties will perp* tuail be
met with ; restraints ot many kinds will be necessary ; md
studying to behave right in respect of these, is a discipline
of the human heart, useful to others, and improving to it-
self. Suffering is no duty, but where it is necessarv to
avoid guilt, or to do good ; nor pleasure a crime, but where
it strengthens the influence of bad inclinations, or lessens
the generous activity of virtue. The happiness allotted to
man in his present state, is indeed faint and low, compared
with his immortal prospects, and noble capacities : but yet
whatever portion of it the distributing hand oi heaven of-
fers to each individual, is a needful support and refresh-
ment for the present moment, so far as it may not hinder
the- attaining of his final destination."
" Return then with me from continual misery, to mode-
rate enjoyment, and grateful alacrity : return from the con-
tracted views of solitude, to the proper cliries of a relative
and dependent being. RELIGION is not confined to cells
anu closets, nor restrained to sullen retirement. These are
the gloomy doctrines of SUPEKSTITION, by which she en-
d avours to break those chains of ben- -voleiice and social
affection, that link tfu we If art- of every particular with that
of the whole. Remember, that the greatest honour \ ou can
pav the Author of your being, is -A behaviour so cheerful
as discovers a mind satisfied with it^ own dispensations."
Here my preceptress paused; and I was going to express
my acknowledgements for her discourse, when a ring of
bells Irom the neighbouring village, and the new risi-n sun
darting his beams through mv windowsawokemc. CARTER*
CHAPTER II. DIDACTIC PIECES.
SECTION i. Vicious connexions the rum of virtue.
AMONQ the numerous causes which introduce corruption
into the hem, and accelerate its growth, no ' Mri-
\\ pov.-.-r.u! th n ihv contagion which -s 'lifr'i^
bad examples, and heightened by particular connexions
30 Sequel to the Rnglifih R
with persons of loose pnncipl 5, or dissoluU morals. This,
in .1 li --nti-His st it 01 soci. tv , is tn< n > i com -non
of those vices and disorders which so nuich -'xmnd in git at
cities; and often proves, in a particul .r manner, fatal to cue
young; even to tht'tn whose beginnings were once auspi-
cious and promising. It m.iy there! >r^ be a useful employ-
in v ni oi attention, to trace the progi-ss of this principle of
corruption ; to examine the ni \ hich u evil counnu-
nications ' graduallv undenTiKu , and at last destroy u good
morals." It is indeed disagreeabl* to contemplate human
nature, in this downward coursr of its progress. But t is
always profitable to know our oxvn infirmities and dangers.
As certain virtuous principles are still inherent in human
Mature, there arc few who set out at tirst in the world with-
out . positi >ns. The warmth wtiich belongs to youth
naturalls exerts itself in generous feelings, and sentiiiii nt3
of honour ; in strong attachment to fru-nds, and the other
emotions of \ kind and tender heart. Almost all the plans
with which persons have been liberally educated, begin the
world, are connecu i with honourable views. At thai peri-
od, they r< pudi ite what- ver i. m an or base. It is |)le .sing
to th:-m to think of coiumandmg tlie t steem oi those a noug
whom they live-, and ol acquit ing a name among men. But
al is ! hou soon does this flattering prospect begin to oe
overcast ! Desires o! pleasure usher in temptation, and i.r-
^\ rd the growth o! disorderly passions. Ministers ol vice
are seldom wanting to encourage and flatter the passions of
the voung. Inferiors study to creep into favour by servile
obstquiousn. ss to .dl their desires and humours. Glad to
find any apolog^ for the indulgences of which they are lond,
tht voung foo readilv listen to the voice oi t l iose vvh sug-
gest to them, that strict notions of religion, order, and vir-
tue, are old fashioned and illiberal; that the restraints
which they impose are oply fit to be prescribed to th se
who are in the first stage of pupillage ; or to be preached
to the vulgar, who ought to be kept within the closest
bounds of regularity ami subjection. But the goodness of
truir hearts, n is insinuated to them, and the liberal iti of
th ir vi-ws, will tully ju>tify their emancipating themselves,
in ; iegree, from the rigid discipline of parents and
teachers.
Didactic Pieces. 3t
Soothing as such insinuations are to the youthful and in-
considerate, their first steps, however, in vice, are Lauti .-us
an 1 timid, and occasionally checked by remorse. As they
begin to mingle more in 'the world, and emerge into *ne
circles of gaiety and pleasure, finding these loose- ideas
countenanced by too general practice, they gradual y be-
come bolder in the liberties they take. If they have been
bred to business, they begin to tire of industry, and look
with contempt on the plodding race of citizens. II they
are of superior rank, they think it becomes them to resem-
ble their equals ; to assume that freedom of behaviour, Mat
air of forwardness, that tone of dissipation, that easy neg-
ligence of those with whom they converse, which appear
fashionable in high life. If affluence of fortune unhappily
concurs to favour their inclinations, amusements and di-
versions succeed in a perpetual round ; night .aid day are
confounded ; gaming fills up their vacant intervals ; they
live wholly in public places ; they run into many degrees
of excess, disagreeable even to themselves, merely irom
weak complaisance, and the fear of being ridiculed by their
loose associates. Among these associates, the most harden-
ed and determined always take the lead. The rest iollow
thfin with implicit submission; and make proficiency in this
school of iniquity, in exact proportion to the weakness of
their understandings, and the strength of thtir passions.
How many pass away after this manner, sme oi the
most valuable years of their life, tost in a whirlpool oi what
cannot be called pleasure, so much as mere giddiness and
folly ! In the habits of perpetual connexion with idle or li-
centious company, all reflection is lost ; while, circulated
from one empty head, and one thoughtless heart, to .an-
other, folly shoots up into ail its most ridiculous forms;
prompts the extravagant, unmeaning frolic in private ; or
salhrs forth in public into mad riot; impelled sometimes
by intoxication, sometimes by mere levity of spirits.
Amidst this course of juvenile infatuation, I readily ad-
mit, that much good nature may still remain. Generosity
and attachments may be found ; nay, some awe uf religion
may still subsist, *nd some remains of those good impres-
sions which were mad- upon the mind in early days. It
might yet be very possible to reclaim such persons, and to
3
Sequel to the English R< m
foi u them for UM iul and i s-. in the world,
il virtuous ,uKi im,To\ yig s<>ci- i- i\t.aii ilh.in
to ih<. n^lves, and to a\\ < ions and manlv thought.
But, H youth and vigour, and flowing fortune continiu ; if
a similar succession oi companions go on to amust them,
to ii^ro.s^ thrir time, .md to stir up thi ir j).t.^sions ; tht day
of r.im I-, t them t.ike heed, and ' ,hc d,\ 01 ir-
recoverable ruin begins tv) drau ni;;h. Fouune is scjuan-
de)-. a i health is broker:; trundsar !, ail; onted,
cstr.nijjred ; ageci parents, perhaps, sent afHuted nd mourn-
ing to the dust.
JTnere are certain d. >!' vice which fire chiefly
u|Kd with the character of the riijiculous, and the con-
temi-tii)le ; and tlu re . cerliiin limits, l^eyond which,
if it )) ,ss, it becomes odious and detc..ai)le. If, to other
corruptions which the h--art has already received, i>e iitided
th infusion of sceptic;.! pitnciplts, that wo st of all the
u evil communic-ttions" oi Dinners, the whole ol morals is
then on the point oi hc-ing overthrown. . For, even cnme
can then be palliated to Conscience ; >eck and re-
stiaint which huci hith^ rto remained, is taje tchery. or a man ol blood ; satisfying, or at least t ndea-
vouring all the while to satisfy himself that circumstan< es
form his excuse; th.*t by necessity he is impelled; and
tha% in gratifying the passions which nature had implant d
within him, he -does no more tnan follow nature.
Mis.r ble and deluded man! to what art thou come at
the -ist? Dost thou pretend to follou n -ture, wlv n thou
-an onumninkj the laws oi the GOJ oi n uirt ? whin tisou
artbtifling his voice within thee, which rtmonbtratts a
Didactic Pieces. 33
thy crimes ? when thou art violating the best part of thy
maun , by count ihe dictates of justice and bmr-a-
mtv I Dosi thou follow nature, when thou renderest ihv-
sell i useless a mm >i on the earth ; and not useless only,
but noxious to the society to which thou belongest, ami to
whi. h thou art a disgrace; noxious, by the bad example
thou hast s t; noxious, by the crimes thou hast commit-
t (I ; ^sacrificing innocence to thy guilty pleasures, and in-
troducing shame and ruin into the habitations of p<. a ;
defrauding of their due the unsuspicious who have trusted
thre ; involving in the ruins of thy fortune m
''*r I consider as an act, th< former as a haoit of tht inund.
Mirth is short and transient, cheerfulness fixed and pern a-
nent. They who are subject to the greatest depressions of
melancholy, are often raised into the greatest transports of
mirth: on the contrary, cheerfulness, the ugh it dors not
give the mind a gladness so exquisite, prevents it from fail-
ing into anv depths of sorrows. Mirth is like a fla c i; oi
lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glit-
ters for a moment ; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of day-
light in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual
serenity.
M^n of austere principles look 'upon mirth as too wan-
ton and dissolute for a state, of, probation, and as filled with
a certain triumph and insolence of heart, that are incon-
sistent with a life which is every moment obnoxious to the
greatest dangers.
Cheeriulness of mind is not liable to any of these excep-
tions. It is of a serious and composed nature. It does not
throw the mind into a condition improper for the present
34
state of humanity ; and is very conspicuous in the charac-
ters oi (hose who arc looked upon as the- greatest philoso-
phirs among the headnns, as well as among those who
have been deservedly esteemed as saints and holy men
among Christians.
If \ve consider cheerfulness in three lights, with regard
to ourselves, to those we converse with, and to the great
Author of our being, it will not a little recommend itself
on each of these accounts. The man who is possessed of
this excellent frame of mind, is not o; his thoughts,
but a perfect master of rs and faculties of the
soul: his imagination is ahva\s cl< ar, .nd his judgment
lin disturbed ; his temper is even and unruffled, wheih r in
attion or in :;.-!:tmie. lit conu-s with a relish to all those
, which nature has provided for him; tastes all the
res of the creation which are poured around him;
**nd does not feel the full weight oi ccideiual evils
which may befall him.
;;sider him in r< lation to the persons with whom
he converses, it naturally produces love and good- will to-
wards him. A cheerful mind is not only disposed to be af-
*V it and obliging, but raises the same good humour in
those who come within its influence. A man finds himself
d, he does not know why, \\ith the cheerfulness of
his companion : it is like a sudden sunshine that awakens
a secret di light in the mind, without her attending to it.
The heart rejoices of its own accord, and naturally flows
out into friendship and benevolence towards the person
\vho has so kindly an effect upon it.
When I consider this cheerful state of mind in its third
relation, I cannot but look upon it as a constant habitual
g*- ti ude to the great Author of nature. An inward cheer-
fuim.ss is an implicit praise and thanksgiving to Providence
under all its dispensations. It is a kind of acquiescence in
the state wherein we are placed, and a secret approbation
of the divine will in his conduct towards man.
There are but two things, which, in my opinion, can rea-
sonably deprive us of this cheesfulness of heart. The first
o! these is, the sense of guilt. A man who lives in a state
e r.nd impenitence, can have no title to that evenness
and tranquillity of mind which are the health of the soul,
Didactic Pieces* 35
and the natural effect of virtue and innocence. Cheerful-
ncss in a bad man deserves a hardei nani; than language
can furnish us with, and is many degrees beyond what we
commonly call folly or madness.
Atbu ism, by which 1 mean a disbelief of a Supreme
Bring, and consequently of a future state, under whatso-
ever title it shelters itself, may likewise very reasonably
deprive a man of this cheerfulnt ss of temper. There is
something so particularly gloomy and Offensive to human
nature in the prospect of non-i xistence, that I cannot but
wonder, with many excellent writers, how it is possible for
a mm to utlive- the expectation of it. For my own part, I
think the being of a God is so little,, to be doubted, that it is
almost the only truth we are sure of, and such a truth as we
meet with in every object, in every occurrence, and in eve-
ry thought. It we look into the characters oi this tribe of
infidels, we generally find they are made up of pride, spl< e n,
'and cavil It is indeed no wonder, that men, who ar-r un-
easy in themselves, should be so to the rest of the world :
and how is it possible for a man to be otherwise than un-
easy in himself, who is in dangrr every moment of losing
his entire existence, and dropping into nothing?
The vicious man and atheist have therefore no pretence
to cheerfulness, and would act very unreasonably, should
they endeavour after it. It is impossible for any on.- to live
in good humour, and enjoy his pr sent existence, who is
apprehensive- either of torment or of annihilation ; oi being
miser able, or of not being at all.
After having mentioned these two great prin< i; les, which
arr destructive of cheerfulness in their own nature, as wtll
as in right reason, I. cannot think of any other that ought
to banish this h.ippy temper from a virtuous mind. Pain
and sickness, shame and rtproiu h. poverty and old age ?
nay, death itself, considering thv shortness of th< ir dura-
tion, and the advantage we may r^ap from them, do not de-
serve the name of evils. \ good mind may bear up under
them with fortitude* with tranquillity, and with cheerful-
ness of heart. The tossing of a tempest does not discom-
pose a man, who is sun it w ill brin^ him to a joy fut harbour.
FK ^ ho uses his Iv. st < ndfv.vours to live accordip' r>
the tiicuitcs oi virtue and n.:h reason, h#s two perpeuiJl
*
o6 Sequel to the English Reader.
sources of chee rfulness, in the consideration of his own .
ti'iv, nncl of that Being on whom he has a dependence. If
he louks into himself, he cannot but rej ice in that exist-
ence, which was so lately bestowed upon him, and which,
after millions ot ages, will be still new, and still in its be-
ginning. Id >w many self congratulations naturally arise in
the rnind, when it reflects on this its entrance ihto eternity;
\vhtn it takes a view of those improvable faculties, which
in a tVw years, and even at its first setting out, have made
so considerable a progress, and which will be still receiv-
ing an increase of perfection, and consequently an increase
of happiness ! The consciousness of such a being causes a
perpetual diffusion of joy through the soul of a virtuous
m n ; and makes him feel as much happiness as he is ca-
pable of conceiving.
The second source of cheerfulness to a good mind, is its
consideration of that Being, on whom we have our dept n-
derict, and in whr.m, though we behold him as yet but in
the first faint discoveries of his perfections, we see every
thing that we can imagine as grtat, glorious, or amiable.
We find oursel\ \ where upheld by his goodness,
and surrounded with an immensity ot love and mercy. In
short, vc depend upon a Being, whose power qualifies him
to make u> happy by an infinity of means; whose goodness
and truth engage him to make those happy who desire it
of him; and whose unchangeablenc ss will secure tor us
this h ippim ss to all eternity.
Suco considerations, which every one should perpetually
choish in hi* thoughts, will banish from us all that secret
ht-avitif.ss ot heart, which unthinking men are subject to
\vhrn they lie under no real affliction; all that anguish which
Wr may ftt-l from any evil that actually oppresses us ; to
\\hich I may likewise add, those little cracklings of minh
and folly, that are apter to betray virtue than support it ;
and cs: blish in us so even and cheerful a temper, as will
ir>ak< us ; le :sing to ourselves, to those with whom w r e con-
Veise,andiu Him whom we are madc-to please. ADDISON.
8*:c ION in. Happy rjftcts of conU'mplating the works
of nature.
WITH th< D'vine works we are in every place surround-
ed. W w can cast our eyes no where, without discerning the
Didactic Pieces. 37
band of Him who formed them, if the Crossness of our
n to hear sweeter
sounds than those which arise from u the viol, the ubret,
and the pipe."
But to higher and more serious thoughts these works of
nature give occasion, when considered in conjunction with
the Creator who made them. Let me call on you, my
friends, to catch some interval of reflection, some serious
moment, for looking with thoughtful eye on the world
around you. Lift vour view to that immense arch o h a-
Vt n which encompasses vou above. BeboM the sun in all
his splendour rolling over your head by oay ; and th< moon,
by night, in mild and serene majesty, surrounded with tuat
host of stars which present to your imagination an innume-
rable multitude of worlds. Listen to the awful voice of
thunder. Listen to the roar of the tempest :tnd tht ocean.
Survey the wonders that fill the earth which you inhabit.
Contemplate a teady and powerful Hand, bringing round
spring and summer, autumn and winter, in rtgnl r course ;
d* rorating this earth vvith innumerable beauties, divi ts ;y-
ing it with innumerable inhabitants ; pouring forth comforts
on all th -it live ; and, at the same time, overawing the na-
tions with the violence of the elements, when it pleases the
Creator to let them forth. After you have viewed your-
selves as surrounded with such a scene of wond rs ; af |C *
you have beheld, on ever) hand, so astoni-hing t disj ir "
oi majesty united with wisdom and goodness; are you
Si izt-d with solemn and serious avv> ? Is there not sc" e *
thing which whispers within, that to this great Creator
to the English Reader.
verence and homage arc clue b\ all the rational beings whom
he his maue ? Admitted to be- spectators oi bis works,
pi iced in the midst of so man\ gn at and inn resting- obj< els,
can you believ^ that you \vt re bi ought hitlv-r for no pur-
pose, but to immerse yourselves in gross and brutal, or, at
be^t, in trifling pleasures; lost to all st-nse of the wonders
you bthold ; lost to all reverence of th.it God \\ ho gave you
being, and who has erected this amazing 1 tin ot nature,
on -vhic h you look only with stupid and unmeaning e\ es ?
No: let the scenes which sou in hold prompt cornspon-
fl-.-nt if lings. Let them awaken \ on from the degrading
intoxication of licentiousness, into nobler emotions. Every
object which you view in nature, \vlu- the r great or small,
serves to instruct you. HK star and the HIM ct, the fiery
meteor and the flower oi spring, the veidant field and tha
loity mountain, all exhibr - .-;-, U fore which
you ought to tremble and adore ; all preach the doctrine,
all inspire the spirit, ot devotion and n verence. Regard-
tiv-n, th. ' the- Loi:i, let rising emotions of awe
and gr. .: i lorth from your souls such sentiments as
.h M ; " Lord, wherever 1 am, and \\hau-ver 1 enjoy,
Ic^rget thee, as th^ Authoi of natur*. ! May I
mver forgt t that 1 am th\ crc iture and thv subject! In
tui^ magnify ol th universe, u here thou hast
it me, i; . be th\ faithful \\ or^hir*per ; and may
tr- revt r. nee and the fear oi God lie the first sentiments of
m\ l^art. . p> BLAIR.
SECI ION iv. R factions on the universal presence of
Deity.
IN one of m\ 1 ate papers, I h i^l occasion to consider the
ubiquit\ of the (Godhead, and at the same time to show,
that as ho is present to every thing, he cannot but be atten-
tive to evi rv thing, mcl privy >o all the modes and parts of
its i xist- nre : o, m oth< r words, that his omniscient e and
omnipresence aft c(j -. xistent, and run together through the
xv h le i finitude ot sp ce. Fhis consideration might tur-
us wuh many me.iuives to devotion, and motives to
Si rality ; but as 'is subject has bv en ban 1 d I) s- ver.il
elk-nt urners, I shall consider it in a light in which I
e riot seei < ; b\ --h r i .
e jFirs>t ? How oibconsolate is the condit on of au inttlico
Didactic Pieces. 39
tual being, who is thus present with his Maker, but at the
s-ime lime recehes no e xtraordinary beiu tit or advantage
from his presence !
S condlv, How deplorable is the condition of an intellec-
tual dung, who feels no other efferts from his pr; si nee,
than such as proceed from divine wrath and indignation !
Thirdly, how happy is the condition o that intelieciual
being, who is sensible of his Maker's pres.nc.;, irotn the
stcivc ejects of his mercy an > loving-kind n,-s !
First, How disconsolate is the condition of an intellec-
tu .1 being, who is thus present with his Maker, but a v me
same time receives no extraordinary benv lit or advantage
from his presence ! Every particle ot maiur i* actuated by
this Almighty Being which passes through it- Tlu hi .tvuis
ami the earth, the stars and planets, move and gravitate by
v: iu of this great principle within them. Ail ihr dead
pans of nature are invigorated by the presence of their
Creator, and made capable of exerting 'heir respe tivi qua-
lities. The several instincts in the brute creation, do like-
wise operate and work towards the several ends which are
agreeable to them, by this divine energy. Man oi;iy, who
does not co-operate with his holy spirit, and is inatu ntive
to his presence, receives none ot those advantages from it,
which are perfective of his nature, and necessary to his
well-being. The divinity is with him, and in him, and eve-
ry where about him, but of n& advantage to him. It is the
same thing to a man without religion, as if there were no
God in the world. It is indeed impossible for an infinite
Being to remove himself from any of his creatures; but
though he cannot withdraw his essence from us, which
would argue an imperfection in him, he can withdraw from,
us all the joys and consolations of it. His presence may
perhaps be necessary to support us in our existence ; out
he may leave this our existence to itself, with regard to as
happiness or misery. For, in this sense, he may cast us
away from his presence, and take his holy spirit trom us.
This single consideration one would think sufficient to
make" us open our hearts to all those infusions or joy uiid
gladness*, which are so near at hand, and ready to be pour-
ed in upon us: especially when wr consider,
Secondly, The deplorable condition of an intellectual be
40 Sequel to the Fn^lt^h Reader.
in 5^, who feels n r,i his M.-ker's presence,
th. n such :ts proceed !nn divine wrath and '-n.
AV m ,\ assure oursJvrs, that ihe c;u-at Author oi
\vill not alw.tvs be as onr \\ ho is mdiflVrent to any of his
cr- ,,tuus. They v\ ho will m.t emg of his ( only l>\ what he suilvrs from
h " ! H is s.-nt in hcil is in : !>ut
th n. 1 alvtants < is he-hold him onh in
h s u rat 1 th. ,11-
s ivr'jj from him. i; A 'imagination to
COIK -i\ thr fearful ..lipot' nee in,
But i shall only an intel-
Irc' under v of
him all times, and in .:ll j iv unit-
Nvith hin. II >ul, and ' \<-\ it in
alt its i -(iiltics. Hi- can hinder an\ of the greatest comforts
ol life from refri-sliing us, and ^iv an ed^e to en ry one of
its sliglr v .Vho then can hi ar the thought of
bt ing an out-cast from his presence, that is, from the com-
forts ul it, or of feeling it onh in its terrors i H,>w pathetic
is that expostulation of Joh, whrii for thr rr ..1 ti'ui of his
p r made to look upon himself n this deplo-
rable corivtitioii ! u why hast thou set mr as a mark against
thee, so that 1 am become a burden to myselt ? '
H'it, thirdl\\ ho\v h tpny is the condition of that intellec-
tual being, who is sensible of his Maker's presence, from
the secret edicts of h's mercy and loving-kindness! i
in heaven heiu-kl liim ftce to fact, that is, are as
sensi!)l- of his presence as we are of the presence of any
n -son who;. '; upon with our eyes. There is doubt-
le.ss a laculty in spirits, by which they apprehend one an-
other, a our senses do material objects ; and there is no
qu stion but our souls, when they are disembodied, or plac-
eo in j^ioritied bodies, will, by this faculty, in what- ve? part
of s])Hce ihey residr, be always sensible of thr divine pre-
sence. We, who have this \eil of nVsh standing between us
and the world of spirits, must be content to know the spi-
ri o' Ciod is present \\ith us b v the ( ilects v. hich he pio-
duces ui us. Our outward sciibes are too grobii to apprehend
ic Piece*. 41
him. Wr mav however taste ami see how gracious he is,
by his infLi^'.ct upon our minds: by those virtu AI thoughts
which he n wakens iu us; !>\ those serivt comions anu re-
freshments which tic conveys into our souis ', and In those
ra\ is.hmg jo\ s an.i inward satisfactions w'.iich an Ire.qiv utly
spnogmg up, and diffusing themsdvrs -tn^ng die thoughts
of ^ood men. He is lodged in our very e-si no.,, -na is as
a soul within the soul, to irradiate its understanding, no-
tify its will, purify its passions, and cniiv. n ail Mi- ;,owers
of man. How ha;>py therefore is n intellectual oeiug, \vho,
by prayer and medit.i-ion, by virtue and good wo; ks, opens
this communication between God and his o.vn soul ! 1 h aigh
the whole creation frowns, .*nd all naturv looks black a >uut
him, h^ has his light and support within, that are able to
cheer his mind, and bear him up in the midst of all those
horrors winch encompass him. He knows that his helper
is at hand, and is always n< m.-r to him than any thing >. an
be, which is capable of annoying or terrifying him. In the
midst of calumny or contempt, he attends to that Being
who whispers better things within his soul, ana whom he
looks upon as his defender, his glory, and the later- up of
his head. In his deepest solnudt and retirement, he knows
that he is in company with the greatest of beings ; and per-
ceivi-s within himself such real sensations of his presence,
as are more delightful than any thing that can be met with
in the conversation of his creatures. Evt-n in the hour of
deaVXT all our thoughts,
th it, in the language of the scripture, his soul may have
pi "Sure in us. We must take care not to grieve his holy
spirit, ind endeavour to make the meditations of ur hearts
always acceptable in his sight, that he may delight thus to
reside and dwell in us. The light oi nature could direct Se-
nccrf to this doctrine, in a v M r -n ti k ,ibK p s ure in one
of his t-pisrl-s: * fc J here is ffcuVs* .icj a hol\ - irit residi-g
in us, who watches and observes both gooU auu evii men,
i'2 Semtfl to the English Reader.
and ^vill tren us ait r the- s,im mannei h u we treat him."
fin i conr hide this discourse with those more- t -mpha-
tii a. in dixine rc\\ l.ttion : a If a man lov< nu , he
\v-.ll v words; itiul m\ Father will love hun, and we
\\ili O,UK uiuo him, an : make our abode with him."
ADDISON.
C.I VPTER If I ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES.
. N i tor /,///; r/rtY knjiv'tJ^* if a future state^
ondition of man.
. is dissatisfied with the. obscurity which
D i 'I- Providence has \vist-l\ ihiown o\ r the luturt- state,
t ives that more information would ()e reasonabl and
. He (h sires to have his \ irged beyond the
linn's of this co, porval scene. Instead ol resting upon evi-
dence wnich req tires discussion, which must be supported
by much reasoning, and winch, after all, he alleges yields
vi- rv imp'-ri'ect information, he demands the everlasting
mansions to be so displayed, as to place faith on a level
\virh the vid-.-Pco nt su.s- . What noble and happy effects,
he exclaims, would in-it.ntU follow, if man thus beheld his
present and his fut;re existence at once before him! He
\v--uld then become worthy of his rank in the creation. In-
stead of being the sport, as now, of degrading passions
and chilii^h .utachmt nts, he would act soleh on the prin-
ciples of immortality. His pursuit of virtue would be stea-
dy ; his life wouli i>e undisturbed and happy. Superior to
thr attacks of distress, and to the solicitations of pleasure,
Iv would advance, by a regular progress, towards those
divin* r. wards an honours which were continually pres-
et to his vi--v. fhas fanjy with as much ease and con-
fid' nee .is it it u. n. a perhct judge of creation, erects a
new >o'!d t itstlr, and exults with admiration ot its own
woi k. But let us pause, and suspend this admiration, till
Vi coollv examine the consequences that would follow from
this supposed reformation oi the universe.
ConsicL-r the nature and circumstances of man. Intro-
duced inro the world in an indigent condition, he is sup-
ported at first by the care of others ; and, as soon as he be-
ghi^ to i <.nsd', finds labour anrl industrv to be ne-
cessary for sustaining his liic, and supplying his wants.
Argumentative Pieces. 4o
Mutual defence and interest give i- 10 society; and so-
ciety, whin formed, requires distinctions of prop itv, di-
v. r sitv of conditions, subordination oi ranks, and a multi-
plicity of occupations, in order to advancx- the general good.
The services of the poor, and the protection ;1 the rich, be-
come reciprocally necessary. The governors, and the go-
verned, must co-operate for general safety. Various arts
must be studied ; some respecting the cultivation of the
mind, others the care of the body ; some to ward off the
evils, and some to provi ;e the conveniences of life. In a
word, by the destination of his Creator, and the n crssiu s
of his nature, man commences, at once, an active, not
merely a contemplative being. Religion -issum. s him ,is
such. It supposes him employed in this world, as on a bu-
sy stage. It regulates, but does not ibolish, the enterprises
and cares of ordinary life. It addresses itself to the various
ranks in society ; to the rich and the poor, to the magistrate
and the subject. It rebukes the slothful ; directs the dili-
gent how to labour ; and requires every man to do his own
business.
Suppose, now, that veil to be withdrawn which conceals
another world from our view. Let all obscurity vanish ; let
us no longer " see darkly, as through a glass ;" but let eve-
ry man enjoy that intuitive perceptio . of divine and ttt ,ui
objects, which the sceptic was supposed to desire. The im^
mediate effect of such a discovery would be, to annihilate
in our eye all human objects, and to produce a total stag-
nation in the affairs of the world. Were the celestial glvry
exposed to our admiring view ; did the angelic harmony
sound in our enraptured ears ; what earthly concerns could
have the power of engaging our attention for a single mo-
ment ? All the studies and pursuits, the arts and labours,
which now employ the activity of man, which support the
order, or promote the happiness of society, would lie neg-
lected and abandoned. Those desires and fears, those hopes
and interests by which we are at present stimulated, would
cease to operate. Human life would present no objects suf-
ficient to rouse the mind ; to kindle the spirit of enterprise,
or to urge the hand of industry. If the mere sense oi duty
engaged a good man to take some pun in the husin.-ss of
the world, the task, when submitted to, \vould prove dis-
4
44 Sequel to the English Ren
ful. Even UK- \)\- b, Voiron <-i in, \\ould be sin hter],
ii ?K \vt-re not b?...nd to it bv tn ai.in >nt\ ol (,
ti- nt ni iiis couhn>.-m. t viUii . Jus i .oe'-naUe oi ilu>t, lan-
guishing ior th happ\ d,u ,U,,M tll those K i )i-
ou-< ic ^i -ns \vhu h uere (!; to his si hi, hi
n rarih as a mei mciiulv iX.l. . V\'-,:.u v i Puni-
1ms prepared lor thi en in oi UKUI,
w- ti \vitii conu-in|)t. \Vhatc\t ib no\v rttirad
so,- U", '\oiiUl appear insipid, in ., \\or\l, he \vnuhi I K - no
a tit inhal)itant oi ihis wr.iici, nor b (jii'iituo lur
th-.s, --x itionsuhich arc allottrj to linn in his :.n-st-nt
sphere of being. But, all hi> iacimi s -.ubiim.itfd
above the nn- .surr oi ti'iinann v , ht- would be in UK i ondi-
ti'-n ot a bring of su u ho, obligrji t( ri ^ide
am -114 'ii n, w >uhi rrgaid ttv ir jjursuits u ith scoin, as
dr- us, tritlrs, and p^n';! t a da\ .
B. U i" this i. it niii\ p ri:aj>s I) i rpij. o, that SIK h
-{ U nct-S as I h:t\v nou >tai- (i, sup., u m to lf;tr-
i^srixe not mut ; l''o what 'Ivaigh thi- pre-
sent ,1 r angf nil tit oi human allurs were cntircl) changt d,
r vi'-w, aiivl ,i sir uj^vi iinprt*ssion ot our iuture
^,i ; would not such a change piovr tiit nign..-st bl. ssing
if Is not his attachments to \\oiK 1\ r>bjcctstht j great
e both oi his niis r\ and his guilt ? Kniployt'd in pc r-
pt iu;J contemplation oi heavtnK obj-.c (s, and in prc para-
tion for the enjoyment of them, would he not become more
virtu 'us, and oi course moiv h.,-)py, th., duty. Ample rewards were promised
to virtue ; but these regards were left, as yet, in obscurity
and distant prospect. The impressions of sense were so ba-
lanced against (he discover!-, s of immortality, as to allow a
Conflict between faith and sense, between conscience md
desire, between present pleasure and future good. In this
Ci-nflk--, the souls of i>ood men are tried, improved, :md
strengthened. In this field their honours are reaped. Here
LI; . i T.ned the capital virtues of fortitude, temperance, and
sell-denial ; moderation in prosperity, patience in adversity,
submission to the will of God, and charity and forgiven --SB
to men, amidst the w.rious competitions of worldly inten st,
S'i'-h is the plan of Divine wisdom for man's improve-
m ;>i But put the case, that the plan devised by hair, n
wisdom were tot;'ke place., and that the rewards pi the just
were to be more fully displayed to view ; the ex rcisc of .ill
those graces which I have/ mentioned, would be entu-ly
superseded. Their very names would be unknown. F'ery
temptation being withdrawn, every worldly attachment be-
in^ ubdued by the overpowering discoveries of eternity,
no trial of sincerity, no discrimination of characters, would
rem nn ; no opportunity would be afforded for those active
e.xertions, which are the means of purifying and perfecting
the good. On the competition between time and eternity,
depends the chief exercise of human virtue. The obscurity
which at present hangs over eternal objects, preserves the
competition. Remove that obscurity, and you remove hu-
man virtue from its place. Y u overthrow that whole sys-
tem of discipline, by which imperfect creatures are, in thb
life, gradually trained up for a more perfect state.
This, then, is the conclusion to which at last we arrive ;
that the full display v, hich was demanded, of the heavenly
glory, would be so far from improving the hvmian soul, that
it would abolish those virtues and duties, which are the
g* -U instruments of its improvement. It would be unsuit-
able to the character of man in every view, either as an ac-
tive being, or a moral agent. It would disqualify him 5 -rom
taking part in the affairs of the world ; for relishing the
pleasures, or for discharging the duties of life : in a word,
it would entirely defeat the purpose of his being placed on
this, earth. And the question, why the Almighty has been
Sttjiicl to the English Reader.
to leave a spiritn il world, and tiu future existence
f :; -olves ii) i\i,- ( h i , :ilo
tm - ' ri' shpul attire as m.m in
urn Go'i ? > iiuprovvmi nts
; Mis of P '. 1'h, \ ; ,,; C !
incovfrri* . \ ( ] om ol (iocl, and of
>n n.i f^lK of mm. BLAIR.
r ION ii. )~> .-///; -.v //, :/ ; y^ r
f/v.
THE duty which young > their instrurtor.sv
t;)f ?H !)cttx ' the cfU tc wliith tht in-
Sti .i; tioiis I'M- v i i th, in. 1'ney uou'd do
: .: .11 ,, at-
'jntotlivs- two t: .a importance, 'MI.
ltl -n.
us branches,
;;< iii raliy consiiitJiis, ih.n -an- tiu iin-rc growih ol i i i n.iurc. liy
v of oih/i s - -nir own. It is
it ir.i.k- s tiu
i one man a real
Hesi'Ks, the n\ind must bccovplrm religious habits. It is a great point to jret habit on
the. side of" virtue: it will make everything smooth and
easy. The earliest principles are generally the most last-
ing ; and those of a religious cast are seldom wholly lost,
, Though the temptations of the world may, now and then,
"draw the well-principled youth aside ; yet his principles be-
ing continually at war with his practice, there is hope, that
in ihe end the better part may overcome the worse, and
bring on a reformation : whereas he, who has suffered ha-
bits of vice to get possession of his youth, has little chance
of being brought back to a sense of religion. In the com-
mon course of things it can rarely happen. Some calamity
must roust him. He must be awakened by a storm, or si ep
for ever. How much better is it then to make that easy
to us, which we know is best ! And to form those habits
now, which hereafter we shall wish we had formed!
There are p^pons, who would restrain youth from im-
bibing any religious principles, till they can judge for tht m-
Srlv-s ; lest they should imbibe prejudice for truth. But
vhv should not the same caution be used in science ai-<> ;
and the minds of youth left void of all impressions? The
experiment, I fear, in both cases, would be dangerous. If
the mind w* re left uncultivated during so long a period,
though nothing elsr should find entrance, vice certainly
V onld : and it would make th< larger shoots, as the soil
would '>e vacant. It would he better that young persons re-
c- ive knowledge and religion mix-;d with error, than none
at ;11. For \\hi-n the mind comes to r fleet, it may deposit
i's prejudices by degrees, and get right at last: but in a
3ta r e of stagna'ion it will ini;.lli!>lv became foul.
To conclude, 'Uir youth bears the same proportion to onr
snore advanced life, as this world does to the next. In this
1 ' , we must form and cultivate th< se habits of virtue,
vhich will qualify us for a better state. If we negiect them
h- r, and contract habits of an o -posit-.- kind, instead of
gaining that * xalted stafe, which is promi e to <>;i: m*-
provrnvm, we- sh 11 of Lourst-. sink 'nm that blait, which 18
au4'Ud to the habits we have formed.
A rgu m ei / * . / 1 o c- PI cces. 49
Exactly thus is youth introductory to manhood ; to
which it is, properly speaking, a stale of preparation.
During this season we mu*t qualify ourselvt-s lor the
parts we are to act hereafter. In manhood we bear the
fruity which has in youth he in planted. li we have saun-
tered away our youth, we must expect Jo be ignorant men.
If indolence and inattention have taken an early possession
of us, they will prohahly increase as we advance in life ;
and make us a burden to ourselves, and useless to society.
If again, we suffer ourselves to he misled by vicious incli-
nations, the\ will daily get m w strength, and end in disso-
lute lives. But if we cultivate our minds in youth, attain
habits of attention and industry, of virtue and sobriety, we
shall find ourselves vvtll prepared to act our future parts in
life ; and what above all things might to be our care, by
gaining this command over ourselves, we shall be more
able, as we get forward in the world, to resist every new
temptation, as soon as it appears. GILPIN.
SECTION in. The truth of Christianity proved, from the
conversion oj the Apostle Paul.*
The conversion of St. Paul, with all its atten lant cir-
cumstances, furnish s one of the most satisfacior proofs,
that have ever been given, of the Divine origin ot oui o!y
religion. That this eminent person, from being a Zealous
persecutor of the 1 disciples of Christ, bvc.airie, all at one* , a,
disciple himself, is a fact which cannot be <->mro\ < -ru-vi,
\\ rKout overturning the credit of all h-siorv. He must,
therefore, have been converted iu he miraculous manner
ai'.^gt (I by himself, and of course the Christian religion be
a Divine revtlation ; or he must have been an '.-npostor, an
enthusiast, or a dupe to the fraud of others. There is not
another alternative possible.
If he was an impostor, who declared what he knew to
b- false, he must have been induced to act that part, by
some motive. But the oniy conceivable motives for ivli-
Itgtoiis imposture, are the hopes of a -varx ing one's tem-
poral interest, credit, or power; or trie prosptct of grktifv-
itig some passion or appetite, under th authority "of .he
* This piece is extracted from the " Ri , ; ca." It 9
a- H'?T^fl^c-!Tic'it of lord Lyttleton's ceicoi^cca " Ubscrvauoas on Uie
Conversion of St. Paul."
Sequel to the E^lish Renter.
religion. That none of these could he St. Paul's mo-
tives lor professing the iaith ol' Christ cruuiu d, is j)luin
from the state of Judaism and Christianitv, at the period
of his forsaking the former, and embracing the latter iaith.
Th ) he left, were the disposers n\ wealth, of dig-
niry, of power, in ludea: those to whom he went, were m-
-iit men, oppressed, and k'-pt from all means of impro-
;th- ir to -i.m. s. Th, c rtain consequence, therefore, of
taking the part of Christianity, wa-> tn ios* not onl\ of
all that he [- I, hut ol all hpprs of acquiring more:
wlii reas \>\ continuing to persecute the Christians he had
hopes, rising almost 10 certaum, of m 'km_; his iortune by
the favour of thos \vhowere at the h< ad oi the Jv\\i-h
state, to whom nothing could so mucn rccommeivi him, as
the zeal whirh he had shown in that pers cunon. As to
cre-iit or repufation, could the scholar ol Gamaliel iv -JK to
gain eith -r, by becoming a teat her in a coil.-gi of hsru-r-
in. n ? Coal I he Hatter himsi li, that tile iloc nn.-s whu h he
taught would, either in or out ol Judea, do him honour,
vh'-n he knew that u tht y uen t the (ireeks ioolishnt s> ? " \Vas it thru the
love of power, that induct 1 him to maK ihis great change?
Powi . ! over whom? over a flock of she p, nln-m he h tri-
sel! had endeavoured to cestrov, and whos very Shepherd
had la r-ly been mur Kre '. ! Perhaps it was with the view
of gratifying some licentious passion, under the authority
ol the n- vv rel ; i n, that he commenced u teacher oi that
r u'inn! This caiuiot be ;d?-g d : (or his writings breathe
n<>thmg but the strictest mralii\ ; obedienc e t> sna^i^lrr.les,
order, and uo\ . rnm< nt : v\ ith thi utmost abhorrence oi all
lic--nfiMusn ss. ull. n< ss. or loose I r, under the cloak
o el:giou. W no ^ her. n ad in nis wc-rks, ihat saints are
a*M)V\- nmr -1 r-'.inancis; thrt dominioti rs loun<.ied in grace;
th . monai h is dv potism which ou^ht to i)e abolished;
ti^.ar T.h, fortune of r he i h oug.u to be divid d among cue
poor; that there is no ifiFer*. nc in mor d tctions ; that any
imj-ulsfs of the mino ! are to direct us against th-.- li^ht of
r ^ .! d religion an-.! th- laws of n -turt i or an\ oi those
\vi--kr-cl tenets by vvhu h the peace of society has bt < n of-
tvM disturbed, and th vules o? inoralit\ have I) en ok n
viol.sted, by men pretending to a* T un ' r th sanction ot
Dn im- r t \-. '' ,ui ^n. [I n.; - no , ; isc >ti< e m-
posior oi Arabia, iu iivuur 01 iiunscli not dots aii\ part
Afgument&twe Pisces* 51
t)f his lite, either before or liter us conversion to Chv s-
tia >iiv , bear am nv.rk of a libertine disposition. As a-i'.orig
the } ws, so a.noug the Christians, his conversation and
maniu rs were bt -mdess.
As St. Paul was n-./t an impostor, so it is pi nn he wus
no; an enthusiast. He. t of temper, mel incnor, , ignoranc^,
creduiitv, and vanity, arc- the ingredients ol \\ : :i rjUnUsft
asm is composed: hut from all these, except LH lirsi, the
apostle appears to hav*- been whulh fret . That h. Mad
gr. it fervour of zeai, hoth wlun a jew and when a (/hns-
t : an, in ir, iintainin^ what he thought to be right, caonot be
d'. nii-d : but he was at all vimcs so .IHK h mast, r ot his u-in-
pt-r, as, in tnatti-rs of indilis r tict-, c^ a !v. (:->ri\e cdl things to
all aieii ; ' with the most pliant cc endowed. Is this
the language oi vanity or enthusiasm .'
tiuis shoun that St. Paul was neither an i.npos-
tor nor an enthusiast, it n mains onlx to be inquired, whc-
th r he was deceiv d bv th<- liaucl of others: but this in-
qnirv needs not be long; for who was to deceive him ? A
it u illiterate fishermen of GalUlec ? I; impos-
sil'l tor such nii-n to rono-ixr the- thought ot turning the
most enlightened of their opponents, and the crueh st of
itors, into an apostle ; and to do this b\ a fraud,
in he very instant of his greatest furx i^amst them and
th ir Lord, Hut cculd ih is to
iv - i i) a thought, it w ior
then, to Vu ii w t ; .n-
vt i- . tt-d. Gould they product m th l)ri^htcr tharj tii Co.. Id
th \ -nake S.iul he >r words from that li^lv, \\hicii ^v re
n; In ai a K \ tlie i ^ st of the compam ? C y make
h,m ')iuni lor ilirrc days after that vision, ami tlvn make
seal' irom his 1 restore him to si^}u i)V a
wo.clr (), ro.ild th ! those who travelled
with him, beliex pi ' IlCvi > ^
s li.id not h.ippinedr Alost u- q '>ly no fraud
1 to Jl ;!ns.
Since tlu-n St. Paul v. in impostor, an enthusiast,
or a |v
liis honvefsi<>,,: laimg .it: his own muntioiib. Man, therefore, may
be consider*, d as a limit u c c ; Uuv, v n<;u u with powers
imuauve of thus*/, r ssdmg in the D ity. iie is thrown into
a world that stands in need ot ins Help; md ht ha* ;i
granted a power oi producing h^rmon) trom partial contu-
s'r ^n.
It\ therelore, we consider the earth as allotted for our
habitation, we shall find, that much has been given us to
rnjo\ , and much to amend ; th it we have ample rras'-ns
for oil- 1 ' gratitude, and many for our indilstry* In those
gr- it outlines ot nature, to which art cannot reach, add
where our greatest ^iforis nmst have heen ineffectual, God
himself has finished ev'-ry thing with am >z.ng grandeur
and beauty. Our htnefic-nt Father has considered these
parts ot nature as peculiarly his own; as parts winch no
creature could have skill or strength to amend : and he has 9
th~r<-t , made them incapable ot alteration or ot more
pert* ct regal iritv. The heav-. ns an I the iirmament stiosv
th wisdom and the glory of the Workman. Astronomers^
who re best skilled in the symmetry of systems, can find
nothing there that they can alt r for the better. God made
thest perfect, because no subordinate being could correct
theii defects
When, therefore, we survey nature on this side, nothing
can be more splendid, more correct or amazing. We there
b' hold a Deify residing in tru midst of a universe, infinite-
ly extended every way, animating all, and cheering the va-
cuity with his presence. We behold an immense and shape-
less mass ot matter, formed into worlds by his power, and
dispersed at intervals, to which even the imagination can-
not travel. In this great theatre of his glory, a thousand
sun>, like oar own, animate their respective systems ap-
pearing and vanishing at Divine command. We behold ouv
own bright luminary, fix. d in the centre of its syst-.-m,
wheeling its planet-, in tim s proportioned to their clist m-
ees, and at once dispensing %ht, heat, and action. The
earth also is seen with its twofold motion; producing, by
th nut-, the change of seasons ; an,!, by tin. other, tru ;M ; r tj .
ini v icisskudes o? ! \ and night. With what sil. nt magni-
ficence is all this performed ! with what sccamig case : i ne
to the English
^'<>tks of art arc exerted with interrupted force ; and their
noisy progress discovers thi obstructions truy receive ; but
tlv earth, with a silent, steady rotation, successive!) pre-
sent^ every part of its bosom to the sun ; at once imbibing
him nt and light from that parent ot vegetation and
fertility.
Bui not only provisions of heat and light are thus sup-
plied ; the whole surface of the earth is covered with a
transparent atm >sphere, that turns with its motion, and
guards it from external injury. The rays of the sun are
thus broken into a genial warmth; and, while the surface
is assisted, a gentle heat is produced in the bowels of the
earth, which contributes to cover it with verdure. Wat', rs
> it re supplied in healthful abundance, to support life,
r.nd assist vegetation.
Mountains rise to diversify the prospect, and give a cur-
rent to the stream. Seas extend from one continent to the
oth r, replenished with animals," that may be turned to hu-
man support ; and also serving to enrich the earth with a
ruihric ncy of vapour. Breezes fly along the surface of the
.-fields, to promote health and vegetation. The coolness of
the evening invites to rest; and the freshness of the morn-
ing renews for labour.
Such are the delights of the habitation that has been as-
signed to man : without any one of these, he must have
been wretched ; and none of these could his own industry
have supplied. But while, on the one hand, many of his
wants are thus kindly furnished, there are, on the other,
numberless inconveniences to excite his industry. This ha-
bitation, though prov dec! with all the conveniences of air,
pasturage, and water, is but a desert place, without human
cultivation. The lowest animal finds more conveniences in
the wilds of nature, than he who boasts himself their lord.
The whirlwind, the inundation, and all the asperities of the
nir, are peculiarly terrible to roan, who knows their conse-
quences, and, at a distance, dreads their approach. The
earth itself, where human art has not pervaded, puts on a
frightful, gloomy appearance. The forests are dark and
tangled ; the meadows are overgrown with r ink weeds ;
and the brooks str.iy without a dcr rmim-d channel Na-
ture, ?hjt h is ! >. -en kin > to every lower order oi beings,
seems to have been neglectful with regard him : to the sa-
Descriptive Pieces. 55"
vage uncontriving man, the earth is an abode of desolation.
where his shelter is insufficient, and his food precarious.
A world thus furnished with advantages on one sidr, and
inconveniences on the other, is the proper abode of reason,
and the fittest to exercise the industry of a free and a think-
ing creature. These evils, which art can remedy, and pre-
science guard against, are a proper call for the exertion of
his faculties ; and they tend still more to assimilate him to
his Creator. God beholds, with pleasure, that being which
he has made, converting the wretchedness of his natural
situation into a theatre of triumph; bringing all the head-
long tribes of nature into subjection to his will ; and pro-
ducing that order and uniformity upon earth, of which his
own heavenly fabric is so bright an example. GOLDSMITH.
SECTION 11. An eruption of mount V
IN the year 1717, in the middle of April, with much dif-
ficulty I reached the top of mount Vesuvius, in which I
saw a vast aperture tull of smoke, that hindered me from
seeing its depth and figure. I heard within that horrid gnlf,
extraordinary s -.Hinds, which seemed to. proceed i om the
bowels of the mountain ; and, at hit rv.ils, a noise like that
of thunder or cannon, with a clattering like the falling of
tiles irom the tops of houses into the streets. Sometimes,
as the wind changed, the smoke gr:w thinner, discovering
a very ruddy flame, and the citcu inference of ihr cr;cer
streaked with red and several shades of yellow. After in
hour's stay the smoke being moved by the wind, we had
short and partial prospects of the great hollow ; in the Hat
bottom of which I could discern two furnaces almost con-
tiguous : that on the left, seeming ibout three yards ovvr,
glowhig with ruddy flame, and throwing up red hot stones,
\vith a hideous noise, which, as they fell back, caused the
clattering already taken notice of. May 8, in the morning,
I ascended the top of Vesuvius a second time, and found
a different face of things. The smoke asc nding upright,
afforded a full prospect of the crater, which, as far as I
could judge, was about a mile in circumtVrtnct , and a hun-
dred \ ards deep. Since ' .r< in the bottom. But as the yvind was favourable, I
bad ui opportunity of surveying this amazing seem lor
above an hour and a half together. On the fifth of June,
alu-r a horrid noise, the mountain was seen at Naples to
work over ; and about three clays after, its thunders were
so reneyved, that not only the windows in the city, but all
the houses shook. From that time, it continued to overflow,
and sometimes at night exhibited columns of fire shooting
upwa d from its summit. On the 10th, when all was thought
to be over, the mountain again renewed its terrors, roaring
an i raging most violently. One cannot iorm a juster idea
of the noise, in the most violent fits ot it, than by imagin-
ing a mixed sound, made up of the raging of a tempest,
the murmur of a troubled sea, and the roaring of thunder
and artillery, all confused together. Though we heard this
at the distance of twelve miles, yet it yvas very terrible.
We resolved to approach nearer to the mountain ; and, ac-
cordingly, three or four of us entered a boat, and were set
asnore at a little town, situatt d at the foot of the mountain.
Fiom thence we rode about four or five miles before we
cauie to the torrent ot fire that yvas descending trom the
si ; of the volcano; and here the roaring grew exceeding-
ly ud and terrible- 1 observed a mixture of colours in the
tK- - ;, a^ve th, crater, green, yellow, red, blue. There
was likewise a ruddy dismal lii*ht in the air, ov-.-r that tract
*h r<: rhK burning rive? flawed. These cucum-s .;nces, s
ff and augmented by die honor of thu night, forme i a
scene the most uncommon and astonishing i ever saw ;
Descriptive Pieces. 57
which still increased as we. approached the burning river,
A vast torrent of liquid fire rolled from the top, down the
sidt of the mountain, and with irresistible fury bore down
anl consigned vines, olives, and houses ; and divided into
different : hannels, according to the inequalities of the
mountain. The largest stream seemed at least half u mile
broad, and five miles long. I walked before my compa-
nions so far up the mountain, along the side of ths river of
fire, that I was obliged to retire in great haste ; the sulphu-
rous steam having surprised me, and almost taken away
my breath. During our return, which was about 3 o'clock
in the morning, the roaring of the mountain was heard all
the way, while we observed it throwing up huge spouts of
fire and burning stones, which falling, resembled the stars
in a rocket. Sometimes I observed two or three distinct
columns of flame, and sometimes one only that was large
enough to fill the whole crater. These burning columns,
and fiery stones, seemed to be shot a thousand feet perpen-
dicular above. the summit of the volcano, in this manner
the mountain continued raging for six or eight days after.
On the 18th of the same month the whole appearance end-
ed, and Vesuvius remained perfectly quiet, without any
visible smoke or flame. BISHOP BERKLKY.
SECTION in Description of the preparations made faj
Xerxes, the Persian monarch* for invading Greece.
In the opening of spring, Xtrxts directed his mjirch
towards the Hellespont, where his fleet lay in all their
pomp, expecting his arrival. When he came to this place,
he was desirous of taking a survey of all his forces, which
formed an army that was never equalled either before or
since. It was composed of the most powerful nations of
the East, and of people scarcely known to posterity, except
by name. The remotest India contributed its supplies,
while the coldest tracts of Scythia sent their assistance.
Medes, Persians, Bactrians, Lydians, Assyrians, Hyrcani-
ans, and many other nations of various forms, complexions,
languages, dresses, and arms, united in this grand expedi-
tion. The land army, which he brought out of Asia, consis-
ted of seventeen hundred thousand foot, and fourscore thou-
sand horse. Three hundred thousand more that were ad-
o8 Sequel to the EngKsh Reader.
ded upon crossing the Hellespont, made his land forces all
ugrther amount to above two millions of IIK-II. his ii.
when it set out from Asia, consisted of twelve hundred
md seven vesseis,,each carrying two hundred men. The
Europeans augmented his fleet with a hundred and twen-
ty vessels, each of whi h carried two hundred men. Be-
sidws these, thtTf \\ere t\\o thousand sir.alh r vessel*, iiued
for carrying pr< r.sic ns anci starts. '1 he n tn contained in
these, with thi former, amounted to six bundled thousand;
mat the whole ai mv might he said to amount to two
millions and a hall; which, with the v emu n, slates, and
liuttlers, always accompanying a Persian army, might n.:ke
the whole above five millions ot souls: a number, if rightly
conducted, capable ot overturning the greatest monarchy ;
but \\hich, commanded by presumption anci ignorance,
served only to obstruct and embarrass each other.
Lorvl ot so many ami such various subjects, Xerxes found
a pi. i-atn. in r vi< uing his fortes ; and was cltsnousoi he-
hunting a navnl engagement, of which he had not hithuto
b < J< a spec L-.ioi . To ihis tnd a throne was erected tor him
U| si in eminence ; and in that situation bt holding ihe eirth
covert-d with his troops, and the sea crowded with his ve^-
s ( , >. felt a seer, t joy (hfiuse itself tha;ii(;ii o*s tiiime,
fr^ni ihe consciousness of his own superior power. But .ill
th, workings of this monarch's mind were in the extreme:
21 sudden sadness soon took place ol his pleasure j and dis-
solvini; in a shower ot tears, he gave himselt up to a re-
fl.-ctior., that not one of so many thou-ands would be alive
a hunched years aitrr.
Art a ban us, the king's utv le, who was much disposed to
moralize on occurrences, took this occasion to discourse
with him upon the shortness and miseries of human hie.
Finding this more distant subject attended to, he s, oke
closely to the present occasion ; insinuated his doubts ot
th-, success of the expedition ; urged the many inconveni-
ences t/ie ar m had to sufter, if not from the entjny, at least
fium their o\vn numbers. He alleged, that plagues, famine,
an-; contusion, were tiie necessary attendants ot such un-
governable multitudes; and thai empty tame was the only
- of success. But it was now too late to turn this
monarch irom his purpose. Xerxes intormed his
Descriptive Pieces, 5$
monitor, that great actions were always attended with pro*
portion-able danger : and that if his predecessors had ob-
served such scrupulous and timorous rules of conduct, the
Persian empire would never have attained to its present
height of glory.
Xerxes, in rhe mean time, had given orders to build a
bridge of boats across the Hellespont, for transporting his
army into Europe. This narrow strait, which now goes by
the name of the Dardanels, is nearly an English mile over.
But soon after the completion of this work, a violent storm
arising, the whole \v*s hrokt.n and destroyed, and the la-
bour was to be undertaken anew. The fury of Xerxes upon
this disappointment was attended with equal extravagance
and cruelty. His vengeance knew no bounds. The work-
men who had undertaken the task, had their heads struck
off by his order ; and that the sea itself might also know its
duty, he ordered it to be lashed as a delinquent, and a pair
of fetters to be thrown into it, to curb its future irregulari-
ties. Thus having given vein to his absurd resentment, two
bridges were ordered to be built in the place of tht former,
one for the army to pass over, and the other for the bag-
gage and the beasts of burden The workmen, now warned
by the fate of their predecessors, undertook to give their la-
bours greater stability. They placed three hundred and six-
ty vessels across the strait, some of them having three banks
of oars, and others fifty oars a piece. They then cast large
anchors into the water on both sides, in order to fix these
vessels against the violence of the winds, and the current.
After thiN they drove Urge piles into the earth, with huge
rings fastened to them, to which were tied six vast cables
that went over each of the two bridges Over all these they
laid trunks of trees, cut purposely for that use, and flat boats
again over them fastened and joined together, so as to serve
for a floor or solid bottom. When the whole work was thus
completed, a day was appointed for their passing over ; and
as soon as the first rays of the $un began to appear, sweet
odours of all kinds were abundantly scattered aver the n \y
work, and the way was strewed with myrtle. At the same
ti ; ; e X- rx* s poured out libations into the sea ; and turning
his tacv towards the East, worshipped that bright lumina-
ry, which is the god oi the Persians. Then, throwing th
6O Seine! to the F.nffKth Header.
vessel which h-.id held ins li-ution into the sea, together
\v ha golden cup and Persian scimitar, he went forward.,
an i gav orders tor the army to follow. This immense
was seven days and seven nights in passing over; while
th->se who were appointed to conduct the march, qukken-
ed the troops by lashing them along ; for the soldiers of the
East, at that time, and to this very day, are treated like
slaves.
This great army having landed in Europe, and being
joint d there bv the several nations that acknowledged the
P< isian power, Xerxes prepared for marching directly for-
ward into Greece. After a variety of disastrous and adverse
events, suffered in the prosecution of his vain glorious de-
sign, this haughty monarch was compelled to relinquish it.
Leaving his generals to take care of the army, he hastened
back, with a small retinue, to the sea-side. When he arriv-
ed at the place, he found the bridge broken down by the
violence of the waves, in a tempest that had lately happen-
:i there. He w s, therefore, obliged to pass the strait in a
small boat ; which manner of returning, being compared
with the ostentatious method in which he had set out, ren-
dired his digrace still more poignaut and afflicting. The
army which he had ordered to follow him, having been un-
provided with necessaries, suffered great hardships by the
\ . After having consumed all the corn th- y could find,
they were obliged to live upon herbs, and even upon the
bark and kaves of trees. thus harassed aid fatigued, a
silence began to complete their misery ; and, after a fa-
tiguing journey of iorty-hve davs, in which they were pur-
aued rather by vultures ..nd b asis ol urey than by men,
th v came to thr Hellespont, where they had crossed over;
'lurched from th n e to Saidis. Such was the end of
X r i>* xpedition into Greece : a measure begun in pride,
^Ui ; terminated in miamy. GOLDSMITH.
SECTION iv. Character of Martin Luther;
As Luther \vas ra sed up by Providence to be the author
virtues. His mind, forcible and vehement in 11 its ope-
rations, roused by gnat objests, or agitated by violent pas-
sions, >rokc out, on many occasions, with an impetuosity
which astonishes men of fecbhr spirits, or such as are placed
in a more tranquil situation. By carrying some praisewor-
thy dispositions to excess, he bordered sometimes on what
was culpable, anci was olu n b. tr tyed into actions which t x-
posed him to censure. His coniuKnce luat his own opi-
62 Srcfwl to the English Reader.
nions were well founded, approached to arrogance; bis cou-
rage in asserting them, to rashness ; his firmness in adher-
ing to them, to obstinacy; and his zeal in confuting his ad*
vt-rsaries, to rage and scurrility. Accustomed himself to
consider every thing a.s subordinate to truth, he expected
the same deference for it from other men ; and, without
making any allowances for their timidity or prejudices, he
poured forth, against those who disappointed him in this
particular, a torrent of invective mingled with contempt.
Regardless of any distinction of rank or character, when his
doctrines were attacked, he chastised all his adversaries in-
discriminate -ly, with the same rough hand : neither the roval
dignity of Henry VIII. nor the eminent learning and abi-
lity of Erasmus, screened them from the, abuse with which
he treated Tetzel or Kci ius. liut these indecences of which
Luther was gmltv, must not be imputed wholly to the vio-
lence of his temper. They ought to be charged in part on
the mnimi rs of th< age. Among a rude people, unacquaint-
ed with those maxims, which, bv putting continual restraint
on the passions of individuals, have polished society, and
rendered it agreeable, disputes of every kind were manag-
ed with heat ; and sfor.g emotions were uttered in their na-
tural language, without reserve or delicacy. At the same
time the works of Lamed men were all composed in Latin;
and they were not onl\ auth nz< d, b\ the example of t mi-
ll* in writers in that language, to use thnr antagonists with
the most illiberal scurrility ; but, in a dead tongue, inde-
cencies of vtry kind appear less shocking than in a living
language, whose idioms and phrases seem gross, because
th y are Familiar.
In passing judgment upon the characters of men, we
ought to try them by tlv principle s and maxims of their
own age, not by those of another. For although virtue and
vice are at all times the same, manners and customs vary
continually. Some parts of Lutht r's behaviour, which to
us appear most culpable-, gave no disgust to his contempo-
raries. It was even by some ot those qualities which we
are now apt to blame, that he was fitted for accomplishing
thr great work which he undertook. To rouse mankind,
vhen sunk in ignorance or supestition, and to encounter
the r tge ot bigotry armed with power, required the utmost
vehemence oi zc*i,and a temper daring to excess, A gen-
Descriptive Pieces. 63
tie call would neither have reached, nor have excited those
to whom it was addressed. A spirit more. amiaM--, ut less
vigorous than Luther's, would have shrunk from the dan-
gi-rs which be braved and surmounted. Towards 'be close
of Luther's life, i hough without a perceptible clecl-nsion of
his Z'-al or abilitu s, the infirmities of his temper increased
upon him, so that he daily grew more peevish, more r,ts-
ciM , and more impatient of contradiction. Having l'v-d
to be witness of his own amazing success; to see a gr< at
pm of Europe embrace his doctrines ; and to ^h^ke the
foundation of the Papal throne, before which the migh'iest
naon trchs bad trembled, he discovered, on some occasions,
symptoms of vanity and self-applause. He must have been
indeed more than man, if, upon contemplating all that he
acUiallv accomplished, b- h-.ul never felt any sentiment of
this kind rising in his breast.
Some time before his ! -tih he felt his strength uVrlin-
inoN his constitution being worn out by a prodigious rmil-
tinlicity of business, added to the labour of discharging his
ministerial function with unremitting diligence, to the *a-
tipfue of constant s*iUly, besides the composition of works as
voluminous as if he had enjoved uninterrupted leisure and
retirement. His natural intrepidity did not forsake him at
the approach of dea'h. His last conversation with his friends
was concerning the happiness n-s'-rved for ;ood men in a
future world ; of which he spok with the fervour and de-
light natural to one, who expected and wished to cuter sooa
upon the enjoyment of it. . ROBERTSON.
SECTION v. The $ood and the bad man compared in the
season of adversity.
RELIGION prepares the mind for encountering, with for-
titude, the most severe shocks of adversity ; whereas vice,
by its natural influence on the temper, tends to produce de-
jection under the slightest trials. While worldly men en-
large their possessions, and extend their connexions, they
imagine that thty are strengthening themselves against all
the possible vicissitudes of life. They say in their hearts,
a My mountain stands strong, and I shall never be moved."
But so fatal is their delusion, that, instead of strengthening,
they are weakening that which only can support the: 4 whem
64 Sequel to the English Reader.
those vicissitude s come. It is their mind which must theo
support them; and thrir mind, by their scnsn-d attach-
ments, is corrupted and enfeebled. Adclicu-d with intem-
perate fondness to the pleasures of the world, the\ ricur
two meat aM i tv tu . i-vils : tn v both exclude thems. l\ r9
from every resource except the world ; and they increase
tfu ir sensibility to every blow which comes upon them
f !.: t.'.ai quarter.
The\ have n< ither principles nor temper which can stand
the assault of trouble. They have no principles which L-ad
thMii to look beyond the ordinary rotation of events ; and
tru retort-, when misfortunes involv< them, the prospect
irni^t be comfortless on every side Their crimes have dis-
qualified tin m in>m looking up to the assistance of any
h, -her power than their own abilit\ , or for reiving on any
better guide than tht ir own wisdom. And us from princi-
ple they can derive no support, so in a temper corrupted
by prosperity they find no relief. They have lost that mo-
deration of mind which enables a wise man to accommodate
himsrlf to his situation. Long fed with false hopes, they
are exasperated and stung by every dissappointment. Lux-
urious an ! effeminate, they can bear no uneasiness. Proud
and presumptuous, they can brook no opposition. By nou-
rishing dispositions which so little suit this uncertain state,
th y have infused a double portion of bitterness into the
cup of wo ; they have sharpened the ediie of that sworr]
which is lilted up to smite them. Strangers to all the tem-
perate satisfactions of a good and pure mind , strangers to
every pleasure except what was seasoned by vice or vanity >
their adversity is to the last degree disconsolate. Health
and opulence were the two pillars on which they ri-strd.
Snake euuer of them ; and tneir whole edifice o. hope and
comfort falls. Prostrate and forlorn, they are left on the
ground ; obliged to join with the man of Ephraim, in his
abject lamentation, " They have taken away my gods,
\vhich I have made, and what have I more?" Such are
th< j causes to which we must ascribe the broken spirits, the
peevish umper, and impatient passions, that so often at-
tend the decliivog age, or falling fortunes of vicious men.
Bui how different is the condition of a truly good man,
m those tr)ing situations of life 1 Religion had gradually
Descriptive Pieces. $3
prepared his mind for all the. events of this inconstant st -te.
It bad instructed him in th- nature oi true hap;>Mi- ss. (t
had early weaned him from an undue love of the world,
by discovering to him its vanity, and by setting hi<;;ier
prospects in his view. Afflictions do not attack him by sur-
prise, and therefore do not overwhelm him He was e^ > p-
ped for the storm, as well as the c d > , in this dubious navi-
gation of life. Under these conditions he kn w himself ,o
be brought hither ; that he was not always to reiain t.u u-
yy\ ment of what he loved: and therefore he is not v r-
comr by dissappointmcnt, wh n that which is mortal, dies;
when that which is mutable, bi gins to change , and wh> n
that which he knew to be transient, passes away.
All the principle- which religion teaches, and all the ha-
bits which it forms, are favourable to strength of mind. It
will be found, that whatever purifies, fortifies also the heart.
In the course of living u righteosly, soberly, and pio i^i ,"*
a good man acquires a steady and well-governed spirit.
Trained, by divine grace, to enjoy with moderation the ad-
vantages of the world, neither lifted up by success, nor en-
ervated with sensuality, he meets the changes in his iot
without unmanly dejection. He is inured to temperance
and restraint. He has learned firmness and self-command.
He is accustomed to look up to that Supreme Provid nee,
which disposes of human affairs, not with reverence only,
but v\ ith trust and hope.
The time of prosperity was to him not merely a season
of barren joy, but productive of much useful improvement.
He had tulvitat<-d his mind. He had stored it with usctal
knowledge, with good principles, and virtuous dispositions.
These resources rein tin entire, when the days of trouble
come. They remain with him in sickness, as in health ; in
poverty, as in the midst of riches ; in his dark and solitary
hours, no less than when surrounded with friends and gay
society. From the glare of prosperity, he can; without de-
jection, withdraw into the shade. Excluded fro on several
advantages of the w ^
inn .cent, and temperate kind; and over thes<% the ctv.-^.s
of the world would hive the least power. *!:- r,m \ \> a
kingdom to him ; and he can still enjoy it. The world aid
66 Sequel to the English Reader.
not h tow upon him all his enjoyments ; and therefore it
is nor in the power of the world, by its most cruel attacks,
to carry them all away. BLAIR.
CHAPTER V. PATHETIC PIECES.
SFCI ION i. Rome saved by Female Virtue.
CORIOLANUS was a distinguished Roman Senator and
Gei-.' r -.1, who nad rendered eminent services to the Repub-
lic. But these services were no security against envy, and
popular preludtces. He was at length treated with great
seventy and ingratitude, by the senate and people of Rome;
anci obliged to leave his country to preserve his life. Of a
haughty and indignant spirit, he resolved to avenge him-
self ; and, with this view, applied to the Volscians, the t ne-
mies of Rome, and tendered them his services against his
native country. The offer was cordially embraced, and Co-
riolanus was made general of the Volscian army. He reco-
vered from the Romans all the towns they had taken from
the Volsci ; carried by assault several cities in Latium ; and
ltd his troops within five miles of the city of Rome. Afrer
several unsuccessful embassies from the senate, all hope of
pacifying the injured exile appeared to bi extinguished;
and the sole business at Rome was to prepare, with the ut-
most diligence, for sustaining a siege. The young and able
bodied men had instantly the guard of the gates and trenches
assigned to them ; while those of the veterans, who, though
exempt by their age from bearing arms, were yet capable
of service, undertook the defence of the ramparts. The
women, in the mean while, terrified by these movements,
and the impending danger, into a neglect of their wonted
decorum, ran tumultuously from their houses to the tem-
plt-s. Every sanctuary, and especially the tenople ot Jupi-
ter Capitolinus, resounded with the waitings and loud sup-
plications of women, prostrate before th.- statues of their
divinities. In this general consternation and distress, Va-
leri t, (sister of the famous Valerius Poplicola,) as if mov-
ed by a divine impulse, suddenly took her stand upon the
lop of the steps of the temple of Jupiter, assembled the
womm about h^r, and hiving first exhorted them not to
be tt rrified by the greatness of the present danger, confi-
dently declared, " That there WdS yet hope for the rcpub-
Pathetic Pieces* i>t-
lie ; th*t its preservation depended upon them, and npou
thi-ir performance of the duty th^y owed theii country. 1 '
41 Alas I" cried one of the company, u what resource v .act
th re be in the weakness of wretched women, when <-ur
bravest men, our ablest warriors themselves despair ?" " It
is not by the sword, nor by strength of arm," replied Vale-
ria, " that we are to prevail ; these belong not to our f-tx.
Soft moving words must be our weapons and our ioice,
Let us all, in our mourning attire, and accompanied by our
children, go and entreat Veturia, the mother of Coriolanus^
to intercede with her son for our common country. Vv m-
tia's prayers will bend his soul to pity. Haughty and im-
placable as he has hitherto appeared, he has not a heart s
cruel and obdurate, as not to relent, when he shall see his
mother, his revered, his beloved mother, a weeping sup-
pliant at his feet."
This motion being universally applauded, the whole traim
of women took their way to Veturia's house. Her son's
wife, Volumnia, who was sitting with her when they ar-
rived, an i was greatly surprised at their coming, hastily
asked them the meaning of so extraordinary an appearance.
" What is it,' 1 said she, u what can be the motive th\.t has
brought so numerous a company of visiters to this house
of sorrow."
Valeria then addressed herself to the mother : a It is te
you, Veturia, that these women have recourse in the ex-
treme peril, with which they and their children are threat-
ened. They entreat, implore, conjure you, to compassion-
ate their distress, and the distress of our common country.
Suffer not Rome to become a prey to the Volsci, and our
enemies to triumph over our liberty. Go to the camp of
Coriolamis : take with you Volumnia and her two sons ;
let that excellent wife join her intercession to \oursv Per-
mit these women with their children to accompany you j
they will all cast themselves at his feet. O Vetui ia, conjure
him to grant peacr to his fellow-citizens. Cease^not to r-eg
till you have obtained. So good a man can never withstand
your tears: our only hope is in yon. Come then, Vetuna :
the danger presses ; you have no time for d.-liberalion ; tfye
enterprise is worthy of your virtue ; Heaven will crov> n it
with success ; Komc shall once more owe its preserrawtJi
,~ 6
tf tf Sequel to the English Reader.
to our sex. You wiil jusiiy acquire to yourself an immor-
tal lam , and have the pleasure to make every one of us a
sharer in your glorv."
Vcturia, after a short silence, with tears in her eyes, an-
swered : " Weak indeed is the foundation of your hope,
Vakna, when you place it in the aid of two miserable \\ o-
men. We aiv not wanting in affection to our country, nor
need we any remonstrance IT entreaties to ixciu- our /xal
fo its preservation. It is the power only of being s<. rvict -
abl. that tails us. Ever since that unfortunate hour, when
the p.ople in thtir madness so unjustly banished Conola-
nu-, his heart has been no less estranged from his family
than from his < untrv. You will be convinced of this s>ad
truth bv his own words to us at parting. When he return-
ed home from the assembly, whi re he had been condemn-
ed, he found us in th< depth of affliction; bewailing the- mi-
serus that wen sine to follow our being dtpiiwd ol so
dear a son, and so excellent a husband. \Ve had his chil-
di\ n upon our knees. He kept himself at a distance from
us ; and, when he had a while stood silent, motionless as a
r ck his e\ts fixed, and without shedding a tear ; fc 'Tis
done,' he said * () mother, and thou V olumnia, the best
of wivts, to you Marcius is no more. 1 am banished hence
for my affection to my countix and the services I have
done .. I go this instant; and I leave for ever a city,
whe>t ail good men are i roscribed. Support this blow of
.n with the magnanimity that becomes uonun of your
h u rank and virtue. I comimnd m\ children to your care.
E iiicatr- them in a manner worthy of you, and of the race
from which they come. Heav. n grant, th y may be n.ore
fortunate than their father, and never fall short of him in
virttu ; and may you in them find your consolation !
Far.- well.'
" \\V started up at the sound of this word, and with loud
crii-s <-f lamentation ran to him to receive his last embr-.ces.
I led his eider son by the hand, Volumnia had the younger
in her arms, H^ turned his eyes from us, and putting us
back with his hand, fc Mo her,' said he, fc from this moment
you h.-.v no son: ou country has taken from you M v
ot \our 'ild age. Nor to you, Volumni-i, will Via- ius be
henceforth a husband 5 mayst thou be happy with anotncr.
Pathetic Pieces. 69
more fortunate ! My clear children you have lost your
father."
1 Ht said no more, but instantly broke away from us.
He departed from ROUK without settling his domestic af-
fairs, or leaving any orders about them ; without money,
without strv ints, and even without letting us know u- w t
part of the world he would direct his steps. It is now the
fourth year since he went away ; and he has never inquir-
ed after his familv, nor, by letter or messenger, given us
the least account of himself: so that it seems as it his mo-
tru r and his wife were the chief objects of that general ha-
tred which he shows to his country.
* fc What success then can you expect from our entreaties
to a man so implacable ? Can two women bend that stub-
born heart, which even all the ministers of religion were
not able to sol'ten ? And indeed what shall I say to ! m ?
What can I reasonably desire of him? that he wo-ilci par-
don ungrateful citizens, who have treated him as the vjcst
criminal? that he would take compassion upon a furious,
unjust populace, which had no regard for his innocence?
And that he would betray a nation, which has not only
opened him an asylum, but has even preferred him to her
mist illustrious citizens in the command of her armies?
With what face can I ask him to abandon such generous
protectors, and deliver himself again into the hands ot his
most bitter enemies ? Can a Roman mother, and a Roman
wife, with decency, exact, from a son and a husband, com-
pliances which must dishonour him before both go^s aiid.
men ? Mournful circumstance, in which \ve have not pow-
er to hate the most formidable enemy of our country ?
Leave us therefore to our unhappy destiny ; and do not de-
sire us to make it more unhappy by an action that may cast
a blemish upon our virtue."
The women made no answer but by their tears and en-
treaties. Some embraced her kn-es ; others beseecru d Vo-
lumnia to join her prayers to theirs ; all conjured Veturia
not to refuse her country this last assistance. Overcome at
length by their urgent solicitations, she promised to do as
thev desired.
The very next clav all the most illustrious of the Roman
n repaired to Veturia's house* There they presently
to the English Reacfar.
mounted a numb- r of clvtnois, , mdi tin consuls had
d cd to be ni di rtad\ ioi liu-m, .n;:, without any f.^rd,
the way to the enemy's camp.
Coriolauis, perceiving Iron, aliir that long train of c ha-
s, sent out some hoi -t mm to learn the design of it.
T.iey quickly brought him word, that it was hi.-, 'moduT,
h:^ wile, -and a ^reat number of other women, and their
children, con in. to iK c-imp. iK: doubtless conjectured
what views the Romans had in ^'> crxtraordiuar. a cle| uta-
ii'n ; th.tt this was the last expedient oi" the - .nd t
iij his own mind, he d< unvimed not to let himself he moy-
c Hut he reckoned iijion a savage intitxihilit) thai \\ :-.s
jn n his nature: ior, going out with a few attendants to
/e> ive the wouun, he no sooner In held Vtturia attired in
mourning, her e\es bathed in tears, am! with a counttn,
1 motion that spoke her sinking under a load oi sorrow,
than he ran hastily to her ; and not only calling her, mother,
but adding to that word the most tenck r epithets, ciitbiaied
her, wept over her, and held her in his arms to prevent her
fillins;. The like tenderness he presently alter expressed to
h's wife, highly com- her discretion in having cou-
ntry remained with his mother, since his departure from
Rome. And then, with the warmest paternal affection, he
caressed his children.
When some time had been allowed to those silent tears
of joy, which often flow plenteou-ly at the sudden and un-
expected meeting of persons dear to each other, Veturia
entered upon the business she had undertake n. After many
forcible appeals to his understanding and patriotism, she
exclaimed: u What frenzy, what madness of anger trans-
ports my son ! Heaven is appeased by supplications, vows,
and sacrifices: shall mortals be implacable? Will Marcius
Sv t no bounds to his resentment ? But allowing that thy
enmity to thy country is too violent to let thee listen to her
p tition tor peace ; yet be not deaf, my son, be not inexor-
able to the prayers and tears of thy mother. Thou dread-
est the very appearance of ingratitude towards the Volsci ;
and shall thy mother have reason to accuse thee of being
ungrateful ?. Call to mind the tender care I took of thy in-
fancy and earliest youth ; the alarms, the anxiety, I suffer-
ad n th) account, when, entered into the state of manhood.
Pathetic Pieces. 71
thy life was almost daily exposed in foreign wars ; the ap-
prehensions, the tc rrors, I underwent when 1 saw thee so
\\ ,rmly ngaged in our domestic quarrels, and, with heroic
courage, opposing the unjust pretensions of the lurious ple-
bians. My sad forbodings of the event have been but too
w 11 verified. Consider the wretched life I have endured,
if it may be called lite, the time that has passed since 1 was
deprived of thee. O Marcius, reiuse nu not the only ie-
quest I ever made to thee ; I will never importune thee
with any other. Cease thy immoderate anger; be reconcil-
ed to tin country ; this is all I ask : grant me but this and
we shall both be ha, py. Freed from those tempestuous pas-
sions which now agitate thy soul, and from all the torments
of sJf-reproach, thy days will flow smoothly on in the sweet
serenity of conscious virtue : and as for me, if I carry b*ck
to Rome the hopes of an approaching peace, an assunu.ee
ot thv being reconciled to thy country, with what transports
of joy shall I be received I In what honour, in what de-
lightful repose, shall I pass the remainder ot m) life! what
immortal glory shall I have acquired !"
Coriolanus made no attempt 'o interrupt Veturia while
she was speaking; and when she had ceased, he still conti-
nued in deep silence Anger, hatred, and desire of revt ngr,
balanced in his heart those softer passions which the sight
and discourse of his mother had awakened in his breast.
Veturia perceiving his irresolution, and fearing rhe event,
thus rent wed her expostulation : * fc Why dost thou not an-
swer me, my son ? Is there then such greatness of mind in
giving all to resentment? Art thou ashamed to grant any
thing to a mother who thus entreats thee, thus humMes her-
self to thet ? If it be so, to what purpose should I long r
endure a wretched life?" As she uttered thtse last words,
inierrupted by sighs, she threw herself prostrate at his teet.
His wife and children did the same ; and all the other wo-
men, with united voices of mournful accent, begged and
implored his pity.
The Volscian officers, not able unmoved to behold this
sc ne, turned away their eyes ; but Coriolanus, almost be-
side himself to see Veturia at his feet, passionate)' t
out: u Ah! mother, what art thou doing?' And, t nd rly
pressing her hand, in raising ht r up, h.r t& ma
" 4 * Kouic is saved, but uu son si lost !>>
Sequel to the English Reader.
Early the next morning, Coriolanus broke up his camp,
and peacably marched his army homewards. Nobody had-
the boldness to contradict his orders. Many were exceed-
ingly dissatisfied with his conduct : but others excused it,
being more affected with his filial respect 'o his motht-r,
than with their own interests. HOOKE'S ROMAN HISTORY.
SECTION ii. Execution of Cranmer, Archbishop of Can-
terbury.
QUEEN MARY determined to bring Cranmer, whom she
had long detained in prison, to punishment; and in order
more fully to satiate her vengeance, she resolved to punish
him for heresy, rather than for treason. He was cited by
the Pope to stand his trial at Rome ; and though he was
known to be kept in close custody at Oxford, he was, upon
his not appearing, condemned as contumacious. Bonn* r,
bishop of London, and ThirL by, bishop of Ely, were sv nt
to degrade him ; and the former executed the melancholy
ceremony, with all the joy and exultation which suited hia
Savage nature. TV implacable spirit of the Queen, not sa-
tisfied with the future misery ot Cranmer, which she bc-
luved inevitable, and with the execution of that dreadful
sentence to which he was condemned, prompted her also
to seek the ruin of his honour, and the infamy of his nam,.
Persons were employed to attack him, not in he wa\ of
disputation, against which, he was sufficiently armed; but.
by flattery, insinuation and address ; b\ representing the
dignities to which his character still entitled him, if he
would merit them by a recantation ; by giving him hopes
of long enjov ing those, powerful friends, whom his benefi-
cent disposition had attached to him, during the course of.
h.s prosperity. Overcome by th- fond love of life; tenifc-
*n by the prospect of those tortures which awaited him ;
he allowed, in an unguarded hour, the sentiments of na-
ture to prevail ovi-r his resolution, and agreed to subscribe
tfch doctrines of the papal supremacy, and of the real pre-
& nee- The court, equally perfidious and cruel, was deter-
mint d that this recantation should avail him nothing ; a".d.
SI-.H ,rlf > .ind tMai he
ohouki Uiencc be immediately earned to
Pathetic Pieces, 7$
Cranmer, whether he had received a secret intimation of
their design, or had repented of his weakness, surprised the
audience by a contrary declaration. He said, that he was
>vell apprised of the obedience which he owed to his sove-
reign and the laws; but that this duty extended no farther
than to submit patiently to their commands; and to bear,
without resistance, whatever hardships they should impose
upon him : that a superior dut) , the dutv which he owed to
his Maker, obliged him to speak truth on all occasions ;
and not to relinquish, by a bust- deni 1, the holy doctrine
\v ich the Supreme Being had revealed to mankind : that
thh re vvas one miscarriage in hisjlite, of which, above -ill
others, he severely repented; the insincere declaration of
faith to which he had the weakness to consent, and which
the fear of death alone had extorted from him : that betook
this opportunity of atoning for his error, by a sincere and
open recantation; and vvas willing to seal, with his blood,
that doctrine which he firmly believed to be communicated
from heaven : and that, as his hand had erred, by betraying
his heart, it should first be punished, by a severe but just
doom, and should first pay the forfeit of its offences.
He was then led to the stake, amidst the insults of his
enemies: and having now sum-rmned up all the force of his
mind, he bore their scorn, as well as the torture of his pu-
nishment, with singular fortitude. He stretched out his
hand, and, without betraying, either by his countenance or
motions, the least sign of weakness, or even of feeling, he
held it in the flames rill it vvas entirely consumed. His
thoughts seemed \vn llyoccupid with reflections on his'for-
m.-r fault, and he called aloud several times, a This hr> d
has offended." Satisfied' with that .tUHKrnent, he thin dis-
covered a serenity in his countenance; and when the fire
attacked his body, he seemed to be quite insensible of his
outward sufferings, and by the force oi hope an-i resolution,
to have collected his mind, altogether within itself, and to
repel the furv of the flames He vvas undoubtedly x man-
o' merit; possessed of learning and capacity, arid adorm d
\virh candour, ine-rk\ an- 1 beneficence, and :dl those vir-
tu- s which, were filled to render aim useful and amiabl IQ
74 Sequel to the English Reader.
SECTION in Christianity furnisher the best consolation
under the evik of life.
IT is of gnat importance to contemplate the Christian
religion in th light of consolation , us bringing aid and i c-
li- I to us amidst the distresses of lift-. Here our religion
lQCometabty triumphs; and its happy effect^ in this re-
spect, furnish a strong argument to every benevolent mind,
for wishing ihc.u io !)e Jarthej diilu-.ed throughout the
world. For \\ -tii'.ut the- belief and hope afforded by Divine
Revelation, the urcumstancis of man ..re extremely for-
lorn. He find- hiin^'U placed here as a stranger in a vast
Universe, where the powers and operations oi nature are
very imperfectly known; where both the beginnings and
the issues ot thin, s are involved in in\ stcrious darkness;
where he is unablt to discover, with am certainty, whence
Iv sprung, or for what purpose he was brought into this
st.ite ol v. \istc-m-. ; wiu-thi-r he is subjected to the govun-
Mient ot a mud, or a wrathlul rultr; what construction tie
i t put on m. n\ ol tlie dispensations of his -provi.it nee ;
and what hi* I te is to be when hr d parts hence What a
disconsolate situation, to a serious inquiring mind ! The
greater degree ol viri <. \\ as, tbi m* of life. In tins
distressed condition, to reve.il to him such discoveries of
th ^upenie Bx ing as the Christian religion affords, is to
reveal to him a father and a tricnu ; is to let in a ray of tne
most cheering Hgh upon the darkness of the human state.
He who was before a destitute orphan, wandering in the
ii-..i sp. table descru has now gained a shelter from the bit-
ter and inclement blast. He now knows to whom to pray,
i to trust , where to unbosom his sorrows; and
from what hand to look for n lj J,
uai, mat when the heart bleeds iroai some wound
Pathetic Pieces. ?&
of recent misfortune, nothing is of equal efficacy with reli-
( omfort. It is of power to enlighten the- darkest hur,
> assuage the severest wo, bv the belief ot Divine la-
vour, and the prospect of a blessed immortality. In such
s, the nmd expatiates with jov ; and, when bereaved
earthly friends, solaces itseli with the thoughts ot one
nd, who will never forsake it. R<, fnu,d reasonings con-
cer.-ing the nature ot the human condition, and the im-
provement whic.i philosophy teaches us to make of -\ ry
cv :u, may entertain che mind when it is at ease : may per-
haps contribute to sooth ir. \vh< n slightly touched with sor-
rt! : i)iit when it is toi n wnh 'b
md steadiest,." Tins has given consolation and reiuge
to n.my a virtuous he m, it a time when the most co y nt-
reasonings would have pr >v d utterlv uiv>vail-ng.
Upon the approach of death, wh--n, if a man thinks at
all, his anxiety about his future interests must naturally in-
crease, the power ot religious consolation is sens-ibly felt.
Then appears, in the most striking light, the high value of
the discoveries made by the gospel ; not only life and im-
mortality revealed, but a Mediator with God discovered ;
nif-rcy proclaimed, through him, to the frailties of the peni-
tent and tnr humble j and his presence promised to be with
them when they are pa-sing through a the valley of the
shadow of death," in- order to bring them sale into unsren
habitations of rest a%l joy. Here is ground for their leav-
ing the world with, comfort and prace. But in this severe
and trying period, this labouring hour ot nature, how shall
the unhappy man support himself, who knows nt, or be-
lieves not, the discoveries of religion ? Secretly conscious
to himself that he has not acted his part as he ought to
have done, the sins of his past hie arise before him in sad
remembrance. He wishes to exist after death, and vet
dreads that existence. The Governor of the world is un-
known, lie cannot tell whether every endeavour to obtain,
his mercy may not be in vain. All is awful obscurity around
him ; and, in the midst of endl ss doubts and perplexities,
the trembling, reluctant soul is forced away from the bodv.
As the misfortunes gf life must, to such a man, have been.
76 Sequel to the English Rea
most oppressive, so its end is biuer. il,^ sun sets in a
da,k 1 -ud ; and the night ot death closes over his head,
full ot misery hl
sj.c i ION iv Benefits to be derived Jrom scents oj a
S -me periods f s dmss huvv, in our present situ.non,
a L ind n lural place ; anil the* arc requisite to the irue
en) , in DC ot pleasure : i ill at present decline con-
si 1 ring the subject in t ; and conlnu- imsclt to
p"'nt 'Hit the direct tfiYcts of a^Mopi-r attention to the dis-
tr. ss s of life, upon our moral and religious character.
In the first place, the house of mourning is calculated to
gi < a proper crank to our natural thoughtlessness and le-
vi > The indolence ot mankind, ,nd their lovv ot pleasure,
Spread through all characters and ranks, som<- (degree of
av- ision to what is grave and Berious, 1 iu y -rasp at any
obj ct, t ither ot business or unuscment, which makes the
p <-s. nt fiionu-nt j)ass smoothly away ; which carn< s tlx ir
thoughts abroad, and saws them from thv trouble oi re-
fl> etmg <^n tlunisi Ivi s. With too many, this passes into a
habit ot constant dissipation. It their fortune and rank al-
low them to indulge their inclinations, they devote them-
selves to the pursuit of amusement through all its different
forms. The skiliul arrangtment of its successive scenes,
the preparatory study for shining in each, are the only
cxt rnons in which their understanding is employed. Such
a mode of life may keep alive for a while, a fmolous viva-
c ty : it may improve men in some of those exui ior ac-
complishnu nts, \\hich sparkle in the eyes of the giddy and
vain ; but it must sink them in the esteem of all the wise.
It renders them strangers to themselves ; and useless, if not
pernicious to the world- They lose every manly principle.
Tht-ir minds become relaxed and effeminate. All that is
great or respectable in thu* human character is buried un-
der a mass of trifles and follies.
If some measures ought to be taken for rescuing the
mind from this disgraceful levity ; it souie principles must
be acquired, which may give more dignity and steadiness
to conduct ; where are^hese to be looked for ? Not surely
in the house of trasting, where every object flatters the
senses, and strengthens the seductions to which we arc al-
Pathetic Pieces. 77
ready prone ; where the spirit oi dissipation circulates from
heart to heart ; and the children of tolly mutually admire
and are admired. it is in the sober and serious house of
mourning mat ihe tide or vanity is made to turn, and a new
dirt i non given to ihe current of thought. When some af-
fecting incident presents a strong discovery ot the decent ul-
ness ot all worldly joy, and rouses our sensibility to human
wo; when we behold those with whom we had lately min-
gled in the house ot feasting- sunk by some ot the sudden
vicissitudes of lite into the vale ot misery ; or when, in sad
siK nee, we stand by the triend whom we had loved as our
oun soul, stretched on the bed of death ; thenjs the season
vvrun this world begins to appear in aju^vrlTght ; when the
hi: art opens to virtuous senuments^'atid is led into that train
or reflection which ought to'dhect life. He who before
knew not what it was to commune with his heart on any
serious subject, now puts the question to himselt, for what
purpose he was s< nt forth into this mortal, transitory state;
what his fate is likely to be when it concludes; and what
judgment he ought to forai of those pleasures which amuse
for a little, but which, he now sees, cannot save the heart
from anguish in the evil day$ Touched by the hand of
thoughtful melancholy, that airy edifice of bliss, which fan-
cy had raised up tor him, vanishes away 7 . He beholds, in
thr place of it, the lonely and barren desert, in which, sur-
rounded with auiny a disagreeable object, he is left musing
upon himself. The time which he has mispent, and the fa-
culties which he has misemployed, his foolish levity and his
criminal pursuits, ail rise in painful prospect before hiua.
That unknown state of existence into which, race after
race, the children of men pass, strikes his mind with so-
lemn awe. Is there no course by which he can retrieve
his past errors? Is there no superior power to which he
can look up for aid ? Is there no plan of conduct which, if
it exempt him not from sorrow, CM\ at least procure him
consolation amidst the distressful exigencies of life ? Such
meditations as these, suggested by the house of mourning,
frequently produce a change in the whole character. They
revive those soarks of goodness which were nearly extin-
guised in the dissipated mind ; and give rise to principles
ot corvl'iiM nor rational in themselves, and more suitable
to the human state.
! 7* Seqnel to the English Reader.
In the next place, impressions of this nature not only
pr >duct- moral seriousness, but awaken sentiments ol piety,
an hi ing men into the sanction of religion. O.n mi^ht,
in/deed, imagine that the blessings of a prosperous condi-
tion would prove the most natur,,l incitements to devotion;
ami that when men were happy in thi msi Ives, and saw no-
thing but happiness around them, the} could not fail grate-
full) to acknowledge that God v\ho 4i giveth them all things
richly to enjoy." Yet such is their corruption, tnat they are
n.ver more ready to forget their hem factor, than when
loaded with his bttOelus .The giver is corcealed from their
careless and inattentut vi \\,t>v the cloud of luso\\n gifts.
When their life continues to flow in one smooth current,
un? uiiied by any grills ; when they neither receive in their
own circumstances, nor allow themselves/ to receive from
the circumstances of others, any admonitions of human in-
stability, they not only become regardless of Providence,
but are in hazard of contemning it. Glorying in their
strength, and lifted up by the pride of life into supposed m-
di pendence, that impious sentiment, if not uttered by the
niouih. yet t^o ohen lurks in the hearts of many during
th- ir Nourishing periods, ^What is the Almighty that we
s^ Id serve him, and what profits should we have if we
pray unto hi
if such be** the tendency of the house of feasting, how
ntet ssary is it that, by some change in their situation, m> n
should be obliged to enter into the house of .mourning, in
ord< . r to recover a proper sense of theii dependent stai !
It is there, when forsaken by the gaieties of the world, and
left alone with the Almighty, that we are made to perceive
how awful his government is; how easily human greatness
bends before him; and how quickly all our designs and mea-
sure, at his interposal, vanish into nothing. There, when
tht countenance is sad, and the affections are softened by
grit I ; when we sit apart, involved in serious thought, look-
ing down as from some eminence on those dark clouds that
ba!>g over the life of man, the arrogvncv of prosperity is
hnv:!iled, and the heart meits under the impressions of re-
ligion. Formerly we were taught, but now we see, we t el,
how nuch we stand in need of an Almighty Prouc'or,
smiiJst tiu changes of this vain world. Our soul cl . av s to
him who u despises not, nor abhors the affliction oi the af-
Pathetic Pieces.
roiine*s, his ver\ distingui<-h-
ing goodness to mankind ! And should they not proportion-
ally endear that eternal li nei'.-i tor to oui hearts? His
houiu'nul hiinu has with prof us- liherality, scatteti-d
bl ssings among all ranks of animated exist- uce. But to us
xtrcists a ovn, licence' of a very superior kind. We are
treated with peculiar attention. X A imitted to semes
Iclight, which none hut ourselves are capable of relish-
ing.
TIERO.\ ? Another remark, though very obvious, is
equally important. The destination of all these external
things is no less advantageous, man ih- ir formation is h au-
tiful. The bloom, which * ngagf s the eye with its delicate
hues, is cherishing the eml>r\o fruit; and forming, within
its silken folds, the rudiments of a future dessert. Those
streams, which shine from afar, like fluid silver, are much
more valuable in their productions, and beneficial in their
services, than they are beautiful in their appearance. They
distribute, as they roll along their winding banks, cleanli-
ness to our houses, and fruitfulness to our lands. They
nourish, and at their own expense, a never-failing supply of
the finest fish. They visit our cities, and attend our wharfs,
as so many public vehicles, ready to set out at all hours.
Those sheep, which give their udders to be drained by
the busy frisking lambs, are fattening their flesh for our
support; and while they fill their own fleeces, are provid-
ing for our comfortable clothing. Yonder kine, some of
which are browsing upon the tender herb, others, satiated
with pasturage, and ruminating under the shady covtrt,
ti nigh conscious of no such design, are concocting, for our
use, oae of the softest, purest, most salutary of liquors*
Dialogues. 83
The bees that fly humming about our seat, and pursue
their work on the fragrant blossoms, arc collecting balm
and sweetness, to compose the richest of sirups ; which,
through the produce of their toil, is intended for our good.
N iture and her whole family, are our obsequious servants,
our ever-active labourers. They bring the fruits of their
united industry, and pour them into our lap, or deposit
them in our store-rooms.
ASPASIO. Who cnii ever sufficiently admire this im-
mense benignitx ? The Supreme Disposer of events has
commanded delight and profit to walk hand in hand,
through his ample creation, making all things so perfectly
pleasing, as if beauty were their only < nd ; yet all things so
eminent!} serviceable, as if usefulness had been their sole
design, And- as a most winning invitation to our grati-
tude, he ha^ rendered man the centre, in which all the ema-
nations or his beneficence, diffused through this terrestrial
system, finally terminate. HERVLY*
SECTION II., CADMUS AND HERCULES.
Importance of Literature.
HERCULES. Do you pretend to sit as high on Olympus
as litrcules? Did you kill the Ncmean lion, the Eryman-
thian boar, the Lernean serpi nt, and Stvmphalian birds ?
Did \ou destroy tyra f ts and robbers? You value yours li
gn ally on subduing one serpent : I did as much as that
while I lay in my cradle.
CADMUS. It is not on account of the serpent that I boast
mvs- it a gre-.Ut r benefactor to Greece than you, Actio is
should be valued by thrir utility, rather than their spU n
dour. I taugiit Greece the art of writing, to which laws
owe their precision and permanency. You subdued mon-
sters ; I civilized men. It i* from untamed passions, no|
from wild beasts, that the greatest evils arise to human SO-
CK- n . By wisdom, by art, by the united strength of civil
community, men have been enable J to subdiu the whole
r work again, he would find me a worse task than any he
imposed; ru- would mak, me read over a great library;
a <1 I would serve it MS I did the H\ ,ra, I would burn as
1 > nt on, that one chimera might not rise from another,
to plague mankind. I should have vulu d mvselt more on
* aring the library, than on cleansing the Augean stables.
CADMUS It is in hose libraries onl- that the memoiy
o :ur labours exists. The ru rov s of Mnnit^on, thtt p.Hri-
u* oi rhwrmopylft owe their lame to me. Ail the wise m-
Dialogues.
stitutions of lawgivers, and all the doctrines of sages, had
perished in the ear, like a dream related, it letters had not
preserved them. O HercuUs! it is not tor the man who
preferred virtue to pleasure, to he an enemy to the muses.
L<"t Sardanapalus and the silken sons of luxury, who have
wasted life in inglorious ease, despise the records of action,
which bear no honourable testimony to their lives : '-nt true
merit, heroic virtue, should respect the sacred e rce of
lasting honour.
HERCULES. Indeed, if writers employ themselves only
in recording the acts of great men, much might be said in
their favour. But why do they trouble people with their
meditations ? Can it be of any consequence to the world
what an idle man has been thinking?
CADMUS. Yes it may. The most important and ex < n-
sive advantages mankind enjoy, are greatly owing to men
tvho have never quitted their closets. To them mankind
are obliged for the facility- and security of navigation. Tie
invention of the compass has opened to them new worlds*
The knowledge of the mechanical powers has enabled th.; rn
to construct such wonderful machines, is perform what the
united labour of millions, by the severest drudgery, could
not accomplish. Agriculture tr-o, the most useful of arvs,
has received its share of improvement from \\\?. s:.. I :t: as far as i-.tant
fr action. I like th- impu. \\-nt <>i navigation, and -he dis-
cover\- o 1 the g; gl>'"e, hec-use it op.r.s a
wider fi id for th to hustlv in.
d "i 11 rcuks. ikit if 'learn-
ed :IK.II art i<> he they give to ac~
n th >r v, > tp be valued
,h ir t nd I ,on, and nio-
1 1 at ardour. . ach
legislator by uh :' nc powerful ;
i\'au: cmz n, tu the lovt- of
ty an.', order. 'I'iv. \\ ru iges point out a pri-
ll of virtue ; and show 'that the best empire is s.lf-
/duin^ cjur passions is the noblest
H: i; The true spirit of hen, ism acts by a gtne-
ttnp'.iis , and wants neither the experience of histoiy,
di doi-.trmts of philosopher! to din ft it. But do not
e ..nd srinicis u u.ier men c [}\ minatt, luxurious, and in-
-4(ti\, ? vou deny that wit and learning are often
niaue suhs rvi nt to v r\ bad purposes?
c; i DMU> 1 \\ ll ov. n that there are some natures so hap-
pil\ lorm. rt, thcv s.rarceh want the assistance ot a master,
:-u! J the rules i.-t art. to g>ve th^m force or gr,c. in every
ti'.nu; the\ do. Hut tlv.se favoured geniuses a^e few. As
It i ning Nourish s onlv where ease, plenty, and mild go-
v tmueni su!.--ist ; m so rich a soil, and under so soft cli-
mate, the weeds oi luxury will spring up among the flow rs
ut: but th'' spontaneous \weds would grow nnre rank,
if n e\ were allow* d the undisturbed possession of the fit Id.
L U' rs keep a frugal temperate nation from growing fero-
ci us, a rich one Iron, ' nominjr entirely sensual and de-
b died, Everv gift of heaven is sometimes abused ; but
g',od sen-- and h ti'lrus, hv a >...t'n-.d Ian. gravitate to-
virtue. Accidents may drive them , out of their pro
Dialogues. 87'
per direction; but such accidents are an alarming omen.,
and oi dire portent to the times. For if virtue cannot keep
to her allegiance those men, who in their hearts confess her
divine right, and know the value of hi r laws, on whose fi-
delity and obedience can she depend? Mav such geniuses
never descend to flatu r vice, encourage folly, or propagate
irreligion ; but exert all their powers in the service ot vir-
tue, and celebrate the noble choice of those, who, like Her-
sules, preferred her to pleasure \ LORD LYTTLETON.
SECTION III. MARCUS AURELIUS PrilLOSOPtfUS AND
SEKVIUS TULLIUS.
An absol'itt and a limited monarchy compared.
SERVIUS TULLIUS. YES, Marcus, though I own von to
have* been the first of mankind in virtue and goodness;
t' <""igb while you govern--*!, philosophy sal on the throne,
and diffused the benign influences of her administration
over th- whole Roman Empire, yet as a king, I might, per-
haps, pretend to \\ nurit even superior to yours.
MARCUS AURKLIUS. That philosophy you ascribe to
me i',-s tangnt me to feel ny own detects, and to venerate
the virtues of other men. Tell me, therefore, in what con-
sisted the superiority pF.y puf merit, as king.
SEKVIUS TULLIUS. It consisted in this, that I gave my
people freedom. I diminished, I limited the kingly power,
when it was pi iced in my hands. I need not :ell you, that
the plan of government instituted by me, was adopted by
the Romans, when they had driven out Tarquin, the de-
stroyer of their liberty; and gave its form to that republic,
composed of a due mixture of the regal, aristocratical and
democratical powers, the strength and wisdom of which
subdued the world. Thus all the glory ol that great peo-
ple, who for many ages excelled the rest of mankind, ia
the arts of policy, belongs originally to me,
M \RCUS AURELIUS Tin re is much truth in what u
sa\ . But would nor tru Rf-mins have done better, if, .if.tr
the expulsion of Tarquin, they had vested the regat po-., ; r
in a limited monarch, instead of placing it in two annual
elective magistrates, with the title of consuls ? This was a
great deviation from your pi n of government, and I ih "k
an unwise one. For a divided royalty is a bulccibm, and
88 Sequel to the English Reader.
absurdity in politics. Nor was the regal power committed
to uiv ,4 iinmistration of consuls, continued in their L..i>ds
ugh, to enahl- tht in to tinr->h my act oi great mo-
ni " Fiom hence arose a mcessiu oi prr.'tongmg ; -heir
co.niir.'.nds beyond the U gal ti nn ; oi shortening the inter-
val p:\scribed by tlv laus !;. the elections to th
offices; ar.v: -din-in commissions and
po\, r-rs, by all \vhiiis in the end d stroy.-d.
vius TULi.its l'n resolution whicii ensued ii ( on
the tl .ah oi Lucivtia w. you then justify Augustus for
the ch.ti a maf establishment
make despotism lawful ? Is not liberty an inherent, inalien-
able right oi manbind ?
MARCUS AURKLIUS. They have an inherent right to be
governed by laws, not by arbitrary will. But forms ot go-
vernment may, and must be occasionally changed, with the
consent of the people. When I reigned over them, the Ro-
mans were governed by laws.
SERVIUS TULLIUS. Yes, because your moderation, and
the precepts of that philosophy in which your youth had
been tutored, inclined you to make the laws the rule of your
government, and the bounds of your power. But if you
had desired to govern otherwise, had they power to re-
strain you ?
MARCUS AURELIUS. They had not: the Imperial au-
thority in rnv tim^ had no limitations.
SLRVIUS TULI lus. Rome therefore was in reality as
much enslaved under you, as under \ our son ; and you left
him the power of tyrannising over it by Iv re iitan nght.
MARCUS AURELIUS. I did and the conclusion of that
tyraunv was his murder,
SERVIUS TULLES. Unhappy father! unhappy king I
what a detestable thing is absolute monarchy, when even
the virtues of ^Marcus Aurelius could not hinder it from
being destructive to his family, and pernicious to his roim-
Iry. any longer than the period of his own life ! But how
happy is that kingdom, in which a limited mo;i.t>\ , : pre-
sides over a state so justly poised,* that it guards itself
* The young- reader will here be naturally reminded of the excel-
lence of the British Constitution; a fabric which has stood the test of
ages^and attracted the admiration of the world. It combines the ad-
vantages of the three great forms of government, without their incon-
veniences ; it preserves a happy balance amongst them : and it contains
within itself the power of recu; ing- to first principles, and of vectvfy-
ing all tile disorders of time. : -- d' >; ne providence pc-rpetu-ite this
invaluable constitution ; and excite in the hearts of Britons, grateful
90 Sequel to the English Reader.
from such evils, and has no r.eed to take refuge in arbitra-
ry power agamsi the dangers ot anarchy ; which is almost
as bad a r^ourcc, as it would l;e lor a ship to run itsi If on
a rock, in oruer to escape from the agitation of . u mpest,
LORD LYTTLETON.
SECTION IV. THERON AND ASPASIO.
On the excellence of -the Holy Scriptures.
THERON. i fear my irie^d suspects me to be somewhat
tra\ i Hi^, or cieietiive, iu vuirration for the Scriptures.
ASPASIO. No, Theron, I have a better opinion of your
taste ami discernment, than to harbour -my such suspieion.
TH RON. The Sci iptures are certainly an inexhaustible
fund ot materials, for the most delightful and ennobling dis-
course and meditation. When we consider the Author of
those sacred books, that they came originally from Heaven,
\\< ct, !: >w indi iputal :
all other compositi
pirjvoking M : -^'t 1f ^ m
son to point ou r filiation, anc.
Keasoi^ ! Deity m
nd gran' ,iess.'^
B\it the Sciiptur.s I
co ri
G-.d hub set torth :.
qinties : he will r ' more.
ArifWeass ult( on, or averse to c'
losophy m;iN ust, or to
reluctant miiKi, ; the cL--
urging the fi; j -' expediems ju?t
calculated to accomplish the ends proposed, as the flr
I'.cation of a cc^web to dttk-nd us from the ball oi
Tin 13i>K' recommends no such incom, et
u MX g i rs almight) Author, Wk is v
cient for thet." u Sin shall not have dominion over you. |
Thr grcar. Jchova, in whom is everlasting strength, " worM
cth in us both to will and to doiof his good pleasim .
Should w be visited with sickness, or overtake!
calamity, he consolation which Plato oil. i -, is, that sue
dispensations coincide with the universal plan ot divine <>
vernment. Virgil will tell us, for ouf relief, that afflictive
visitations are, more or less, the unavoidable lot oi all men.
Another moralist whispvrs in tn< d-Jei:ted sutKrer's ear,
" Impatience adds to ihe load : wh reas a c dm submis-
sion r ndrrs it more supportable." Does the word of re-
velation dispense such s^>i 'tU s n '- Uig tive cordials?-
No : thos sacred pages inform us, that tribulations are fa-
therly chastisements, tkcns of our Maker's love, and truits
ot his care ; that they arr intended^ to work in us tru. peace-
able fruits of righteousness ; and to work out for us an eter-
nal weight of glory.
Should we, under the summons of death, have recourse
to the most celebrated comforters in the heathen world;
they would increase our apprehensions, rather than miti-
gatt j our dread- Death is represented, by the great master
of their schools, as the most formidable of all evils. They
were not able to determine, whether the soul survived ihe
body. Whereas, this inspired volume strips the monster of
his horrors, or tun*s him into a messenger of peace ; gives
him an angel's face, and a deliverer's hand; and ascertains
to the souls ot the righteous, an immediate translation into
the regions of bliss.
THERON. Another very distinguishing peculiarity of
the sacred writings just occurs to my n.ind ; the method of
communicating advice, or administering reproof, by para-
bles : a method which levels itself to the lowest apprehen-
sion, without giving offence to the most supercilious tem-
per. Our Lord w -s asked by a student of the Jewish law,
u Who is my neighbour?" which implied another question,
Ct How is he to be loved?" The inquirer was conceited of
himself, yet ignorant of the truth, and deficient in his duty.
Had the wise instructor of mankind abruptly declared,
lfc Thou neither knowest the former, nor fulfillest the lat-
ter ;" probably the querest would have reddened with in-
dignation, and departed in a rage. To teach, therefore, and
not disgus ; to convince the man of his error, and not ex-
asperate his mind, he frames a reply, as amiable in the
m nmer, as it was well adapted to the purpose.
A certain person going down from Jerusalem to Jericho,
among thieves. Not content to rob him of his treasure,,
ey strip him of his garments ,-. wound him with great bar-
94 Sequel to the English
>ty ; and leave him half dead. Soon alter this calamitous
accident, a traveller happens to omie a]
and what rend rs him more likely to afford n-!ii f, In' is >,ne
of the ministers of n li-ion ; one \\ ho i., )C(S ,he
lovely 1< ssons of hum. nitv and chaiity; and u im u.ts,
;h< refore, undo die strop., mpliiythem
iis own j.
ploi
9V
r),T< p ss< s h\ on tin- otl:i r
"'<' ^ v - inn a Levitt aj.pnnu i
. ihe ni^ c-
RUi \ t \ of UK c;,st :
very gash in tin- Un ding fl
fort, nor i). Last
:i comes a Samaritan ; one ol the ahliorred nation, \\ IK. in
;he Jt us hated \\ ith the moht implacable malignity. Though
the Li-vitf had neglerted an expiring brother; though the
Eiirst had withheld his pity from one of the Lord's petu-
tr people; the very moment this Samaritan sees the un-
happy suffertr, he melts into commiseration. He forgets
the embittered foe, and considers only the distressed ft 1-
low-creature. He springs from his horse, and resolves to
intermit his journey. The oil and uine intended for his
own refreshment, he freely converts into healing unguents.
He binds up the wounds ; sets the disabled stranger upon
his own beast ; and with all the assiduity of a servant, with
all the tenderness of a brother, conducts him to an inn.
There he deposits money for his present use ; charges the
host to omit nothing that might conduce to the recovery
or comfort of his guest; and promises to defray the whole
expence of his lodging, his maintenance, and his cure.
What a lively picture of the most disinterested and ac-
tive benevolence ! a benevolence which excludes no persons,
not even strangers or enemies, from its tender regards ;
\vhi(h disdains no condescension, grudges no cost, in its
labours of love ! Could anv method of conviction have been
Hiore forcible, and at the same time more pleasing, than the
interrogatory proposed by our Lord, and deduced from
the narrative ? u Which now oi these three, thmkest thou,
nr unto him thi it.
.n accused of corrupting the youth, and of instilling
is maxims into their minds, as well in regard to
D. vine worship. rulirs of government. You know,
Aihvn uns, thut I n, v-.-r suade it my profusion to teach :
n r can e M v\ , however violent, reproach me witn having
* That accomplished scholar and distinguished writer, the late Sir
Wli'.am J"n'.s, cMKtf ,T -slice of Bengal, at the end of his Kible, wrote
the following note ; winch coming fnnn. a man of ins profound erudi-
tion, and pt'Hvct knowledge of the oriental languages, customs, a-td
jDanncis, mast be co:sidcred as a powerful testimonv ., no- only to tae
sublimi'v, ut to the Divine inspiration of the sacrod writings.
" I have," stivs he, " regularly and attentively read these Holy Scrip-
tures; ami I a ai of opinion, tUat this volume, independently of us Oi-
Tinc oVigin, co?ita';s ni'iv true sublimity, mor c exquisite beauty, more
pure morality, .nore innr-rtarit history, and finer strains both of poetry
aad olo'j L+iC'in be colbc^ed from . nooks, in what-
ever atfu or la-ii^UHg-e they may, h*ive been composed.
Put. \cs. 9V
ever sold my instructions. I have an undeniable evidence
for me in this respect, which is my poverty. I am always
equally ready to communicate my thoughts both to the rich
and the poor, and to give them opportunity to question or
answer me. I lend myself to every one who is desirous of'
becoming virtuous ; and it, amongst those who hear me v
then are any that prove good or b id, neither the virtues
of the one, nor the vices of the other, to which i have not
contributed, are to be ascribed to me. My whole employ-
nv-nt is to counsel the young and the ol.i against too much
love for the body, tor riches, and all oth r precarious things,
of whatever nature they be ; and against too little regard
for the soul, which ought to be the obj ct of their auction.
For I incessantly ur^e to them, (hat virtue does not pro-
ceed from riches; bat on the contrary, riches tro-n vi rue ;
and that .11 the other goods of human life, as well public as
private, have th j ir source in the same principle.
" If to speak in this manner be to corrupt youth, I con-
fess, Athenians, that I am guilty, and deserve- to be pun-
ished. It what T s iv IK not true, it is most easy to convict
me of falsehood. I see here a great number of my discipl -s :
they have onlv in COM- ivirwvjrd. It will perhaps be s.ud,
th u the regard and veneration due to a ma- e who
instructed th HI, will .prevent them irorn declaring ig inst
me : but th -ir fathers, brothers, and unch-s, cannot, as g >**d
relations and good citizens, themselves for not
standing for h to demand vt-i; nst the conupter
01 their sons, brothers, and ricp-K vvs. i nv, how; v r,
the persons who tuk*-* upon th i .:.-, ItKncr, and intetv^t
themselves in the success oj my c ;use..
tk Pass on me wh a senteiure you please, Athenhns ; I
can iiriih-^r r. p nt nor alt r ,oy conduct, i must not .Jv.tn-
.don or suspend a function which Ciod ii^nsolf has imposvd
on me. Non he h;is charged m- j v uh tine car, of instruct-
ing my tVHovv citizens. If afur having faithfully k-pt all
tn [)osts wUc'Fein I was placed In otr ^vtierais ut PoiiUcea,
A uphipohs, and Delium, the iVar of deatii shoul 1 at this
time nuilce nic abandon that in which the divine Providence
his placed me, by commanding UK* to pass rn\ life in the
study of philosophy, forth-.- itistrnction of ims< ii and oth< rs;
tlm would be a moot crmr:; ..{ i s>crtion H n I nake
ine highly worthy of bein^ cited beiore. lias u ibuaai, as an
English Reader.
i, who dors not i in the gods. Should
o ;jc(jiit m. . I snouK' not, AihrnL.ns, hcbit.tte
^ur and : ; !>ut I shall choose ratiu-r to
r re-
't-r and reprove
i ich. ol
'
i . .
1 h.
in tli i.
i-o-
id drown* d
when, up
' .t and c'
it then that has {
. Do not t:
it ill, i : i i ho 'it
;i u ho would
lv -ppo> : iongst us JF
c, .m^l who IMIKM' : to prtvr.-nt
tlu vii.huinn ol the laus, and the practice oi iniquity in a
t, vvil' ne\er do so lo x ,,* xvitn impunit\. It is ab-
necessary tor a m-n o( th^ disposition, it he has
an^ thoughts or living, to rmiain in a private station, and
Hevrr to have any share in puhlic affairs.
u For the n st, Athenians, it, in .\\\y present extreme
deader, i do not imitate tK- behaviour of those, u ho, u;
1< ss emergences, have implored and supplicated their ju
ts with tears, and h.ive 'wrought -forth their (Children, r
tV'ns, and friends ; it is not through jiridf and obstinacy,
m com \ou, be , >r your honour, and
for that oi the whole city. You should know, that th<-rf
Public Speeches. 99
are amongst our citizens those who do not record d-ath as
an evil, 'md who give th it nam- '*\\\\ t- itru-c and in-
famy. At mv agi', and svith the reputation, u u or l-.Jse,
which I tuve, would it he consistent tor me, alt r A\ the
lessors I have given upon the contempt ot death > be
afraid of it myself, and ro bilk-, in mv Ust aciiou, all the
principles and sentiments of mv past lite ?
kC But without speaking ot my law, union I should ex-
trem ly injure by such a conduct, i do not chink it allow-
able- to entreat a judg< -, nor to be absolved by supplica^.Mns.
He ought to U influenced onls by reason and evidence.
The- judge docs not sit upon the bench 10 show i vou*, by
violating the la\vs, but 10 do justice in eontovmiog to thtin.
He does not swear to discharge with impunity whom he
pleases, but to do justice where it is due. \Ve ought not,
therefore, to accustom vou to ptrjuly, nor you to sujfer
yourselves to be accustomed to it; for t in so doing, both
the one and the other of us equally injure justice and reli-
gion, and both are criminals.
u Do not, therefore, expect from me, Athenians, that I
should have .recourse amongst you to m^ans which I be-
lieve neither honest nor lawful, espec ially upon this occa-
sion, wherein I am accused of impiety by Melitus : far, if
I should influence you by my prayers, and thereby induce
you to violate your oaths, it would be undeniably evident,
that I teach you not to believe in the gods ; and even in
defending and justifying myself, should furnish my adver-
saries with arms against me, and prove that I believe no
divinity. But 1 am very far from such bad thoughts : I ana
more convinced of the existence of God than my ace Asers
are ; and so convinced, that I abandon myself to God and
you, that you may judge of me as you shall deem best for
yourselves and me."
Socrates pronounced this discourse with a firm and in-
trepid tone. His air, his action, his visage, expressed no-
thing of the accused. He seemed to be the master of his
judges, from the greatness of soul with which he spoke,
without however, losing any of the modesty natural to him.
But how slight soever the proofs were against him, the fac-
tion was powerful enough to find him guilty. There was
form of a process against him and his irreligion was
10O Sequel to the Fnglish Reader.
the pretence upon inch i u ,.s grounded : hut his c>
Was ceri.,i.i \ a concert, d thin-. His steady is-
COU-SL oi ,.. \ irtiK - t wnich had made him in
ca is appeal singul ir, and oppose whatever he thought il-
Ifgvtl or u just, without aw regard to times or peisoi;-, .ad
pi)cur;-cl him a 1 of envy and ill-will. Afur hig
Bent n< e, lu continued with the- same M rent- and intrepid
ith which he ha iiforccd virtue, ami held
t' ri'its in as, i. When i '.'njh then
1 probit\, his flunks fol-
lo :inui d io vi-it him during in; interval
brtwien his condemnation and his death. COLIVMI in.
si ci ION 11. i he Scytk - ^-/-.s to Ale\ntider^ on
///.-> ^making preparations to attack their country.
If your per . .>ur dcsiVes, the
world cou.d not contain you. Yoiu ri^-hr h*nd would touch
ti^ie. t-ast, and your left the west at the same time : you ^r usp
a' more than . ou arc equal to. From Europe you reach
ASM ; from Asia you lay hold on Europe. And if you
should conquer all mankind you seeai disposed to wa-^e
war with w 1 snows, with rivers and wild
and to attempt to subdue nature. But have you considered
the usual course of things ? have you reflected, that great
tn-es are many years in growing to their height, and are
cut down in an hour? It is foolish to think of the fruit on-
Iv, without considering the height you have to climb to
come at it. Take ca e, lest, while you strive to reach the
too, you fall to the ground with the branches you have laid
hold on.
Besides, what have you to do with the Scythians, or the
Scythians with you ? We have never invaded Macedon ;
\vny then sht/uld you attack Scythia ? You pretend to be
punisher of robbers ; and are \ourselfthe general rob-
b r ol" mankind. You have taken Lydia ; you h^ve seized
Syria ; you are matter of Persia ; you have subdued the
Bactna s, and attacked India: all this will not satisfy you,
. -ss you av your greedy aad insatiable hands upon our
. ks and our herds. How imprudent is your conduct !
i grasp at riches, the possession of which only increas-
tncc'. You increase your hunger, by what
Public "Sp
should f p roc *uce satiety; so 1 -riiuV ihe" Vndfe " v'ou nave,
the more you de*ne. But have you forgo tivn -iovv
long the conquest of thi- Bacti imis detained you ? While
you were subduing them the Sogdians revolted. Your vic-
tories serve to no other purpose than to find you employ-
ment, by producing new wars ; ior the business of ewry
conquest is twofold, to win, anil to preserve Though vou
may be the gre itest of warriors, you must expect that the
nations you conquer will endeavour to shake off the yoke
as fast as possible : for what people choose to be under fo-
reign Dominion ?
If you will cross the Tanais, you may travel over Scy-
thia, and observe how extensive a territory we inhabit : but
to conquer us is quite another business. You will find us,
at one time, too nimble for your pursuit ; and at another,
when you think we are tJc ) far enough from you, you will
-h;ive us surprise you in your camp: for the Scythians at-
tack with no less vigour than they fly. It will, therefore,
be your wisdom to keep with strict attention what you have
gained :' catching at more you may lose what you have. We
have a proverbial saying in Scythia, That Fortune has no
fert, and is furnished only with hands to distribute hei ca-
pricious favours, and with fins to elude the grasp of those
to whom she has been bountiful. You profess yourself to
be a god, the sun of Jupiter Ammon: it suits the chvirac-
UT low favours on mortals, not to deprive
,V have. But it \ou :rc- no god, reflect on
ndition of'humafiity. You will thus sr. w
n, than by dwelling on tho ; e subj< cts which
.(fed up your pride, and made you forget yourself,
how little you are .likely to gain by attempting
conquest of Scythia. On the other hand, you ma\ , if
you please, have in us a valuable alliance. We com in md
the borders both of Europe and Asia. There is nothing
between us and Bactria but the river Fanais ; and o?ir :vr-
ritory extends to Thrace, which, as we have heard^ >r~
* on M icedon. If you decline attacking us in a hostile
manner, you may have our friendship. Nations which have
never been ar war are on an equal footing ; but it is i ^ .in
that confidence is reposed in a conquered pec^)le. Hi '"e
cm be no siricer.-* iVLnclship L, iw^-n th. oppressors and the
oppressed : even in peace, the latter think themselves curi-
102 Sryitel to the English Reader.
tied to the ri^his >f war against the former. We will, ii
you ihink good, enter into a treaty with you, according to
our manner, which is not by signing, sealing, and taku-.g
the gods to witness, as is the Grecian custom ; but bs do-
ing actual services. The Scythians are not used to promise,
, but ptrform without promising. And they think an appeal
t > tn god* MIJK i fluous ; tor that those who have no regard
'for the esteem of men will not hesitate to offend the gods
by p, ijurv. You may therefore consider with yourself,
whether you \vould choose to have for allies or for enemies,
a people of such a character, and so situated as to have it
in 'h ir uou er either to serve you or to annoy you, accord-
ing as you treat them. q,, CURTIUS.
SECTION in. Speech of the Earl of Chatham, on the sub-
ject of employing Indians to fight against the Amen
I CANNOT, my lords, 1 will not, join in congratulation on
in stortune and disgrace. This my lords, is a perilous and
tremendous moment: it is not a time for adulation ; the
smoothness of flattery cannot save us in this rugged and
auiul crisis. It is now necessary to instruct the throne in
the language of truth. \Ve must, if possible, dispel the de-
lusion and darkness which envelop it ; and display, in its
full danger and genuine colours, the rum which is brought
to our doors. Can ministers still presume to expect sup-
port in their infatuation ? Can parliament be so dead to its
dignity and duty, as to give their support to measures thus
obtruded and forced upon tru m f measures, my lords, which
have reduced this late flourishing empire to scorn and con-
t. mpi! but yesterday, and England might have stood
against the world ; now, none so poor as to do her rever-
ence ! The people, whom we at first despised as rebels, but
whom we now acknowledge as enemies, are abetted against
us, supplied with every military store, their interest con-
sulted, and their ambassadors entertained by our inveterate
enemy; and ministers do not, and dare not, interpose
with dignity or effect. The desperate state oi our army
abroad is in part known. No man more highl) esteems
and honours the English troops than 1 do : I know their
virtues and their valour: I know they < an achieve any
thin^ but impossibilities; ami 1 know that the conquest of
English America is an impossibility. You cannot, my lords.
Public Speeches. 1$?,
you cannot conquer America. What is your present situa-
tion there ? We do not know the worst : but we know that
in three campaigns we have clone nothing, and suffered
much. You may swell every expense, accumulate every as
sistance, and extend your trafic to the shambles of every
German despot; your attempts will be forever vain and
impotent; doubly so, indeed, from this mercenary aid on
which you rely ; for it irritates, to an incurable resentment,
the minds of your adversaries, to overrun them with the
mercenary sons of rapine and plunder, devoting them and
their possessions to the rapacity of hireling cruelty.
But, my lords, who is the man, that, in Addition to the
disgrace and mischief's of the war, has dared to authorise
and associate to our arms, the tomohawk and scalping knife
of the savage ? to call into civilized alliance, the wild and
inhuman inhabitants of the woods . ? to dele-gate to the
merciless Indian, the defence of disputed rights, and to
f wage the horrors of his barbarous war against our bre-
thren? My lords, these enormities cr\ aloud for redress
, and punishment. But, my lords, tlrs barbarous measure
has been defended, not only on the principles of policy and
necessity, but also on those of morality ; " for it is perfect-
ly allowable," says Lord Suffolk, 4I> to use all the means
which God and nature hare put into our hands." I am as-
tonished, I am shocked, to hear such principles confessed;
to hear them avowed in this house, or in this country. My
lords, I did not intend to encroach so much on your atten-
tion ; but I cannot repress my indignation I feel myself
impelled to speak. My lords, we are called upon as mem-
bers of this house, as men, as Christians, to protest against
such horrible barbarity ! u That God and nature have put
into our hands!" What ideas of God and nature, that no-
bl* lord may entertain, I know not ; but I know, that such
detestable principles are equally abhorrent to religion and
humanity. What ! to attribute the sacred sanction of God
and nature to the massacres of the Indian scalping knife !
to the savage, torturing and murdering his unhappy vic-
tims! Such notions shock every precept of morality, every
feeling oi humanity, every sentiment of honour. These
abominable principles, and this more abominable avowal of
them, demand the most decisive indignation. 1 call upon
104 Sequel to the English Reader.
that right rcvcrcntl, and this most learned Bench, to vindi-
cate the idigion o! their G>d, to supj.-ort the justice of
their countrs. I cull upon Lie bishops 10 interpose the un-
sullied sanctity oi tin ir \\\\\\\ upon the judges to interpose
the punt\ of their ermine, to save us hum this pollution.
I call upon the honour of your loidships, to reverence the
, dignity of your ancestors, and to maintain your own. I call
upon the spirit and lunnaniix of my country, to vindicate
the national rl;M.>r:< r. I invoke the genius of the const$tu-
tion. From the tapestry that adorns these walls, the im-
mortal ancestor oi this noble lord frowns with indignation
at the disgrace of his country. In vain did he defend the
liberty, and establish the n ligion of Britain, against the ty-
rann> of Rome, if these worst than popish cruelties and in-
quisitorial practices, are endured among us. 1\> si nd, forth
the merciless In-tian, thirsting for blood! against u'hom ?
*your protestant biethrcn! to lay waste their country, to
desolate- tluir dwellings, and. extirpate their race and name,
by the aid and instrumentality of these ungovernable sa-
vages '.Spain can no longer boast pre Miin-. nee in barba-
rity. She -unud he rpv.lt with blood-hounds 10 extirpate the
wretched natives of Mexico ; we, more ruthless, loose those
brutal warriors against our countrymen in America, en-
deared to u* by tviry tie that can smctify humanity. I so-
lemnly call upon your lordships, and upon every order of
men in the st -te, to stamp upon this infamous procedure
thv j indelible stigma of the public abhorrence. More parti-
cularlv, I call upon the venerable prelates of our religion,
to do a\vay this iniquity ; let them perform a lustration to
purify the country from this deep and deadly sin.
Mv lords, I am old and weak, and at present unable to
say more ; but my feelings and indignation were too strong
to have allowed me to say l.-ss. 1 could not have slept this
night in my bed, nor even reposed my head upon my pil-
low, without giving vent to my steadfast abhorrence of
such Clio* ui ous and preposterous principles.
CHAPTER VIII. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
SKCTION i. 'The voyage of Life ; an allegory.
" LIFE,'' says Seneca, u is a voyage, in the progress of
which we are perpetually changing our scenes. We first
Promiscuous Pieces. 105
leave childhood behind us, then youth, then the years of
ripened manhood, then the better or more pleasing part of
oil age." The perusal of this passage having excited in me
a train of reflections on the state of man, the incessant fluc-
tuation of his wishes, the gradual cbmge of his disposition
to all external objects, and the thoughtlessness with which
he floats along the stream of time, I sunk into a slumber
amidst my meditations, and, on a sudden, found my ears
filled with the tumult of labour, the shouts of alacrity, the
shrieks of alarm, the whistle of winds, and the dash of wa-
ters. My astonishment for a time repressed my curiosity ;
but soon recovering myself so far as to inquire whither we
were going, and what was the cause of such clamour and
confusion, I was told that we were launching out into the
ocean of life ; that we had already passed the straits of In-
fancy, in which multitudes had perished, some by the weak-
ness and fragility of their vessels, and more by the folly,
perverseness, or negligence of those who undertook to
steer them ; and that we were now on the main sea, aban-
doned to the winds and billows, without any other means
of security than the care of the pilot, whom it was always
in our power to choose, among great numbers that offered
their direction and assistance*
I then looked round with anxious eagerness : and, first
turning my eyes behind me, saw a stream flowing through
flowery islands, which ev be overcorm ; and the pass ng r , having dan. I
m circles wuh a pUabing in I ^idd) vciutity, \v*s
108 Sequel to the English
overwhelmed and lost. Those few whom Reason vas aMe
to xtricate, generally suffered so many shoiks upon the
points which shot out from the rocks of Pleasure, that they
were unable to continue their course with the same strength
and facility as before ; but floated along timorously and fee-
bly, endangered by every breeze, and shattered by every
ruffle of the water, till they sunk, by slow degrees, after
long struggles, and innumerable expedients, always repin-
ing at thc-ir own folly, and warning others against the first
approach towards the gulf of Intemperance.
There were artists who professed to repair the breaches,
a d stop the leaks, of the vessels which had been shattered
on the rocks of Pleasure. Many appeared to have great
confidence in their skill ; and some, indeed, were preserv-
ed by it from sinking, who had received only a single blow:
but I remarked that few vessels lasted long which had beeix
much repaired ; nor was it found that the artists themselves
continued afloat longer than those who had least of their
assistance.
The only advantage which, in the voyage of Life, the
cautious had above the negligent, was, that they sunk later,.
mo; -e suddenly ; fo they passed forward till they had
3otu linns seen all those in whose co.npany they had is-
3u ci from the straits of Infancy, perish in the way, and at
last were overset by a cross breeze, without the toil ot re-
jisuince, or the anguish of expectation. But such as had
ofun fallen against the rocks ot Pleasure, commonly sub-
bv s . nsible decrees; contended long with the en-
'ing waiers ; .ml harassed themselves by labours that
t ly iiopv hersi If could flatter with success.
\s 1 was looking upon the various fates of the multitude
about mr, I was sucl. enlv alarmed with an admonition
from some unknown pou r : " (iazt not idly upon oth< rs
T;!K ! thou tiivs- If art sinking. Wh nee is this thoughtless
tranquility, wh-n thou and they are equally endangered r"
I looked, and seeing the gulf of Intemperance before me,
started and awaked. I>K. JOHNSON.
SECTION ii The vanity of those pursuits which have hu-
man approbation for their chief object.
Among the emirs and viziers, th^ s ns oi valour and of
, that sunU at the corners of iht; inaian
Promiscuous Pieces. 109
os ; st the councils, or conduct the wars of the posterity of
Timur, the first place was loner field by Morad, the son of
Hanuth. Morad having signalized himself in many battles
and sieges, was rewarded \vit-. the government of a pro-
vince, from which the fame of his wisdom and moderation
was wafted to the pinnacles of Agra, by the pnwers of
those whom his administration made happy. The ern-
pcror called him into his presence, and gave into his h-uid
the keys of riches, and the sabre of common . The voice
of Morad was heard from the clifYs of Taurus to the Indi-
an ocean : every tongue faltered in his presence, and every
eye was cast do n before him.
Morad lived many years in prosperity : every day in-
creased his wealth, and extended his influence. The stages
repeated his maxims ; the captains of thousands waited his
commands. Competition withdrew into th cavern of envv,
and discontent trembled at her own murmurs. But human
greatness is shor f and transitory, as the odour of incense in
the fire The sun grrw weary of gilding the palaces of Mo-
rad ; th- clouds of sorrow gathered round his head ; and
the tempest of hatred roared about his dwelling.
Mor ui saw ruin hastily approaching. The first that for-
sook him were his poet-*. Their ex > nple was followed by
all those whom he had rewarded for contributing to his
pleasures ; and only a few whose virtue had entitled the:n
to f.tvour, were now to be seen in his hall or chambers.
tic- felt his danger, and prostrated himself at the foot of
thi. throne. His accusers were confident and loud ; his
Inends stood contented with frigid neutrality ; and the voice
ot truth was overborn^ In clamour. He was divested of his
power, deprived of hi acquisitions and condemned to pass
the rest of his life on ms ru ndit ir\ estate.
Morad hnd been 'so long accustomed to crowds and bu-
sinrss, supplicants and flattery, that he knc-v not how v ;s alarmed at the ;ccoiirn oi his lather's sickness ; and
hast- d, by long journeys, to his phce oi residence. IVlorad
\v;.-> yet l.\r< It his strength retusi at the embraces
of his son : 'hm com.n imii; ; ; him '.o sit down at his bed-
si' t , u Abouzai .her has no more to hope
or ie.ir I'M mi the inh ' I th earth, the cold hand of
ang'-l <>( n, ..lui the voracioua
h'\vlii/g lor his prey, ll ar therelore the precepts
ncient ex| : tot inv last instructions issue
ii in vain. T!i..a hast seen me happy and calamitous :
thou hast beheld my < xiit..iiun and m\ iai). My power is
In the h.nds of n>v tnemivH. ; m\ iieasuits have rewarded
ny Accusers n-iuritancc the clemency of the em-
, i;id m\ \\isdom his anger could not takt
liine e\rs around thei- : uhaUver thou behold-
est, \vill, in a tew houis l)e thnp : :i|;;n ma\ pt'rish b\ the punciure of an asp."
Moiucl ouzaid, after the
n>onU"i ot niouniiny, determinvtl to regular, h s conduct
h\ his father's 'pr. cepts ; an i cultiva-t-- th- love of mankind
bv ver\ art o' kindness aii b. s cu
aad ihdt uoac have so aiucii ^o,ci oi doin^ gooa ui
Promiscuous Pieces. Ill
as those who arepresent in the hour of negligence, hear the
bursts of thoughtless merriment, and observe the starts of
unguarded passion. He therefore augmented the pay of all
his attendants ; and requited every exertion of uncommon
diligence by supernumerary gratuities. While he congratu-
lated himself upon the fidelity and affection of his family, he
was in the night alarmed with robbers ; who being pursued
and taken, declared, that they had been admitted by one of
his servants. The servant immediately confessed, that he
unbarred the door, because another, not more worthy of
confidence, was entrusted with the keys,
Abouzaid was thus convinced, that i dependant could
not easily be made a friend ; and that while many were
soliciting for the first rank of favour, all those would be
alienated whom he disappointed. He therefore resolved to
associate with a few equal companions selected from among
the chief men of the province. With these he lived happi-
ly for a time, till familiantv set them free from restraint,
and every man thought himself at liberty to indulge his
own caprice, and advance his own opinions. They then
disturbed each other with contrariety of inclinations, and
difference of sentiments; and -Abouzuid was necessitated
to offend one party by concurrence, or both by indifftrence.
He afterwards determined to avoid a close union with
beings so discordant in their nature, and to diffuse himself
in a larger circle. He practised the smile of universal courr
tesy ; and invited all to his table, but admitted none to his
retirements. Many who had been rt j< cted in his choice of
friendship, now refused to accept his acquaintance, and of
those whom plenty and magnificence drew to his table-, eve-
ry one pressed forward toward intimacy, thought himself
overlooked in the crowd, and murmim-d, because he was
not distinguished above the rest. Bv degrees, all made ad-
vances, and all resented repulse. The table was then co-
vered with delicacies in vain ; the music sounded in empty
rooms ; and Abouzaid \vm left to form, in solitude, some-
new scheme of pleasure or security.
Resolving now to try the force of gratitude, he inquired
for men of science, whose merit was obscured by poverty.
His house was soon crowded with poets, sculptors, paint-
ers, and designers, who -wantoned in unexperienced plenty ;
Sequel to the English Reader.
and employed their powers in celebrating their patron. But
in a short time they forgot the distress' irom which they
had been rescuvd ; :ind began to consich.r their deliverer as
a wretch of* narrow , who was growing great by
work-; which he coul nut perform, and whom the} over-
paid by condescendm ; to accept his bounties. Abouziid
heatd tiuir iiiurm trs, and dismissed them ; and from that
hour continued blind to colours, and d< af to panegyric.
As the sons of art departed, muttering threats or ptrpe-
tuil infamy, Abouzaid, who stood at the gate, called to
him Hamet iru port. u II ,im t," said he, "thy inor.-titude
has put an en-1 to my hopes anil txperi-.ne-nts. I have now
learned the vanity of those labours that wish to be reward-
ed by human benevolence. 1 shall hencefoith do good, and
avoid evil, without respect to the opinion of men ; and re-
solve to solicit only the approbation of that Iking, whom
alone we are sure to please by endeavouring to please
him." DR. JOHNSON.
SUCTION in. The folly and misery of idleness.
THE idle man lives riot to himself, with any more advan*
tage than he fives to the world. It is indeed on a supposi-
tion entirely opposite, that persons -of this character pro-
ceed. They imagine that, how deficient soever they may
be in point of duty, they at le.tst consult their own satisfac-
tion. They leave to others the dru ig< ry of life ; and be*
take themselves, as they think, to the quarter of enjoyment
and ease. Now, in contradiction to this, I assert, and hope
to prove, that the idle man, first, shuts the door against all
improvement ; n^xr, that he opens it wide to every destruc-
tive folly ; and lasth , that he eXelucies himself from the
true enjoyment of pleasure.
First, He shuts the door against improvement of every
kind, whether of mind, body, or fortune. The law of our
nature, the. condition under wJrich we 4 were placed from
our birth, is, that nothing goocft>r great is to be acquired,
without toil and industry. A price is appointed by Provi-
dence to be paid for ever\ thing; and the price of improve-
ment, is labour. Industry may, indeed, be sometimes dis-
appointed. The race may not always be to the swift, nor
'ic to the biroug. But, at the same time, it is certain
Promiscuous Pieces. 113
that, in the ordinary course of things, without strength, the
buttle cannot be gained ; without s wit ness, the r.icx cannot
be run with success. If we consult either the improvement
of the mind, or the health oi the body, it is wdl known that
exercise is the great instrument of promoting both, bioth
enieebles fqualh the bodily, and the ment .1 powers. As in
the animal system it engenders disease, 30 on the faculties
ol* the soul it brings a fatal rust, which corrodes and wastes
thvm; which, in a short time, reduces the brightest genius
to the same level with the meanest understanding. The
great differences which take place among men, are not ow-
ing to a distinction that nature has made in their original
powers, so much as to the superior diligence with which
some have improved these powers beyond others. To no
purpose do we possess the seeds of many great abilities, if
they are suffered to lie dormant within us. It is not the la-
tent possession, but the active exertion of them, wnich
gives them merit. Thousands whom indolence has sunk
into contemptible obscurity, might have come forward to
the highest distinction, if idleness had not frustrated the
effect of all their powers.
Instead of going on to improvement, all things go to de-
cline, with the idle man. His character falls into contempt.
His fortune is consumed. Disorder, confusion, and embar-
rassment, mark his whole situation Observe in what live*
ly colours the st ite of his affairs is described by Solomon.
" I went by the field of the slothful, and bv the vineyard of
the man void of understanding. And lo! it was ail grown
over with thorns ; nettles had covered the face thereof; and
the stone wall was broken down. Then I saw and consi-
dered it well. I looked upon it, and received instruction."
Is it in this manner that a man lives to himself ? Are these
the advantages, which were expected to be found in the lap
oi ease? The down n y at first have appeared soit; but it
will soon be found to cover thorns innumerable. This, is,
however, only a small pavRrf the evils which persons of
this description bring on themselves ; for,
In the second place, while in trus ,aa mer they shut the
door against every improvement, tru-y open it wide to the 1
most destructive vices and follies. The hti nan mind can-
not remain always unemployed. Its passions must have
some exercise. If we supply them not with proper employ-
Sequel to the English Reader.
nient, they are sure to run loose into riot and disorder.
While we are unoccupied by what is good, evil is continu-
ally at hand ; and hence it is said in Scripture, that as soon
as Satan fci found the house empty," he took possession,
and filled it u with evil spirits." Every man who recollects
his conduct, may be satisfied, that his hours of idleness have
always proved the most dangerous to virtue. It was then,
that criminal desires arose ; guilty pursuits were suggested ;
and designs were formed, which, in their issue, have dis-
quiet -d and embittere 1 his whole life. If seasons of idle-
s are dang -mus, xvh.it mas; aconiina-d rubitof it prove?
Habitual indolence, by a silent and secret progresss, un-
dermines every virtue in the soul. More violent passions
run their course and termi iate. fhey ae like rapid tor-
rents, xfhich loam, and swell, and bear down every thing
foei'ore them. Bu ;\ 'ing overflowed their banks, their
impetuosity subsides. They retuin, by devi'ees, into their
natural channel ; and the damage which they have clone,
can be repaired. Sloth is like the slowly-flowing, putrid
stream, which stagnates in the marsh, breeds venomous
animals, and poisouous plants ; and infects with pesilential
vapours the whole country round it. Having once tainted
the soul, it leaves no part of n sound ; and at the same time,
gives not those alarms to conscience, which the eruptions
of bolder and fiercer emotions often occasion. The disease
which it brings on, is creeping and insidious ; and is, on
that account, more certainly mortal.
One constant i-ff ct of idleness, is to nourish the passions,
and, of course, to heighten our demands for gratification ;
while it unhappily withdraws from us the proper means for
gratifying these demands. If the desires of the industrious
man are set upon opulence or distinction, upon the conve-
niences, or the advantages of life, he can accomplish his
desires, by methods which are fair and allowable. The idle
man has the same desires with the industrious, but not the
same resources for compassing his ends by honourable
means. He must therefore turn himself to seek by fraud,
or by violence, what he cannot submit to acquire by indus-
try. Hence, the origin of those multiplied crimes to which
idleness is daily giving birth in the world ; and which con-
tribute so much to violate the order, and to disturb the
peace of society. In general, the children of idleness may
nous Pieces. 115
be ranked under two denomimtions or classes of men.
her incapable of any effort, they are such as sink into
absolute meanness of character, and contentedly wallow
with the drunkard and debauchee, among the herd of the
sensual, until poverty overtakes them, or disease cuts them
off; or, they are such as, retaining some remains of vigour,
are impelled, by their passions, to venture on a desperate
attempt for retrieving their ruined fortunes. ,In this case,
they employ the art of the fraudulent gamester to insnare
the unwary. They issue forth with the highwayman to
plunder on the road ; or with the thief and the robber, they
infest the city by night. From this class, our prisons arc
peopled ; and by them the scaffold is furnished with those
melancholy admonitions, which are so often delivered from
it to the crowd. Such are frequently the tragical, but well
known consequences of the vice of idleness.
In the third\ and last place, how dangerous soever idle-
ness may be to virtue, are there not pleasures, it may be
said, which attend it? Is there not ground to plead, that it
brings a release from the oppressive cares of the world;- and
sooths the mind with a gentle satisfaction, wliich is not to
be found arnHst.the toils of a busy and active life ? This
is an advantage which, least of all others, we admit it tc
possess. In behalf of incessant labour, no man contends.
Occasional release from toil, an- indulgence of ease, is
what nature demands, and virtue allows. But what we as-
sert is, that nothing is so great an enemy to the lively and
spirited enjoyment of life, as a relaxed and indolent habit
of mind, lie who knows not what it is to labour, knows"
not what it is to enjoy. The felicity of human life, depends
on the regulu* prosecution of some laudable purpose or ob-
ject, which keeps awake and enlivens all our powers. Our
happiness consists in thf pursuit, much more than in the at-
tainment, of any temporal good. Rest is agreeable ; but it
is only from preceding labours, that rest acquires its true
relish. When the mind ts suffered to remain in continued
inaction, all its powers decay. It soon languishv-s and sick-
ens ; and the pleasures which it proposed to obtain from
rest, end in tedioiisness and insipidity. To this, let that mi-
serable set of men bear witness, who, after spending great
part of their life inactive industry, have retired to wh*t
1O
J16
the y f;.;
ii. ' \i y, an.-; pi
pc ct U IM l,n,l ;JD i hsinn., i
ti;
on-, in uniform 1 m.^our;
often r ii uiou-s
\vh.ch !'
bed oi .-bah ; pacfs of life, which too many assign,
or to mere inaction.
hr. nevi ) ntire idlenesb always '
either on mis- n guilt.
At the s'l.iie time, let th- course of our employments be
rdi-rcci in such a manner, that in currying them on, we
i'v { ) ;IIM> promoting our eternal interesi. VVuh Uu ! ^u-
-sincss oi the world, let us properly intermix the e
/V, that we must fcu first seek the kingdom ot God, and
-acousness ; ;uid give diligent*- t IT,. ike our cdlmg
-.lection -ure:" otherwise, how active soever we may
i to be, our whole activity will prove only a laborious
ji-ss : we shall appear in the end, to h-ve been busy to
.urpose, or to a purpose worse than none. Then only
vc fujfii the proper character of Christians, when we join
.that pious zeal which becomes us as the servant > ot G<>d,
with that industry which is required of -'us, as good num-
bers of society; when, according to the exhortation of the
Apostle, we are found "not slothful in business," and, al
the same time, "fervent in spirit, serving the Lord."-BLAiR
SECTION iv. The choice of our situation in life, a point of
great importance*
THE influence of a new situation of external fortune is
so great ; it gives so different a turn to our temper and af-
fections, to our views and* desires, that no man can foretel
what his character would prove, should he be either raised
or depressed in his circumstances, in a remarkable degree^
or placed in sorne^sphere of action, widely different from
that to which he has been accustomed in former life.
The seeds of various qualities, good and bad, lie in all
our hearts. But until proper occasions ripen, and br
them forward, they lie there inactive and dead. They are
covered up and concealed within the recesses of our na-
ture : or, if they spring up at all, it is under such an ap-
pearance as is frequently mistaken, even by ourselves. Pride,
for instance, in certain situations, has no opportunity of dis-
playing itself, but as magnanimity* or sense of honour. Ava-
rice appears as necessary and laudable economy. What in
one station of life would discover itself to be cowardice and
baseness of mind, passes in another for prudent circumspec-
tion. What in the fulness of power would prove to be cru-
elty and oppression, is reputed, in a subordinate rank, no
more than the exerc; per discipline. For a while,
man is known neither by the world, nor by himself, to
be what he truly is. But bring him into a new situation of
life, which accords wi;h his predominant disposition; which
118 Sequel to the English J?e^
strikes on certain latent qualities of his soul, and aw;; 1
them into action; and us the K-avt s of a flower gnu!'.
unfold to the sun, so shall all his true character open lull
to view.
Tiiis may, in one light, he recounted not so much an al-
teration of thai acu-r. \ a change of circumstan-
ces, as a discovery brought forth of the real eh;, !,ah
fornurly 1 V concealed. Yi I, at the same time, it is true
that the man himself undergoes a change. For < poitunity
being given ior certain dispositi !i had been dor-
* mant, to exert tl .t, they (>f course
gather strength. 1> :j K y
gain, o; < of the \ iluis
an alti ! n.ade in the whole structure and s\ su m of
the soul. lie'is a truly \ < good man, \\ ho, through
Divine ,s superior to this ir.ik;e;iee oi
tune on his ehiraeter; who, having once imbibed worthy
sentiments^ j;nd established pr ' tuples of action, con-
tiniK s constant ' r i>is circumstances be ;
ma'ritain-', tiirr.ujrhout 11 th( i of his lifi-, or.c uni-
fo.m and supported tenour of Conduct; and \vh..t he ab-
horred ase\il and \\itked, in the beginning of his days,
continues to abhor i< . 15 ut ru,\v rare is it to meet
with this honourable consistency among men, while they
are passing through the different stations and periods of
lire ! When they are setting out in the world, before their
minds have been greatly misled or debased, they glow witK
generous emotions and look with contempt on what is sor-
did and guilty. But advancing farther in life, and inured
by degrees to the crooked ways of men ; pressing through
the crowd, and the bustle of the world ; obliged to contend
vrith this man's craft, and that man's scorn ; accustomed,
sometimes, to conceal their sentiments, and often to stifle
tru-ir feelings, they become at last hardened in heart, and
familiar \\iih corruption. Who would not drop a u~ar u\vr
this sad, but frequent fall of human probity and honour?
"Who is not humbled, when he beholds the refund st rai-
ments and high principles on whicb we are so ready to va-
lue ourselves, brought to so shanruful n issue ; and m r? 9
with all his boasted attainments of reason, discovrre
Urn to be the creature of his external fortune,
and formed by the incidents of his life ?
Promiscuous Pieces. 119
Let us fr a moment reflect on the dangers which arise
from stations of power and greatness; especially, when the
elevation of men to these has been ivpid and sudden. Few
have the strength cf mind which is requisitejor bearing
such a change with temperance and self-command. The re-
spect which is paid to the great, and the scope which their
condition affords for the indulgence of pleasure, are peri-
lous circumstances to virtue. When men live among their
equals, and are accustomed to encounter the hardships of
life, they an? of course reminded of their mutual depend-
ence on each other, and of the dependence of all upon God*
But when they are highly exalted above their fellows, they
meet with few objects to awaken serious reflection, and
with many to fted and inflame their passions. They arc
apt to separate their interest from that of all around them ;
to wrap tlivrtiselvts .up in their vain grandeur ; and, in the
lap of indolence and selfish pleasure, to acquire a cold in-
difference to the concerns even of those whom they call
their friends. The fancied independence into which they
are lifted up, is adverse to sentiments of piety, as well as
of humanity, in their heart,
But we are not to imagine, that elevated stations in the
world furnish the only formidable trials to which our vir-
tue is exposed. It will be found, that we are liable to no
fewer, nor less dangerous temptations, from the opposite
extreme of poverty and depression. When men who have
known better days are thrown down into alj-ct situations
ol fortune, their spirits are broken, and their u mpers sour-
ed : envy rankles in. their breast at such as are more suc-
cesslul ; the providence of Heavertis accused in secret mur-
murs ; and the sense of misery is ready to push them into
atrocious crimes, in order to better their state. Among the
inferior classes of mankind, craft and dishonesty are too
often found to prevail. Low and penurious circumstances
depress the human powers. They deprive men of the pro-
per means of knowledge and improvement ; and where ig-
norance is gross, it is always in hazard of engendering
profligacy.
Hence it has been, generally, the opinion of -wise men in.
all ages, that there is* a certain middle condition of life,
qually remote from cither of those extremes of fortune*
#10
1 20 Sequel to the English Reader.
which, though it wants not also its own dangers, vet is, o*.
the whole, the state most favourable both to virtue and to
happiness. For there, luxury an, I pride on the one hand,,
have not opportunity to enervate or intoxicate the mind,
nor want and dependence on the other, to sink and debase
it ; there, all the native aftVctions of the soul have the freest
and fairest exercise, the equality of men is felt, friendships
are formed, and improvements of e\ery sort are pursued
With most success; there, nun are prompted to industry
without being overcome by toil, and their powers called
forth into e x rtion, without bring either superseded by too
much abundance, or baffled by insuperable difficulties ;
there, a mixture of comforts and of wants, at once awakens
their gratitude to God, and reminds them of their depend-
ence on his aid ; and the re fore, in this state, m ic
enjoy life to most advantage, and to be leasi exposed to I
sn.res of vice.
From what has bet-n said, we learn the importance of at-
tending, with the utmost tare, to the choice uln/h we make
of our < mploymtrnt and condition in life, it has been shown,
that our exu rn.il situation frequently operates powerfully
on our moral character; and by ionsequcnce that it is strict-
ly conn ct< d, not only with our temporal \veltaie, but \viiU
our everlasting i ry. lie u ho might have
passed umblained, and upright through certain walks of life,,
by unhappily choosing a road \\hert. IK meets with tempt. i-
tions too str n^ for his virtur, precipitates himself into
shame hen , an.l in. o endless ruin hereafter. Yet how often is
the determination of this most important article left to the
chance of accidental connexions, or submitted to the option
of \outh.ul fancy and humour! When it is made the sub-
ject of s< rious di liberation, how seldom have they, on
whom th decision of it depends, any further view than so
to Dispose of om- who is coming out into lite, as that he
ir.av the s <-. '.iine rich f , i expressed, make
his way to im.>st advantage in the world ! Are there no
oth. r obj cis than this to he attended to, in fixing the plan
o! liic i Are there not sacred and important interests vvhiclv
deserve to be consulted r We would not willingly place
one \vhosi- welfare we studii d, in a situation for which we
\verr conv need th;-tt his al)iiities were unequal. These,
e, we exumine with care ; and on them we rest the
Promiscuous Pieces. \tl
ground of our decision. It is, however, certain, that no*,
abilities merely, but the turn of the temper itrui tiir^ heart,
require to be examined with equal attention, in forming
plan of future establishment. Every one has some peculiar
weakness, some predominant passion, which exposes him
to temptations of 'one kind more than of another. Early thi
may be discerned to shoot ; and from its first risings its fu-
ture growth may be inferred. Anticipate its progress. Con-
sider how it is likely to be affected, by succeeding occur-
rences in life. If we bring one whom we are rearing up,
into a situation, u he re all the surrounding circumstance!
shall cherish and mature tins fatal principle in his nature,
\ve become, in a great measure, answerable for the conse-
nces that follow. In vain we trust to his abilities and
powers. Vice and corruption, when they have tainted the
heart, are sufficient to ovei stt the greatest abilities. Nay, too
frequently they turn them against the possessor; and ren-
der them the instruments of his mure speedy rain. BLAIR.
IECTION V. N&lifr is pleading to God,'that is n^l ^ (j&rf
to man. } An eastern narrative*
IT pleased our mightv sovereign Abbas Cara-can, from
whom the kings of the earth derive honour and dominion.,
to set Mirza his seivant <>V*.T the province of Tauri^, In
hand oi Mirza, the balance of distribution was sus-
;.-ded with impartiality ; and under his admu.istratiurj the
\veak were protected, th<- learned received honour, and the
diligent became rich : Mirza, therefore, was hehtld by eve-
ry eye with complacency, aod every toi guc pronounced
blessings upon his head. But it was obst r\vd that he de-
rived no joy from the benefits which he diffused ; he be-
came pensive and melancholy; he spent his L.isure in s^li-
tude ; in his p-dace he sat motionless u;,on a sola ; and v;hen
he WLiit out, his walk was slow, and his eyes were fixed up-
on the ground : ht applied to the business of state with re-
luctance ; xnd resolved to relinquish the toil of government,
oi which he couUt no longer enjoy the reward.
He, tin refore, obtained permission to approach the throne
of our sovereign : and being asked what, was his request, he
made this repU : " May the Lord of the world forgive the
sl.ve whom he has honoured, if Mirza presume again to
lay the bounty of Abbas -at his feet. Thou hast given me
.
fruitful as the gariltus of Da-
: and a v ! othtrs, cxc^'t ;
;,!endour of thy pn sence. But the'
jctly sufik'u ni to prepare for
ai.U usviM, as the toil of
r, ' r \vhose loot tlh y
parish for i nt is unsubstantial and
ow that ap, the
the
orld be for-
.... he veft'of et( nity
y."
.lent.
, ; t
"
3 .
rntd his mved. I
am enabled to look back wuli pleasure, and forward with
hope ; and I shall now n , -^ shadow of thy
power at Tarn-is, and ktep those honours which 1 so lately
wished to resign." The king, who had listened to Mirza
wich a nu\:'a
knees smott; : I thvcw myself b;:. and
d iuy weak,- Id soon increase to i ^ty.
t I was sudcl - d by the voice of an invisible be-
who pro:VvViiiK.d these words *. l Cosrou, I am the, yii-
who, b\ the coir . tlie Almighty, have regisier-
.he thoughts of thy heart, which I am now commission-
ing to become wiee
Promiscuous 123
ahrv. is r-veal d, thy f>Uv has perverted the in^
stiuction wrurh was Vouchsafed r -' v < noa disabled s
the fo.x f hast thou not rather th<- po>A rs of the eagl ?
Arise, let the eagle be the object of thy emulation. I 9
pain and sickness, be thou again th<- messenger of ease and
health. Virtue is not rest, but action. If thou dost good to
man as an evidence- of thy love to God, thy virtue will be
exalted from moral to divine ; and thai happiness which is
the pledge of paradise, wsll be thy reward upon earth."
u At these words I was not less astonished than if a
mountain ha 1 beenov rturned at my feet. 1 humbled i^ suf
in the dust ; I returned to the city ; I dug up my treasure ;
I was liberal, yet I became rich. My skill in restoring
health to the. body, gave me frequent opportunities of cur-
ing the diseases of the soal. I grew eminent beyond my
merit; and it n .;^ me pleasure of the: king that i should
fore him. Now, therefore, be not offended ; I boast
-.iwledge that I have not received. As the sands of
rink up the drops of rain, or the dew of the
inn: > do I also, who ,tm but dust, imbibe the in-
as of the Pn hen that it is he who
: I! knowledge, is profane, which terminates in
rii ; and by a li'e wasted in spc filiation, little even of
can be gained. When the gates of paradise are thrown
ibrr thee, thy mind shall be. irradiated in a moment.
: iou canst ,c!o little nm ore than pile error upon error:
upon truth. \V ir, th -refure,
glorious vision; and in the me->n ti in- ..-muiate the
>wer ; and t. ex-
?cd ot tht c-. Though the Almighty only can give virtue,
thou nv-iyst stim -i be^fieficehce,
10 act irom no higher uiou ; uinediate interest:
thou canst not produce the pr nt mayst enforce tlie
ctice. Let thy virtue 1 if thou be-
lievest vvith reverence, thou shall v:d above. Fare-
Weil ! May the smile of him who res ^ heaven of
heavens bv upon thee ; and agar am- j , in the vo-
luuie of liis \vili, may happiness be written!'*
rhe king, \v! bis, like those of Mirza, \vere no\v
. ove.ci, 1: .uiilfc that cprn-nuinicaiied the
joy oi his ninJ. He dismissed th prince to his gov
meat , and couiaianacd ta^st events to be recorded, tu tue
126 'Sequel to the Renter.
end that posterity may know, "that no life- is pleasing to
God, but that uhieh is useful to mankind. -HAY
SECTION vi. Character of the Great Founder cf Chris-
tianity.
NI.VI-R was there on earth any p< r- n of so extraordi-
nary a character as the Found* r of our ivligi- ^im
We uniformly see a mil.uuss, dignity, and composure, and
a perfection oi wisdom ,md of goodruss, tint plainly point
him our r hi in;^. Hut his sup riontv \\ as all i.i
his own divine mind. He had none ol those outward ad-
vaniag s tnat n.tvc dihtnigmshi -d ail o:r. v r lawgivers. He
. no influence in the sUte; he had no wealth; he aimed
at no worldly power. Lie was the son of a carpenter's wife,
and he was himsel! a carpenter. So poor were his repi.
parents, that at the time of his birth hi-, mother could ob-
tain no better lodging than a stable ; and so poor was he
himself, that he often had n;> lodging at all. That he had
no advantages of education, we may ml\r from the surpi
expressed by his neigh!) heating him speak in the
syn u Whence hath this man these things? What
wisdom is i : him ? Is not this the carpen-
ter, the so?! of Mary ? Are not his brethren and sisters
with us j** This point, however, we n^ed not insist on ; as
from no education, that 1> r any other country could
have afforded, was it possible for him to derive that super-
natural wisdom and power, tnat sanctity of life, and that
purity of doctrine, which so eminently distinguish him.
His first adherents were a few fishermen ; tor whom he
was so far from m iking any provision, that, when he sent
them out to preach repentance and heal diseases, they were,
by his desire, furnished wit.n nothing, but one coat, a pair
of sandals, and a s aff. He went about in great humility
and meeknes good, teaching wisdom, and glorify-
ing God, for the space of about three years after the com-
mencement of his ministry ; .aid then, as he him.^f had
foreseen and foretold, he was publicly crucified. This is
the great personage, who at this day gives law to the world.
This is he, who has been the author of virtue and happi-
ness to millions and millions of the human race. And this
is he whom the wisest and best of men that ever lived have
Promiscuous Pieces. l'!f
reverenced as a Divine- Person, and gloried in as the deli-
VriM- and s.ivi -ui uf mankind. DR. BF.ATTIE.
St'CTi >\ VH. Tiie spirit and laws of Christianity supe-
rior ta those ofevtry otlitr religion.
THE mobility of the gospel givvs it an infinite superiori-
ty over all systems of doctrine that ever were devised by
man. Were our lives and opinions to be regulated as it
prescribes, nothing would be wanting to make us happy,
tlu-re would be no injustice, no impiety, no disorderly pas-
sions. Harmony and love would universally prevail. Eve-
ry man, content with his lot, resigned to the Divine will,
and fully persuaded that a happy eternity is before him f
would pass his days in tranquility and joy, to which neither
anxiety, nor pain, nor tvcn the fear of death, could ever
give any interruption. The best systems of Pagan ethics
are very imperfect, and not free from absurdity ; and in
them are recommended mode's of thinking unsuitable t0
human nature, and modes of conduct which, though they
might have been useful in a political view, did not tend te
virtue and happiness universal. But of all our Lord's in-
stitutions the object is, to promote the happiness, by pro-
moting the virtue of ail mankind.
In the next place, his peculiar doctrines are not like any
thing of human, contrivance. u JNJVver man spake like this
mm." One of the first names given to that dispensation of
things which he came to introduce, was the kingdom or
the reign of heaven. It was justly so called ; being thus
distinguished, not only from the religion of Mos^s, the
sanctions whereof related to the pesent life, but also from
every human scheme of moral, political, or ecclesiastical
legislation
The views of the heathen moralist extended not beyond
this world ; those of the Christian are fixed on that which
is to come. The former was concerned for his own coun^
try only or chiefly ; the latter takes concern in the happi.
ness of all men, of all nations, conditions, and capacities.
A few, and but a few, of the ancient philosophers, spoke of
a future state of retribution as a thing desirable, and not
improbable : revelation speaks of it as certain ; and of the
present life as a state of trial, whereia virtue or holiaesa Is
II
i*t Sequel to the English Rsadtf.
necessary, not only to entitle us to that .salvation wbicl^
through the mercy of God and die m- ni^oi his Son,
Christians art- taught to look for, hut .dso to pnpare u-, by
hahits of pi' ty and b: nevoK nee, for a rexvaro, which none
but thr pure in bean can MCUXV, o. couKi aiish.
The duties of piety, as far as the he,rt is conc< r-i< d t
Were not miu h alt- nd* d to by the he.ith-o lawgivers. Ci-
C<-M) coldly ranks tht in with the social vlau-s ana x-y*
Very li'tle about them. The sacrifices \\v\\ n , no-
ox . And wh .t the Stoics t.iught ot rts/^n.uon 'o .he xvill
ei hcavt-n, or 10 the decrees oi fate, was so i; p- ^nant to
soiu oi their oiii'-r tc :K t^, ih it liuK good could lie i xpect-
d from it. But ot every Christi n x-irti- , p >t t . is an es-
aential part. The lo\*t and the fear of God mu-t txer\ mo*
mvHt picvail in t:u heart ot a follo-.M-r r' Jesus; and whc-
thi-r he eat or ilriiik, or x\ h tti v\r he do, it must all be to
tht glory ot tht: Creator. >l(j\v (UHrrent this from the phi-
losophy <*l (iret ce ,ti)(i H me!
In a word, (lit heathen morality, even in its best form,
that is, as two or three of then b st philosophers taught it t
amounts to liltle more than tins: * fc B>- useful to x, ourselves,
your i'runis, and your count Kill \ui he respecta-
ble uhiK- x ou live, and n i \viuu x on du ; and it is
to be hoptd xou may rrceive a rt- \\ar-. ! in another life."
Th- Unigiiage oJ the Chri vgiver is, different. fck 'i'he
t\'orl.l is not xvorthy of tin. ambition oj an immortal being.
Jls nor, ple.a*U!e* h .Vi a tt.-ndt ncx to del as the
fnmd an i cli it for hiturr happin- ss S-t lh r< tore
your affections on things above, and not on things on the
earth. Let it be join suf.-ieme desire to obtain the favour
i God ; and, bv a cours* of discipline, prepare yourselves
for a re-admis ion into tlvt rank \vhi> h was forfei id by the
fail ; and i r bring again but a iitil lower than the ang' Is,
and crouned with glory and honour everlasting."
What an tkvaiion must it give to our piciis affections,
lo contemplate the Supn.me Being, and his Provicli nee, us
revealed to us in Scripiure ! We are there taught that man
wa c created in the imag' o God, innocent and happx : and
th.it he had no sooner ialkn mto sin, than his Creator, in-
oi abandoning him, and his offspring, to the natural
of nt> disoHl.Vi; nc- .-, and of their hereditary
4tpravuy, was pleased K) begin a wonderiui dibpctt*auo
Promiscuous Pieces
F grace, in order to rescue from perdition, and raise again
to happiness, as many as should acquiesce in tht- terms of
the offv red salvation, and regulate their lives accordingly.
By th^ sacnd books, that contain the history ol th;s dis-
pensation, we are further taught that God is a spirit, ua*
changeablc anil rtnnal, universally present, and absolutely
perfect ; that it is our duty to tear him, as a being oi con*
sum mate puritv and inflexible justice, and to love him ae
tht Father of Mercies, and the God of all consolation : to
trust in him as the friend, the comfoiter, and the almighty
guardian of all who fxik-ve and obey him ; to rejoice id
him as the best of filings, and adore him as the greatest.
We are taught, that he will make allowance for the frail*
tit s of our nature, and pardon the sins of those who repentg
and, that we may see, in the strongest light, his peculiar
benignity to the human race, we are taught, that he gave
his only Son as our ransom and deliverer ; and we are not
only permitted but commanded to pray to pray to him, and
address him as our Father: we are taught moreover, that
the evils incident to thi? state of trial are permitted by him,
in order to exercise our virtue, and prepare us for a future
state of never-ending felicity j and that these momentary-
afflictions are pledges of hi-, paternal love, and shall, if we
receive them as such, and venerate Him accordingly, work
out for us " an exceeding great and eternal weight of glo-
ry." It these hopes and these sentiments contribute more
to our happiness, and to the purification of our nature, than
anv thine ^(- in the world can do, sun-Jy that religion to
which alone we owe these sentiments and hopes, must be
th< greatest blessing that ever \vas conferred on the poste-
rity of Adam.
Christianity proposes to our imitation the highest exam-
ples of benevolence, purity, and piety. It shows, that all
our actions, purposes, and thoughts, are to us cf infinite
importance ; their consequences being nothing less than
happiness or misery in the life to come : and thus it ope-
ra*cfs most powerfully on our self-love. By teaching, that
all mankind are brethren ; by commanding us to low cur
neighbour as ourselves ; and by declaring t-vcry man our
neighbour, to who, n we have it in our power to do c-.ood,
it improves benevolence to the highest piich. By prohibit-
ing revenge, malice, pride, vanity, cnvy, 4 sensuality, andco-
Sequel to the Englhh Reader.
VM'n;vi>ess ; nnc! ;'Jve, to pray for, and
out' u-emi-.-s, ;;:.tn< ig ;>,-> u< \ v *oi
m -K vo-
'.1
Cannot
so r ; ,,a
.
n, by
.nt
>:nd
\'. ill) in us ; purit\ of i
[ualif\ us Tor the n of future
or churl =L without which
ues and accomplishments are of no value : and,
striking, it causes vice to ap-
i)itli cannot
,t. In *i word u Christianity," as
rves, u is a doctrine in \\hich nothing is
rfltious or burdensome ; and in which there is nothing
which can procure happiness to mankind, or by
whi h God can be glorified." DR. BLATTIE.
SECTION viii. The vivion of Carazan : Or^ social lovg
and beneficence recommended.
CARAZAN, the merchant of Bagdat, was eminent through-
out all the east for his avarice and his wealth : his origin
is obscure, as that of the spark which by the collision of
steel and adamant is struck out of darkness ; and the pa-
tient labour of persevering diligence alone had made him j
rich. It was remembered, that when he was indigent he
was thought to be generous ; and he was still acknowledg-
ed to be inflexibly just. But whether in his dealings with
men, he discovered a perfidy which tempted him to put his
trust in gold, or whether in proportion as he accumulated
w ;>lth, he dicovered his own importance to increase, Cara-
prized it more as he used it less : he gradually lost the
to do good, as he acquired the power ; and as
Promiscuous Pieces. 131
the hand of time scattered snow upon his head, the freez-
ing influence extended to his bosom.
But though the door of Carazan was never opened by
hospitality, nor his hand by compassion, yet fear led him
constantly to the mosque at the stated hours of prayer: he
performed all the rites of devotion with the most scrupu-
lous punctuality, and had thrice paid his vows at the tem-
ple of the prophet. That devotion which arises from the
love of God, and necessarily inclu ies tht love of man, as
it connects gratitude with benrficence, and exalts that which
was moral to divine, confers new dignity upon goodness,
and is the object not only of affection but reverence. On
the contrary, the devotion of the selfish, whether it be
thought to avert the punishment which every one wishes
to be inflicted, or to insure it by the complication of hypo-
crisy with guilt, never fails to excite indignation and ab-
horrence, Carazan, therefore, when. he had locked his door,
and turning round with a look of circumspe< tive suspicion,
proceeded to the mosque, was followed by every e\e with
silent malignity ; the poor suspended their supplication,
when he passed by ; though he was known by every man,
yet no m;*n saluted him.
Sucn had long been the life of Carazan, and such was
the character which he had acquired, when notice was given
by proclamation, that he was removed to a magnificent
building in the centre of the city, that his table should be
spread for the public, and that the stranger should be wel-
come to his bed. The multitude soon rushed like a torrent
to his door, where they beheld him distributing bread to
the hungry, and apparel to the naked, his eye softened with
compassion, and his cheek glowing with delight* Every
one gaz d with astonishment at the prodigy ; and the mur-
mur of innumerable, voices increasing like the sound of ap-
proaching thunder, Carazan beckoned with his hand : at-
teniion suspended the tumult in a moment ; and he thus
gra;ified the curiosity which procured him audience-
To him who touches the mountains and they smoke, the
Almighty and the most merciful, be everlasting honour ! he
has ordained sleep to be the minister of instruction, and
his visions have reproved me in the night. A.S i was sit-
ting alone in my haram, with my lamp burning before me,
* 11
the English \
computing the product of my merchandize, and exulting
the increase of my wealth, I fell into a derp sleep, and the
hand of him who dwells in the third heaven was upon me.
I beheld the angel of death coming forward like a whirl-
wind, and he smote me before I could deprecate the blow.
At the same moment 1 felt myself lifted from the ground,
and transported with astonishing rapidity through the re-
gions of the air. The earth was contracted to an utom be-
neath ; and the stars glowed round me with a lustre that
obscured the sun. The gate of Paradise was now in sight;
and I was intercepted by a sudden brightness which no hu-
man eye could behold The irrevocable sentence was now
to be pronounced ; my day of probation was past ; and
fruui the evil of my life nothing could be taken away, nor
could any thin^ be added to the good. When I reflected
that my lot for eternity was cast, which not all the powers
of nature could reverse, my confidence totally torscok me;
and while i stood trembling and silent, covered with con-
fusion and chilled with honor, 1 was thus addressed by the
radiance ihat fhmcd before i;,
U C .. >rslnp has not be< n accepted, because
it was not prompted by love ol God ; neither can thy i igh-
teousru - d, b< c-aise it was r.ot produced by love
of :nai : for t y >wn sake or,l\, Iv-.st thou n ndered to eve-
ry -r\ thou hast approached ihv Almighty
onl ibr U>y < he tit, and grasped thy
trv.sur- s vth a hand (;! iron ; thou ha-.t lived tor thyself;
an; t ? ..cre*orf, henceforth for ever thou shult subsist alone.
From U, ,iuht ol he:.vc-n, and from the society of all be-
ings, shall th'u : " d..\-n; soli uL sh ill protract the lin-
gt ring hours oi etc rnity, and darkness aggravate the hor-
rors
At this moment I >vas driven by sorne secret and irre-
sistible power^ through the glowing system of creation, and
Promiscuous Pieces. 133
passed innumerable worlds in a moment. As I approach-
ed the verge of nature-, I perceived the shadows of total
and boundless vacuity deepen before nru-, a dreadful region
of eternal silence, solitude, and darkness ! Unutterable hor-
ror seized me at the prospect, and this exclamation hurst
from me with all the vehemence of desire : " O ! that I had
been doomed lor ever to the common receptacle oi im pe-
nitence and guilt ? There society would haw alleviated the
torment of despair, and the rage of fire could not have ex-
cluded the comfort of light. Or, if I had been condemned
to reside in a comet, that would return but once in a thou-
sand years to the regions of light a ad life ; the hope of these
periods, however distant, would cheer me in the dread in-
terv.il of cold and darkness, and the vicissitude would #i -
vide eternity into time.' While this thought passed over
my mind, 1 lost sight of the remotest star, and the last
glimmering of light was quenched in utter darkness. The
agonies of despair every moment increased, as e Very mo-
ment augmented my distance from the last habitable wold.
I reflected with intolerable anguish, that when ten thousand
thousand years had carried me beyond the n-acn 1 ili but
that Power who filta infinitude, I should still look foward
into an immense abvss of darkness, through which i should
still drive without succoXir and without society, farther and
farther still, for ^ver and for ever. I then sti etched out rny
hands towards the regions of existence, with an t mot on
that awaked me. Thus have I been; taught to r-,si; -. so-
ciety, like e,v*-ry OK her blessing, by its loss. My heart is
wanned to liberality; and I nrn' zealous to communicate
the happiness which I feel, to those in;'*- xvh de-
rived ; for the sov iety.gf one wretch, whom in the prick of
prosperity I would have spurned from my door, would, in
the dreadful '-'-301 i tude. to which I was con it.miud, ha\e heen
more highly prized, than the gold of Afi ic, or the gems of
Golconda.
f'-" ;/ - :- "'
At this reflection upon his dream, Carazan became sud-
denly silent, and looked upwards in ecst-icy of gratitude
and devotion. The multitude wvre struck at once with the
precept and axample. ; and the caliph, to whom the event
\v is i elated, that he might be literal- beyond he po-\vi of
, commanded it to be recorded for the i> o hi ,/ pos-
terity. HAWKESWORTB,
Styurl to the English Reader.
SECTION ix. Creation the product of Divine Goodness.
CREATION is a display ol Supreme goodness, no Kss tluta
of wisdom and power. It is the communication of number-
less benefits, to^ re, to all who live. Justly
is the earth said ro he, v * full of the goodness of the Lor U"
Tii. the whole system of things, we behold a ma-
nifest tendency to promote the benefit either of the rational,
or the aniiii d creation. In some parts oi nature, this ten-
dency may be less obvious than in others. Objects, which
to us seem useless, or hurtful, may corne.timvs occur ; and
strange it were, if in so vast and complicated a system, dif-
ficulties of this kind should not occasionally present them*
selves to beings, whose views arc so narrow and limited as
ours. It is well kno.vn, that in proportion as the knowledge
of nature has increased among men, theoe difficulties have
flinii ished. Satisfactory accounts have been given of m.iny
perplexing appearances. Useiul and proper purpos- s have
been found to be promoted, by objects which were, at first,
thought unprofitable and noxious.
Malignant must be the mine of that person ; with a dis-
ton d eve he must have contemplated creation, \vh can
suspect, that it is not the production of Infinite Benignity
and (i'>o iness. How many clear marks of benevolent in-
tention appear, everv where around us ! VVnat a prolusion
of beauiv tn 1 orn n -nt is poured forth on the face of na-
ture ! What a magnificent spectacle presented to the view
of man ! Whit supply contrived tor his wanis ! What a
variety of ooj s set before him, to graiiY his senses, to
employ his understanding, to entertain his imagination, to
cheer and gl dden his heart ? Indetd, the very existence of
the universe is a standing memorial ot the goodness ol the
Creator. For nothing except goodness could originally
piompt creation. The Supreme Being, self existent and
all-sufficient, had no wants which he could seek to supply.
No new accession of felicity or irlory was to result to him,
from creatures which he made. It was goodness commu-
nicating and pouring itself forth, goodness delighting to
impart happiness i%jali its forms, whi. h in the beginning
created the he:ven and the earth. Hence, those innumera-
ble orders of i:^ ?ng "crWtures nch the earth is peo-
pled ; (rom the^ lowest cla^s of sensitive !) n,^, to the igh-
est rank of reason and intelligence. Wherever there is life
Pro m i xenons ^Pieces*
there is some degree of hn;; ; >: -K-SS ; there are enjoyments
suited to tru- .dii. ;wers oi' feding ; -.uicl earth, and
air, and water, are, witii magnificent liberality, ma i'e 10
teem vv ith 1>
Let thos- striking displa\ s of Creating Goodness call
forth, on oin part, rr^ponsiv- low, gratitude, and venera-
tion. Tr> this great F:uK-r of all existence ar s -i lit.-., to riun
who hath r.j; h. h !.) the ligy 'ill tne comforts wh'ch ins world presents, ft our
heail"scnd Uvth a p--rn taal hymn ot f>nus-. . Kvoniti^ a?jd
morning let us i Him, who n -^ th t e morning-
and the cvc-uing tf ^ '> ^-dpenrt!|
h,s h aid, and sati ;t every living tl'i >j. f>
Let us rejoice, iiia- 1 \\ e ar ; world, winch is
- L , liiit^ Co - i'r which t Su-
C(iiivinced th;t tu-* a r MI not
h;ch he nath made, nor hath bn>i;;du creatures
into existence, tin /rely to suffer unru-grssary j..ain, let us,
even in th- midst oi "sorrow, recdtvVuWh caltn suouiisb: -n,
whatever he is pleased to send ; thankful for what he be-
stows ; and satisfied, that without good reason, he takes no-
_> away.
P It is not in the tremendous appearances of power IT
ly, that a good and well-instructed man b; holds the Crea-
tor of the world. In the Constant and regular working of
his hands, in the silent operations of his wisobrh and good-
ness, ever going on throughout nature, he delighVs to con-
tep.iji' ' :iud adore him. This is one of the chief fruits to
be derived from that mon? perfect knowledge of thu- Crea-
tor, which is imparted to us l*y the Christian revelation*
Impressing our minds with a just sense of all his attrihut s,
as not wise and great only, but as gracious ^nd merciful,
let it lead us to view every object of calm and undisturbed
nature, with a perpetual reference to its Author. We shall
then behold all the scenes which the heave-ns and the earth
present, with more refined feelings, and sublirner emotions,
than they who regard them solely as objects of curiosity,
or amusement. Nature will appear animated and enliven-
ed, by the presence of its Author. When the sun rises or
sets in the heavens, when spring paints the earth, when
summer shines in its glory, when auiumn pours lor;h its
fruits, or winter returns in its awiul forms, we shall view
Sequel t ft the English Reader*
the Creator manifesting himself in his works We shall*
nuet his piest nee in the fit Ids. We shall feel his iniliunce
in the cheering beam. We shall hear his voice in the wird*
We shall behold ourselves every where surrounded with
the glorx of th:it universal spirit, who fills, pi rvad< s, and
upholds all. We shall live in the world as in a great and
august temple, where the presence of the Divimu who in-
habits it, inspires d>. votion. * VLAHI,
SECTION x. The benefits of religious retirement*
AN entire retreat from worldly affairs, is not what reli-
gion requires ; nor doc s it even enjoin a great retreat from
them. Some stations of life u ould not permit this; and
there are few stations which render it ntcessary. The chief
field, both of tlv duty and of the improvement of man, lies
in active life. B\ thr graces and virtues which he exercisci
amidst his fallow creatures, he is trained up lor luavtn.
A total retreat frcyn the world, is so far from being ihc
perfection of n-Ugirni^iijf, sonv particular cases exceptcd,
:K) other than the abuse of it.
But. entire retreat would lay us aside from the
>art from wjiich Providence chiefly intended us, it is
in, that, without occasional retirement, we must act
*rt very HUf There will be neither consistency in the con-
duct, nor digkity in the character, of one who sets apart no
share of hisnime for meditation and reflection. In the heat
and bustle oi n is ev< ry moment throwing
false colours us, nothing can be \ lew-
ed in \\ just ii^lit. II v c wi^h hat -reason slmuld exert her
native j must step aside from the crov d, K..O the
cool and silent fchade. It it> there that, with sober and stea-
dy eve, she examines what is good or ill, what is \vibc or
foolish, in human conduct ; sru looks back on the past, she
looks forward to the luuire ; and forms plans, not ior the
present moment only, but for th, whole of life. Ho\\ should
that man discharge any part of bis dutv aright, who n-ver
suiier-> - i as prm the
ni'tsi perfect t to the conlusion nnci misery ot this
earth. I h- u'leslial inh tenants quarrel not ; amoty-
there is neith^ ' .udv, norenvs, nor tumult. Mtn
may harrass one anotr.r; but in th<- kingdom of h
concord and tranquJity reign for i \\ r. From such ob-
thert beanie upon the -mind ot the pious man,
anur happimrs^ in this lite, so it is absolutely
order to r the life to come. H
r live to his own soul.
e with the world, is, in se
' ice, From
_ hear riche 1
possessions of m .n ; and pr<
aim of o..r future pursuits. V\ inniup
admirati^ta i^n.Jthe Hattering math* of distinction which
bestow. 'j\ thse fancied blessings', we see the m
litu < ,d,
as wit. in an enchanted circle, vvhcre nothing appears ab it
truly is. It is <.is!y i;> that the charm can be broken.
Diet int n employ that retreat, not in carrying on tin u lu-
sion which the world has begun, not in ioimmg plans of
imaginary bliss, but in st g the happiness \>nici,
world affords to a strict discussion, the spell would d
and in the room ol the unreal prospects, which had long
amu.^a them, ihc r. ui the world would appear.
Let us j ., to encounter the light of
truth; and resolve rather to bi ar the disappointment of
SGI- . ih.pcs, tii uiier forever in the para-
disc oi i'-ol*. W.'.il. i>tlii , s meditate in secret on the means
of attaining worldly succv ss, irt it be our employment to
scrutinize that success itself. Lev us calculate iuirly to what
it auiounts; and whether we are not -n ihe whole,
\ by our Apparent gam. I.ct us I >^k back lor this purpose on
our p>;st iiK. Let u- tra youth; and
put the question to < jiest
pet . or those
of inuigu- ? ilas om ual enjoyment uni-
formly kejvt pace with what tl .> As
we aovancv. alth or station, did w\ pioporiioric.iiy
advance m hrtppnu.-sf Mas success, almost in c.ny one in-
staiuc, fudiilcU our expectations : Whcic we i I up-
on most enjovment, have we not oittn iound least? Wher-
ever guilt entered into pleasure, did not its sting long re-
main, after the gratification was past: Such question
these, candidly answered, would in a great measure un-
mask the world. TV. r| expose the vanity ot its ;
tentions ; ami convince us, that there are other springs than
those which the world ailoros, to which we must apply for
happiness.
While we commune with our heart concerning what the
world now is, let us consider also what it will one day ap-
pear to be. Let us anticipate the awful moment oi our bid-
ding it an a .irewdl ; and think, what rtflcctjoaaswrill
uiost probabl" arise, when we are qmttintf the field.
Promiscuous Pieces. 141
looking back on the scene of action. In what light will our
closing eyes contemplate those v uiities which now shine so
bright, an^i those interests which now swell into such high
importance? What part shall we then wish to have acted?
M hat will then appear momentous, what trifling, in human
conduct? Let the sober sentiments which such anticipa-
tions fiug,;^:, temper now our misplaced ardour. Let the
last' conclusions which we shull form, enter into the present
estimate which we make of the svorld, and of lite.
Moreover, in communing with ourselves concerning the
world, let us contemplate it as subject to the Divine domi-
nion. The greater part of men behold nothing more than
the rotation 'of human affairs. They see a great crowd ever
in motion ; the fortunes of men alternately rising and fall-
ing ; virtue often distressed, ajid prosperity appearing to be
the purchase of wordly wisdom. But this is only the out-
side of things: behind the cumin, there is a far greater
scene, which is beheld by none but the retired, religious
spectator. If we lift up that curtain, when we are alone
with God, and view the world with die eye of a Christian ;
we shall see, that while u man's heart deviseth his way, it
is the Lord who directeth his step " We shall see, that
however men appear to move and act after their own plea-
sure, they are, nevertheless, retained in secret bonds by the
Almighty, and all their operations rendered subservient to
the ends of his moral government. We shall behold him
obliging " the wrath of man to praise him ;" punishing the
sinner by means of his own iniquities ; from the trials of
the righteous, bringing forth their reward; and to a state
of seeming universal confusion, preparing the wisest and
most equitable issue. While the fashion u of this world" is
passing fast away, we shall discern the glory of another ris-
ing to succeed it. We shall behold all human events, our
griefs and our joys, our love and our hatred, our character
and memory, absorbed in the ocean of eternity ; and no
trace of our present existence left, except its being for ever
" well with the righteous, and ill with the wicked.' 9
BLAIR.
['ION XI.
rein ll.on, t 1
thou h;.
It- in tli-
.
kes^bmomnai
vernal d^Ifcln thy .ads,
tithes the health oi i
>uth perfumed by
breath liction. ipon thy
>s, and think of danger or misery no more. \^
wilt thou not partake the ! thou bestow
Why shouldst thou ^nly forbear to rejoice, in this general
felicity ? Why should be clouded with
when thi- meanest of those who call thee sovereign, gives
KMb day to festivity, and the night to peace. At length, Se-
ged, reflect and be wise, What is the gift of conquest but
safety ? Why are riches collected but to purchase happiness?
Seged then ordered the house of pleasure, built iu an
island of the lake Dambea, to be prepared for his recep-
tion. tc I will retire," says he, "for ten days from tumult
and care, from councils and decrees. Long quiet is not the
lot of the governors of nations, but a cessation oi ten days
cannot be denied me. This short interval of happiness may
surely be secured from the interruption of fear or perplex-
Promiscuous
ity, sorrow or disappointment, I will exclude all trouble
from my abode, and remove from my thoughts whatever
may confuse the harmony of the concert, or abate the
sweetness of the banquet. I will fill the whole Capacity of
my soul with enjoyment, and try what it is to live without
a wish unsatisfied."
Id a few days the orders were performed, and Seged
hasted to the palace of Dambea, which stood in an island
cultivated only for pleasure, planted with every flower that
spreads its colours to the sunv and every shrub that sheds
fragrance in the air. In one part of this extensive garden,
were open walks for excursions in the morning; in another,
thick groves, and silent arbours, and bubbling fountains for
repose at noon. All that coulcl solace the sense, or flatter
the :i!i that industry could extort from nature, or
wealth furnish to art; all that conquest could seize, or be-
neficence attract, was collected together, and every percep-
tion of delight was excited and gratified.
Into this deliciou^ region Seged summoned all the pei>
of his court, who seemed eminently qualified to re-
ceivt- or communicate pleasure. His call was readily obey-
ed; tht young, the fair, the vivacious, and the witty, were
all" in haste to be sated with felicity. They sailed jocund
over the lake, which seemed to sino'oth its surface before
them : their passage was cheered with music, and their
. he:uts .dilated with expectation.
Seged landing here with his band of pleasure, determin-
ed from that hour t break off all acquaintance with dis-
content; to give his heart for ten d;*ys to ease arid jollity ;
and then to fall back to ihe common state of man, and suf*
fer his life to be diversified, as before, with joy and sorrow.
He immediately entered his chamber, to consider where,
he shoul 1 begin his circle of happiness. He had all tru
lelight before him, but knew not whom to call, s
he could not enjoy one, but by delaying the performance of
another ; he chose and rejected, he resolved and changed
his resolution, till his faculties were harassed, and his
thoughts confused; then returned to the apartment wi
his presence was expected, with languid eyes and eloi.
^cnance, and spread the infection of uneasiness
vholc assembly. He observed th< ir dej ,>
was oifsnded ; for he found his vexation itoreasea Uy
-V' *<-. *
144 Sequel to the English Reader.
whom he expected to dissipate arvl relieve it. He retired
again to his private chamber, and sought for consolation in
his own mind ; one thought flowed in upon another ; a long
succession of images seized his attention ; the moments
crept imperceptibly away through the gloom of pensive-
ness, till, having recovered his tranquilitv, he lifted up his
head, and saw the lake heightened by the setting sun. u Such"
sai-i Seged, sighing, " is the longest clay of human existence:
before we have learned to use it, we find it at an end/'
The regret which he felt for the loss of so great a part of
his first day, took from him all disposition to enjoy the
evening; and after having endeavoured, for the sake of his
attendants, to force an air of gaiety, and excite that mirth
which he could not share, he resolved to refer his hopes to
thr next morning; and lay down to partake with the slaves
of labour and poverty the blessings of s!
He rose early the second morning, and resolved now to
be happy. He therefore fixeed upon the gate of the palace
an edict, importing, that whoever, during nine days, should
appear in the presence of the kin;; with counte-
nance, or utter an expression of discon- *< ovv,
should be driven for ever from the palace ot Dambea.
This edict was immediately made known in every cham-
of the court, and bower of the gardens. Mirth was
frighted away, and they who were before dancing in the
lawns, or singing in the shades, were at once engaged in
the care of regulating their looks, that Seged might find
his will punctually obeyed, and see none among them lia-
ble to banishment
S^ged r,o\v met every face settled in a smile ; but a smile
that betrayed solicitude, timidity, and constraint. He ac-
cost u his favourites with familiarity and softness ; but they
durst not speak without premeditation, lest they should be
convicted of discontent or sorrow. He proposed diversions^
to which no objection was made, because objection would
have implied uneasiness ; but they were regarded with in-
diffVrence by the courtiers, who hacj no other desire than
to signalize themselves by clamarous exultation. He offer-
ed vinous topics of conversation, but obtained only iorced
.!>ori"Us laughter; nnd, tuttr man\ attempts co
hi> train to confidence and al is o'l-^ d to
, tins- If the impotence of command, and re
Another day to grief ana disappointment.
Promiscuous Pic 145
He at last relieved his companions from their ten
and shut himself up in his chamber, t ascertain, by diffe-
rent measures, the felicity of the succeeding days. At length
he threw himself on the bed, and closed his eyes ; but ima-
gined, in his sleep, that his palace and gardens were over-
whelmed by an inundation, and waked with all the t rrors '
of a man struggling in the water, ile composed himself
again to rest, but was frighted by an imaginary irrupt'
into his kingdom ; and striving, as is usual in dreams, with-
out ability to move, fancied himself betrayed to his enemies,
and again started up with horror and indignation.
It was now clay, and fear was so strongly impressed
his mind, that he could sleep no more. He rose, but his
thoughts were filled with the deluge and invasion ; nor v
he able to disengage his attention, or "mingle- with vacancy
and ease in any amusement*. At length his perturbation,
gave way to reason; and he resolved no longer to be har-
assed by visionary miseries ; but before this r&solution
could be completed, half the day had elapsed, fits felt a *
-new conviction of the uncertainty of human schemes, and (j
could not forbear to bewail the weakness of that being', I
whose quiet was to be interrupted by vapour i of the fancy.
Having been first disturbed by a dream, he afterwards
grieved that a dream could disturb him. He at last
vered that his terrors and grief were equally ad
that to lose the present in. -lamenting the past, was volunta-
rily to protract a melancholy vision. The third day was i
now declining, and Seged , again resolved to be ha
the morrow.
SECTION xii, History of Seged conti
On the fourth morning Segt'd rose early, r with
sleep, vigorous with h aith, and eager with expert *ao5i,
He entered the garden, a
of h ; s court ; and seeing nothi bui airy
fulness, oegan to say to his heart, a This d iv shall be a I
of pleasure." The sun played upon the wat r, the birds war
bled in the groves, and th^ gules quivered among th<
branches. He roved froai wn.ik to walk as chance directec 1
hi in ; and sometimes, li^txned to the -OHUS, so-neti.nea
mingled with the dancers, >> maimcs id loose his imug tia
tion in flights of merriment, and sometimes uttered gravfj
the ad-
ti.m uitb whi(4) they were receiv
Thus th' .lied on, without any
i or intrusion oi m-.-l mcholv th All that beheld
nd the sight of hap-
filled his heart with satisfac-
liours in this pleasing luxury,
he i .! scream
;i out of the
his
not
.
rn-
.
.i 6 'e:* at
o other
tranquillity. Ho !;a:l, how-
t bten i
. ch
, ire of the next morn-
his penal edict, since he/had al-
, that discontent and melancholy were not to
, id that plea-
n con-
ited all 4 .
, itry, by proposing, prizes for those
i! I. on the following r!;iy, distinguish themselves
-stive performances ; th: ta')les of the anti-ch
er were covered with g^l.l. and pearls, an":! robes and p-dr-
j^C'Vcd the r -vh'.i could refine ele-
r heighten pleasure.
.At this display <>f riches every eye immediately sparkled,
Busied in celebrating tho bounty and
,nce cf the empe when Segcd entered, in
Promiscuous Pieces. 147
hopes of uncommon entertainment from universal emula-
tion, he found that a ex icrriess coald sa-
tisfy those wh )se hopes he should disappoint ; and think-
ing, that on a day set apart for happiness, it would be cruel
to oppress any heart with sorrow ; he declared that all had
pleased him alike, and dismissed all with presents of equal
value.
Seged soon saw that his caution had not been able to
avoid offence. They who had believed themselves secure
of the highest prizes, were not pleased to be levelled with
the crowd ; and though by the liberality of the king, they
received mor- than his promise had entitled them to ex-
pect, they departed unsatisfied, because t ley were honour-
ed with no distinction, and wanted an opportunity to tri-
umjn in me mortification of their opponents. < 4 Behold
here," said Seged, *" the condition of him who places his
happiness in the happiness of others." He then retired to
meditate : and while the courtiers were repining at his dis-
tributions, saw the fifth sun go down in discontent.
The nex dawn renewed his resolution to be happy. But
having learned how little he could effect by settled schemes,
148 Sequel to the English Reader.
or preparatory measures, he thought it best to give up one-
day c.-ntir-.-lo to chance, and left every one to please \y
with equal card ssness, he overoeard one of his co.irtutrs
in a ( 1 >- irijour murmuring alone : k 3c-
iiim ? a
ni n, v\l ,- have four .cd,
his lux. IUI>
selv ;fFected him ilie mon-. is ut-
:j'jm he had rved am
tion prompt-
ed him to v r, that whit was spoken
without intention to be heard, was to be c* i as on-
ly thought, nd was perhaps but the Jsudck, casual
and temporary vexation, he invented some decent pretence
to send tii ui awa\ , that his retiviu might not be tainted with
the breath of envy ; and alter the struggle oi deliberation
was past, and all desire of rev-nge utc rly suppressed, pass-
ed the evening not only with tranquillity, but triumph,
though none but himself was conscious of the victory.
remembrance of this clemency cheered the begin-
ning of t ith day ; and nothing happened to disturb
ure of Seged, till looking on the tree that shaded
him, he recollected, that under a tree of the same kind he.
had passed the night after his defeat in the kingdom of
Goiuna. The reflection on his loss, his dishonour, and the
miseries which his subjects suffered from the invader, filled
him with sadness. At last he shook off the weight of sor-
row, and began to solace himself with his usual pi. azures,
when hi- tranquillity was again disturbed by jealousies which
the 1 ite contest for the prizes had produced, and which,
having tried to pacify them by persuasion, he was forced
to silence by command.
On the eighth morning, Seged was awakened earl;
an unusual harry in the apartments ; and inquiring the
cause, he was told that the Ppncess Balkis was seiz
sickness. He rose, and calling the physician^ found that
they had little hope of her recovery. Here was an end of
Promiscuous Pi I4t
jollity: all his thoughts were no\v upun his daughter ; w!r
eyes Iv; closed upon the tenth clay.
* Such \VK?V the flays which Srgvd of Kthiopia hncl appro-
priated to a snort respiration from, the fatigues of war, and
th" cares of government. This narrat \v h h is beqa a hed
to future generations, th-t no man hen after m.>y presume
to say, " This day shall be a day of happiness."
DR. JOHNSON.
SECTION xin. The Vision of Theodore, the hermit of
Teneriffe, found in his cell.*
SON of perseverance, whoever thou art, whose curiosity
has led thee hither, read and be wise. He that now calls
upon thee is Thodore, the hermit of Tencriffe, who, ini
the fifty seventh year of his retreat, left this instruction to
mankind, lest his solitary hours should be spent in vain.
I was once what thou art now, a groveller on the earth,
and a gazer at the sky ; I trafficked and heaped wealth to-
gether, I loved and was favoured, I wore the robe of ho-
nour, and heard the music of adulation ; I was ambitious,
and rose to greatness ; I was unhappv, and retired. I
sought for some time what I at length found here, a place
where all real wants might be easily supplied ; and where
I might not be under the necessity of purchasing the assist-
ance of men, by the toleration of their follies. Here I saw
fruits, and herbs, and waLer ; and here determined to wait
the hand of death,, which I hope, when at last it comes,
will fall lightly upon me.
Forty eight years had I now passed in forgetfulness of
all mortal cares, and without any inclination to wander
farther than the necessity of procuring sustenance requir-
ed : but as I stood one day beholding the rock that over-
hangs my cell, I found in myself a desire to climb it ; and
when I was on its top, was in the same manner determin-
ed to stale the next, till by degrees I conceived a wish to
view the summit of thr mountain, at the foot of which I
had so long resided. This motion of my thoughts I endea-
voured to suppress, not because it appeared criminal, but
* Dr. Anderson, in his judicious and well written life of Dr, Johnson,
says, kk This is a inost beautiful allegory of human life, under the figure
..ding- ihe Mountain of Existence. Johnson thought it the best
of his writings/'
i50 iel to the English Reader.
because it was new : and all change, not evidently for th*
be'tcr, alar- i t-. light by experience to cli-trusi iiself.
I lyas often . hind thai my h \ deceiving mc ; th at
my impatience ot confine 03 en t rose from earthly pas-
and that my ardour to survey the works of nature, was on'
ly a hidden longing to mingle once again in the scenes of
life. I therefore end( avourcd to settle my thoughts into
their former state ; but found their distraction every
greater. 1 was always reproaching myself with the want of
happiness withn
ed a thistle for a flower, Innocence, so was she called,
would smile at the mistake. Happy, said I, are they who
are under so gentle a government, and yet are safe. Bui I
had no opportunity to dwell long on the consideration of
their felicity ; for I found that Innocence continued her at-
tendance but a little way, and seemed to consider only the
flowery bottom of the mountain as her proper province.
Those whom she abandoned scarcely knew that they were
13
152 Sequel to the English Reader.
left, before they perceived themselves in the hands of Edu-
cation, a nymph moj in her as,, .a, and nupenous
in her commands, who confine J them to cerium paths, in
their opinion too narrow and too rou^h. Tin se th y were
continually solicited to lutve, hy Appetit -, whom Educa-
tion could ncvnr tri-ht aw a \, though she sometimes awed
her to such turn lily, tint the effects of her presence were
scarcely perceptible. Some went b.'ck to thi first part of
the mountain, and seemed desirous of continuing busied in
plucking flowers, but wen n, longer guarded bv innocence;
and such as Education could not foice back, proceeded up
the mountain by some miry road, in uhich they were sel-
dom seen, and scaro K e\vr regarded.
As E-iiuation led her troo ( , up the mountain, nothing
was mori obseiva:>le than that she. was frequently giving
thv in cautions 10 beware of Habits ; and was calling oul t o
one or another, t - ver\ st, p, that a il .bit u as ensnaring
them ; that they would be under the dominion of Habit be-
fore they perceived their dang< r ; and that those whom a
Habit should once subdue had little hope of regaining their
lib* ny.
Ot this cau'ion, so frequently repeated, I was very soli-
citous to know the reason, when my protector directed my
i,d to a troop of pygmies, which appeared to ualk silent-
ly bt-f >re those that wi re rhmbing the mountain, and each to
smooth the \vav before her iollower. I found that I had miss-
ed tin- notice of them before, bothbecaus they were, so mi-
nute as not easily to be discerned, and because they grew eve-
ry moment nearer in their colour -o tne objects witn which
they were surrounded. As the followers ot Education did
not appear to be stnsibK ot the presence ot these danger-
ous associates, or, ridiculing their diminutive size, did not
think it possible that human btings shcuhl e\v r be brought
into subjection by enemies so feeble, they generally heard
her precepts of vigilance with winder : and, when they
thought her eye withdrawn, treated them with contempt.
.Nor could I myself think her cautions so necessary as her
frequent inculcations seemed to suppose, till I observed
that each of these petty beings held secretly a chain in her
hand, with which she prepared to bind those whom she
found within h^r power. Yet these Habits, u^.der the eye
of Education, went quietly forward, and seemed very little
Promiscuous Pieces. 153
to increase in bulk or strength ; for though they were al-
wavs Billing to join with Appetite, \etwlien Education
kept them apart fYma her, they would v- ry punetiully u'.ey
command, and make ilv narrow roads in \viiich chev were
confined easier and smoother.
It v as oha-. rvablr mat iru ir stature was never at a stand,
but contiiui.ilh growing or (U cn-asin.^, yet not alway* in the
same proportion: nor couU I foil)*, ar to express my ad-
miration, \vh*:n * sw in rurv much less time they general-
ly gained iha.i lost bulk. Though thrv grew slowly in the
road of Education, it might however be perceived that they
grew ; but it' they once deviate ;l at the call of A])petite,
their stature SU becam-- gigantic: ; and their strength was
siu'h th.it Ed-ica'-ion pointed out to her tribe many that
Vv'ere led in jh/ms hv ihem, whom she could ne.ver more
rescue (Voni tieir slivery. She point* d them out, but with
little effect; for all her pupils appeared confident oi their
own superiority to .he strong -jht Habit, and some seemed
in secret to regr-.-t that they were hindered from following
the triumph of Appetite.
It was the pi c iliar artifice of Habit not to suffer her pow-
er to be felt \t first. Those whom sb led, she had ihe ad-
dress of appearing only to attciv!, but was continually doub-
ling her chains upon her companions which were so blee-
der in themselves, and so silently fastened, that while the
attention was engaged by other objects, thev were not easily
perceived. Each link grt w lighter as it had been longer
worn ; and when, by continual additions, thev becamt- so
heavy as to be felt, they were very frequently too stiong
to be broken.
When Education had proceeded in this manner, to the
part of the mountain v/here the declivity beg.ai to ^ro\v
craggy, she resigned her charge to two powers or superior
aspect. The meaner of them appeared capable of presiding
in senates, or governing nations, and yet watched the steps
of the other with the most anxious attention ; and was vi-
sibly confounded and perplexed, if ever she suffered her
regard to be drawn away. The other seemed to approve
her submission as pleasing, but with such a condescension
as plainly showed that she claimed it as due ; and indeed
so grt^at was her dignity and sweetness, that he who would
not reverence, must not behold her.
* 54 Sequel to the English Reader.
' Theodore," saiu my protector, be fearless, and be
wise; app>oach thse poi lose dominion extends to
all the rcmaining.part of the ., n of Existence. " I
trembled, and ventured to . interior nymph,
whose eyes, piercing and awful, I was not able to sustain.'
^ Bright power," said I, ^ by whatever name it is lawful to
address thee, tell me. thoti who pi\sidest here, on what
..dition thy protection \\ill U granted?'' "It \\iil be
- k only to oh, 1 am Reason, of
all subordinate beings the noblest DI jf
' *"* lt ' Q f
ni - v .igion." Charmed by
her voice and aspect, I professed my r< .uim.*s to follow her.
She then present { U p On
me with tenderness. I b< iitr and she smii
, [OV XIV. - 7'/V WW/2 $/'
Wn :vered up those for \. ^pi-
had been so long sol id ton*, she seemed to expect
iess some gratitude for i: or
at the loss of ,<)n which she had hi-
>ver, by the
which broke out at her departure, that her presence
had been long displeasing, and that she had been teaching
;e who felt in themselves no want of instruction. They
ll agreed in rejoicing that they would no longer be subject
to her caprices, or disturbed by her documents, but should
:io\v under the direction only of Reason, to whom they
made no doubt of being able to recommend themselves, by
a steady adherence to all her precepts. Reason counselled
them, at their first entrance upon her province, to enlist
themselves among the votaries of Religion ; and informed
them, that if they trusted to her alone, they would find the
same fate with her other admirers, whom she had not been
able to secure against Appetites and Passions, and who,
having been seized by Habits in the regions of Desire, had
been dragged away to the caverns of Despair. Her admo-
nition was vain, the greater number declared against any
| other direction, and doubted not but by her superintenden-
p. c\ they should climb with safety up the Mountain of Ex-
f istence. u My power," said Reason, " is to advise, not to
compel j I have already told you the danger of your choice,
Promiscuous Pieces. 155
The path seems now plain and even, but there are asperi-
ties and pitfalls, over which Religion only c.m conduct you.
Look upwards, and you perceive a mist before you settled
upon die highest visible part of the mountain ; a mist by
\vhich my prospect is terminated, and which is pierced on-
ly by the eyes ot Religion. Beyond it are the temples of
Happiness,' in which those who dim!) the precipice by her
direction, after the toil of their pilgrimage -. repose for ever.
I know not the way, and therefore can only conduct you to
a better guide. Pride has sometimes reproached me with
the narrowness of my view j but, when she < ndeavoured to
extend it, could only show me, below th< mist, the bowers
of Content: even they vanished as I fixed my eyes upon
them ; and thos<- whom she persuaded to travel towards
them were enchained by Habits, and ingulfed by Despair,
a cruel tyrant, whose caverns are beyond the darkness, on
the right side and on the left, from whose prisons none can
escape, and whom I cannot teach you to avoid."
Such was the declaration of Reason to those who de-
manded her protection. Some that recollected the dictates
of Education, finding them now seconded by another au-
thority, submitted \\ith reluctance to the strict decree,
and engaged themselves among the followers of Religion,
who were distinguished by the uniformity of their march,
though many of them were women, and by their continual
endeavours to move upw mis, without appearing to regard
the prospects which at every step courted their attention.
AH those who determined to follow either Reason or
Religion, were continually importuned to forsake the road,
sometimes by Passions, and sometimes by Appetites, of
whom both had reason to boast the success ot their arti-
fices'; lor so many were, drawn into by-paths, that any way
was more populous than the right. The attacks of the Ap-
petites were more impetuous, those oi the Passions longer
continued. The Appetites turned their followers directly
from the true way, but the Passions marched at first in a
path nearly in the same direction with that of Reason and
Religion; hut deviated by slow degrees, till at last they
entirely changed their course. Appetite drew aside the
dull, and Passion the sprightly. Oi tin Appetites, Lust
was the strongest j and of the Passions, Vanity. The most
*13
156" Scqud to the English Reader.
powerful assault was to be feared, when a Passion and an
Appetite joined their enticements ; and the path of Reason
was best followed, when a Passion called to one side, and
an Appetite to the other.
These seducers had the greatest success upon the fol-
lowers of Reason, over whom they scarcely ever failed to
prevail, except when they counteracted one another. They
had not the same triumphs over the votaries of Religion ;
for though they were often led aside for a time, Religion
commonly recalled them by her emissary Conscience, be-
fore Habit had time to enchain them. But they that pro-
fessed to obey Reason, if once they forsook her, seldom re-
turned ; for she had no messenger to summon them but
Pride, who generally betrayed her confidence, and employ-
ed all her skill to support Passion ; and if ever she did her
duty, was found unable to prevail, if Habit had interposed.
I soon found that the great danger to the followers of
Religion, was only from Habit ; every other power was
easily resisted, nor did they find any difficulty when they
inadvertently quitted her, to' find her again by the direction
of Conscience, unless they had given time to Habit to draw
her chain behind them, and bar up the wa\ by which they
had ^andered. Of some of those, the condition was justly
to be pitied, who turned at every call of Conscience, and
tried, but without effect, to burst the chains of Habit : saw
Religion walking forward at a distance, saw her with re-
verence, and longed to join her; but were, whenever they
approached her, withheld by Habit, and languished in sor-
did bondage, which they could not escape, though they
scorne i and hated it.
It was evident that the Habits were so far from growing
weaker by these repeated contests, that if they were not to-
tally overcome, every struggle enlarged their bulk, and in-
creased their strength ; and a Habit, opposed and victori-
ous ? vvas more than twice as strong, as before the contest.
The manner in ".vhich those who vvtre weary of their tyran-
ny endeavoured to escape from them, appeared by the event
e generally wrong ; they tried to loose their chains one
by one, and to retreat by the same degrees as they advanc-
ed : but before the deliverance was completed, Habit al-
wavs threw new chains upon her fugitive. Nor did any
~scape her but those who by an effort sudden and violent.
Promiscuous Pieces.- 157
burst their shackles at once, and 1< f i her at a distance ; and
even of these, many, rushing too precipitately foru-nrd, and
hindered by their terrors -from stopping where they were
- sate, were fatigued with their own vehemence, and resign-
ed themselves again to that power from whom an < scape
must be so dearly bought, and whose tyranny was little felt,
except when it was resisted.
Some however there always were, who, when they found
Habit prevailing over them, called upon Reason or Reli-
gion tor assistance : each of them willingly came to the
succour of her suppliant ; but neither with the same strength,
nor the same success. Habit, insolent with her power,
would often presume to parley with Reason, and oftVr to
loose some of her chains if the rest might remain. To this,
Reason, who was never certain of victory, frequently con-
sented, but always found her concession destructive, and
saw the captive led away by Habit to his forrntr slavery.
Religion never submitted to treaty, but held out her hand
with certainty of conquest ; and if the captive to whom she
gave it, did not quit his hold, always led him away in tri-
umph, and placed him in the direct path to the temple of
Happiness; where Reason never failed to congratulate his
deliverance, and encourage his adherence to that power, to
whose timely succour he was indebted for it.
SECTION xv. The vision of Theodore continued.
WHEN the traveller was agaia placed in the road oi Hap-
piness, 1 saw Habit again gliding before him, but reduced
to the stature of a dwarf, without strength and without ac-
tivity ; but when the Passions or Appetites, which had be-
fore seduced him, made their approach, Habit would on a
sudden start into" size, and with unexpected violence, push
him towards them. The wretch, thus impelled on one side,
and allured on the other, too frequently quitted the road of
Happiness, to which, after his second deviation from it, he
rarely returned. But, by a timely call upon Religion, the
force of Habit was eluded, her attacks grew fainter, and at
last her correspondence with the enemy was entirely de-
stroyed. She then began to employ those restless faculties,
in compliance with the power which she could not over-
cc m ; and as bhe gre-w a>;ain in stature and in strength,
cleared away the asperities of the road to Happiness.
i^tf Sequel to the English Reader.
From this road I could IVH easily withdraw my atten-
tion., he-c uise all who travi.lU.-d it appeared chc rhil ard sa-
tisfied ; and die farther the\ ; , givaur appear-
ed their alacrity, and th conviction of the
wisdom ot ihvir guide. Some who had never deviated but
bv short excursions, had Habit in the middle of thtir pas-
sage vigorously supporting them, and ui was i\> ne-
rally overwearied in the contest ; and it either oi her oppo-
Promiscuous Pieces. 159
nents had confederated with Habit, her authority was whol-
ly at an end. When Habit endeavoured to captivate the
votaries of Religion, she grew 'by slow degrees, and gave
time to escape; but in seizing the unhappy followers of
Reason, she proceeded as one that had nothing to fear, and
enlarged her size, and doubled her chains without inter-
mission, and without reserve.
Of those who forsook the directions of Reason, some
were led aside by the whimpers of Ambition, who was per-
petually pointing to stately palaces, situated on eminences
on eith.-r side, recounting the- d lights of affluence, and
boasting the security of power. The) were easilv persu.td-
ed to follow her, and Habit quickly threw her chains upon
them, they were soon convinced of the ferity of their choice,
of then! atiernnt< I to ri r.urn. Ambition led them
ard from precipice to precipice, where many fell and
seen no more. Those that escaped were, after a long
scries of hazards, generally delivered over to Avarict , and
enlisted by her in the service of Tyranny, where they con-
tinued to heap up gold, tilt their patrons or their heirs
pushed them headlong at last into the caverns of Despair.
Others were enticed by Intemperance to ra ruble in
search of those fruits that hung over the rocks, and filled
the air with their fragrance. I observed, that the Habits
which hovered about these soon grew to an enormous size,
nor were there any who less attempted to return to Rea-
son, or sooner sunk into the gulfs that laudrefore them.
When these first quitted the road, Reasof^ooked after
them with a frown of contempt, but had little expectation
of being able to reclaim them ; for the bowl of intoxication
was of such qualities as to make them lose all regard but
for the present moment. Neither Hope nor Fear could en-
ter their retreats ; and Habit had so absolute a power, that
even Conscience, if Religion had employed her in their fa-
vour, would not have been able to force an entrance.
There were others whose crime it was rather to neglect
Reason than to disobey her ; and who retreated iron, the
heat and tumult of the way, not to the bovvers of Intem-
perance, but to the maze of Indolence. They had this pe-
culiarity in their condition, that they were always in sight
of the road of Reason, always wishing for her presence.
160 ' 'id to the English Peader.
and always resolvir->- to ntutti to-m;rrow. In these, was
rmmentlv eon.s|euoub the -uUlety of li.ibn, ho
i|>on irum, ami \\ as .
mom, i I 'mm thr road, \xhieh h
key h;u! the pou t-r oi leuehmg. 1 hey
wand' n d on. i'rom one double o! iiu: i.ti)\ i-.mh to an<
with ' civih aj)on tl
as t!u y ;iu ^j-' \\ |>uLi, ar.d tiu r>c IKS
fainter: thc\ ])KK .1 divir drc;.rv n.anii u
pleasure in uv. n ;, yi \vidiiit power JO rtturn ;
and h ul this all uihcis, that th< \
criminal !)ut I'/IL druuki.rd 1. r a tune
r his v*ine; tht u^ man mum. ried in
the m , jpfif h i j rival; but the of liul
had n nor me: Unt i-nver-
ed ir. i.ules;
,\ , till tiny .n ri\ ed
. varied on!y ^'ith poj;j)U' and
iei-- th-- dominion of Inc'
i irlnvr is (i< lanch'-l. :
. .
torturrd [\ . >r a tiju. ,
to thi cruelty of D spair.
\Vhm- I was musing on this miserable lec-
tor citlh-d out to me, fct Remember, Th-.-oclorc, and be
and I . iil against thee." I si .d be-
held myHcU^surrouiidcd by the rocks of 'i ; the
birds of lig^^ .ing in the trees, and i c< s of
the mormog darted uj
un. JOHNS-
PAUT 11. PIECES f. POETRY.
CHAPTKR I. NARRATIVE PIECES.
SECTION i. The C >melcon ; or pertinacity exposed.
OFT has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes that hardly serv'd at most
To guard their master 'gainst a f^fet ;
Yet round the world the blade has been,
To see whatever could be seen :
Returning from his finish'd tour,
Grown ten times perter than before ;
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travell'd fool your mouth will stop :
" But, if my judgment you'll allow
I've seen and sun- I ought to know"--;
So begs you'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.
Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they pass'd,
And on their way, in friendly chat,
HT >w talk'd of this, and then of that,
Uiscours'd a while, 'wongst other matter,
Of the chameleon's form and nature.
" A stranger animal," cries one,
" Sure never liv'd beneath the sun !
A lizard's body, lean and long,
A fish's head, a serpent^s tongue,
Its foot with triple claw disjoin'd ;
And what a length ot tail behind !
How slow its pace ! and then its hue
Who ever saw so fine a blue F 1 '
u Hold there, '* the other quick replies,
'Tis gnen I saw it with these eyes,
As late with open mouth it lay,
And warm'd it in the sunny ray ;
S retch' d at its ease the beast I view'd,
Aiul saw it eat the air for food."
lk I've seen it, friend, as we 11 as you,
Aivi must again affirm it blue.
A leisure 1 the beast survey 'd,
Extended in the cooling shade."
162 Sequel to the English Reader.
" 'Tis gnvn, 'tis green, I can assure ye,'
" Green ?'"' cricb tin: other in a fur)
u Why, do you think I've lost my eves ?"
tc ' I Were no gn at loss," the friend replies,
*' For, if they alw.iys c erve you thus,
" You'll find them but of little us<:."
So high at lust the contest rose,
From words tKij^ almost came to blows :
Wiu n luckily came by a third
To him the question they referred ;
And begg'd he*d tell '<-m, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.
u Come/' cries the umpire, u cease your pother.
The creature's neither one nor t'other :
I caught the animal last night,
And view'd it o'er by candK light :
I m s*i i\\$ {cars;
For hounds eat sheep as \\ili as hares.
She now the trotung tali adviress'd,
To bavc from ueath a iriciul distress'd.
" Shall I," sa\s he, il of tender age,
In this important care engage?
Older and abler puss'd } ou by :
How strong arc those ! how \veak am I !
Snouid i presume to bear you iieiue,
Those ii lends of mine might take offence.
Kxcuse me, then. You know n) heart,
But dearest inmus, aias ! mu-t part.
How shall we ail lament! Adieu !
For, see, the hounds arc just in view.'' GAV.
CTION in. The tiir re warnings.
THE tree oi deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground :
'Twas therciore said b) ancient sages,
That love of hie increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
\\ .MOWS sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.
This great aiictcion to believe,
\VrKi; nl loiiR.-^, but lew perceive,
If old assertions can\ prevail,
Be pleas'd to hear a modem tale.
When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day,
Death call'd aside the jocund groom
With him into another room ;
And looking grave u You must," says he,
u Quit your swe^t bride, and come with me."
" With you ! and quit my Susan's side !
With you 1" the hapless husband cried ;
44 Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard 1
Beside, in truth, I'm not prepar'd :
My thoughts on other matters go ;
This is my wedding- day you know."
What more he urg'd, I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger ;
Narrative Pieces. 165
So death the poor delinquent spar'd,
And left to live a little longer.
Yd calling up a serious look,
His hour-glass trembled white he spoke
" Neighbour/' he said, u Farcvv 'I. No more
Shrill De,v>h disturb your mirthful hour :
And htrther, to avoid all blame
Of crueltv upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit vo \ t.-.T your future station,
Three several Warnings vou shall have,
B.- ; >r. you're summon'd to ihe rcrave.
Willing for once I'll quic my prey,
And grant a kin-.; repi -vt j
In hopes you'll have iv, more ro say ;
But, when F call again this way,
Well pie;'V-i the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.
What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he liv'd, how wise, how well,
How roundly hi: pursued his course,
And smok'd his pipe, and strokM his horse,
The willing muse shall tell:
He. chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceiv'd his growing old,
Nor thought of death as near ;
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He pass'd his hours in peace.
Bnt while he view'd his wealth increase,
While thus along Life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncali'd, unheeded, unawares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood
As all alone he sate,
Th' unwelcome messenger of Fate
Onee more before him stood.
Hall-kill'd with anger and surprise,
^ So soon returned !" old Dodson
J66 Sequel to the English Reader.
" So soon, d'\x call ii r" Death replies :
u Surely, m\ fr:--nd, you're but in jest !
Since I \VI*F here b<-{
r JTis six and thirty years at lea
And you are now fourscore."
" So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd ;
" To spare the ae< u \..'ulc! be kind :
However, see \ our search be u-gul ;
And your authority is't regal ?
Else you are come on a fool's errand,
With but a secretary's warrant,
Besides, you promised me Three Warnings,
Which I have look'd fur nights and mornings !
But for that loss of time and e.ise,
I can recover damages."
" I know," cries Death, u that, at the best,
I seldom am a wch orm guest ;
But don't be captious, friend, at least :
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable ;
Your years have run to a great length ;
I wish you joy, tho', of your strength 1""
^ Hold,'* says the farmer, " not oo fast !
I have been lame these four years past."
u And no great wonder/' Death replies r
u However you still keep your eyes ;
And sure to see one's loves and friends,
For legs and arms would make amends."
u Perhaps," says Dodson, u so it might.
But latterly I've lost my sight."
" This is a shocking tale, 'tis true ;
But still there's comfort left for you :
Each strives your sadness to amuse ;
I warrant you he?r all the news."
u There's none," cries he ; " and if there were
I'm grown so deaf, I could not^iear."
" Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoin'd
" These are unjustifiable yearnings ;
" If you are Lame, and Deaf, and Blind,
You've had your Three sufficient Warnings.
So, come along, no more we'll part ;
He said, and touch'd him with his dart.
Narrative Pieces. 16
And now old Dodson turning pale,
Yields to his fate so ends my tale. THRALE.
SECTION iv. The Hermit.
FAR in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a rev'rend hermit grew ;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well;
Remote from man, with God he pass'd his days ;
Pray'r all his business, all his pleasure praise.
A life so sacred, such serene repose,
SeemM heav'u itself till one suggestion rose-
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey ;
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway:
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenour of his soul is lost.
So when a smooth expanse receives imprest
Calm nature's image on its wat'ry breast.
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
And skies beneath with answering colours glow :
But if a stone the gentle sea divide,
Swilt ruffling circles curl on ev'ry side,
And glimm'ring fragments of a broken sun ;
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.
To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight,
To find if books or swains report it right,
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet camt^ wand'rin % o'er the nigntly dew,)
H^ quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore,
And fix'ci the scallop in his hat before;
Th~n witlvthe sun a rising journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.
The morn was wasted in the pathless grass^
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass :
But when the southern sun had warm'd the day,
A youtu came posting o'er a crossing way:
His raiment descent, his complexion fair,
And soil in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair :
Then near>pproaching t u Father, hail 1" he cried,
And, " Hail, my son!" the rev'rend sire replied.
Words followed words, from question answer flovr'd,
And talk of various kind ciecciv'd the road j
Sequel to the English Reader*
Till each with other pleas'd, and loath to part,
While in their age they differ, join in heart.
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound,
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.
Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day-
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ;
Nature in silence bid the world repose :
When n^ar the road a stately palace rose.
There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass,
Whose verdure crown'd the sloping sides of grass.
It chanc'd the noble master of the dome
Still made his house the wand ring stranger's home ;
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
rov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive : the livYied servants wait ;
Th< ir lord receives them at the pompous gate.
The table groans with costly piles of food,
An 1 all is more than hospitably good.
Then, led to rest, the day's long toil they drown,
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.
At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play;
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep,
And shake the neighboring wood to banish sleep.
Up rise the guests, obedient t^> the call :
An e irly banquet deck'd the splendid hall ;
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac'd,
Which the kind master forc'd the guests to taste.
Then, pleas'd and thankful, from the porch they go ;
And, but the landlord, none had cause of wo :
His cup was vanish'd ; for in secret guise
The younger guest purloinM the glitt'ring prize.
As one who spies a serpent in his way,
Glist'ning and basking in the summer ray,
Disordered stops to shun the danger near,
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear :
So seem'd the sire, when far upon the road
The shining spoil his wily partner show'd.
He vtopp'd with silence, walk'd with trembling heart,
And Much he wrsh'd, but durst not ask to part:
3VT.rmVing he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard
That gen'rous actions meet a base rewarcL
Narrative Pieces.
While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds.
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds;
A sound in air presag'd approaching rain,
And beasts to covert scud across the plain.
Warn'd by the signs, the wand 1 ring pair retreat,
To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat.
"Twas built with turrets on a rising ground,
And strong, and large, and unimprov'd around ;
Its owner's temper, tim'rous and severe,
Unkind and griping, caus'd a desert there.
As near the miser's heavy doors they drew,
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fwy blew ;
The nimble lightning mixM with show'rs began,
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunder ran.
Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain,
Driv'n by the wind and batter'd by the rain.
At length some pity warm'd the master's breast y
('Twas then his threshold first receiv'd a guest ;)
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in ^the shivVing pair.
One frugal fagot lights the naked walls,
And nature's fervour through their limbs recalls*
' Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine,
(Each hardly granted,) serv'd them both t> dine :
And when the tempest first appeared to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.
With still remark the pond'ring hermit viewed,
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude;
And why should such (within himself he cried)
Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside ?
But what new marks of wonder soon take place,
In ev'ry settling feature of his face,
When from his vest the young companion bore
That cup 'the gen'rous landlord own'd before.
And paid profusely with the precious bowl
The stinted kindness ot this churlish soul!
But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ;
The sun emerging opes an azure sky 4
A fresher green the smelling leaves display,
And, glitt'ring as they tremble, cheer the day:
The weather courts them from their poor retreat.
And the glad master bolts the wary gate.
170 Sequel to the English Reader.
While hence the\ walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought
With all the travail of uncertain thought ;
His partner's acts without their cause appear ;
'Twas there a vice ; and srem'd a madness here :
Detesting that, and pitying this, he got s,
Lost and confounded vvith the various shows.
Now night's dim shades again involve the sky; ~)
Again the wand'rers want a place to lie :
Ag un they search, and find a lodging nigh. J
Tlu- soil improved around, the mansion neat,
An 1 '.icitlur poorly low, nor idly great,
It seem'd to speak i:s master's turn of mind,
Contmi, and not for praise but virtue kind.
Hither the walkers turn vvith weary feet,
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet.
Their greeting fair, bestowM with modtst guise,
The courteous master hears, and thus replies :
u Without a vain, without a grudging heart,
To him who gives us all, I yield a part;
From M'nr. you cnme, for him accept it here,
A fra'k ind sober, more than costly cheer."
H' spoke and bid the welcome table spread,
Th< n taik'd of virtue till the time of bed :
'\\ hen th< grave household round hi hall repair,
\\ .: .:'cl by a bell, and close the hours with pray'r*
At length the world, renew 'd by calm repose,
W;,6 strong for toil ; the dappled morn arose :
B i- re the pilgrims part, the younger crept
Rear the cios'd cradle, where an infant ' lept,
And wri.h'd his neck : the landlord's little pride,
O strange return! grew black, and gas .M, and died,
Horror of horrors ! what! his oniv son!
How look'd our hermit when the fact was done!
Not hrll, tho' belles black JHWS in sunder part,
And breathe the blue fire, could more, assault his heart,
Confus'd and struck with silence at the deed,
H< flies; but trembling, fails to fly with speed.
His steps the youth pursues; the country !
Ptrplex'd with roads ; a servant showed t.iie way :
A river cross'd tht path , the passage <,V r
W.^ nice to find; the .servant trod beh>re :
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied,
Narrative Pieces. \7l
And deep the waves beneath the bending branches glide,
The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin,
Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust him in:
Plunging he falls, then rising lifts his head;
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead.
Wild sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes ;
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cri< s ;
* Detested wretch !" But scarce his speech began,
When the strange partner seem'd no longer man.
His vouthful face grew more serenely sweet ;
His robe t -rn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet;
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair;
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air;
And wings whose colours glittered on the day,
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display,
The form <- thereal bursts upon his sight,
And moves in all the majesty of light.
Tho' loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew,
Sudden he gaz'd, and wist not what to do ;
Surprise, in secret chains, his words suspends,.
And in a calm his settling temper ends.
But silence here the beauteous angel broke ;
The vorce of music ravished as he spoke.
" Thy pray'r, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown,
In sweet memorial rise before the throne ;
These charms success in our bright region find,
And force an angel down to calm thy mind ;
For this commissioned, I forsook the sky
Nay, cease to kneel thy fellow-servant I.
Then know the truth of government Divine,
And let these scruples be no longer thine.
The Maker justly claims that world he made:
In this the right of Providence is laid.
Its sacred majesty through all depends
On using second means to work his ends.
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye,
The Pow'r exerts his attributes on high ;
Your actions uses, nor controls your will ;
And bids the doubting sons of men be still.
What strange events can strike with more surprise.
Than those which lately struck thy wond'ring eyes ?.
2 72 Scqud to the English Reader.
Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty just ;
And where yon can't unriddlt , learn to trust.
4C The- great vain man, who far d on costly food,
Whose lift- w;s too luxurious to be good ;
Who made i is v\ith goblets shine,
And foic'd his guests to morning -vine ;
lias, with the cup, the graceless custom I
And still h lies, hu. with i -,st
44 'i n suspici< Led door
Ne'er mov\! in pi'.y to the vmyJYmo poor,
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind
That Heav'n can bless, if mortals will be kind,
C<-. of wanting worth, he \lews I!K bowl,
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul,
Thus artists melt the sui. d,
With heaping coals of fire upon its head ;
In the kind warmth the imtil learns to glow,
And, loose from dross the silver runs below.
u Long had our pious friend in virtue trod ;
But now the child half weaird his heart from God :
Child of his ;tge, for him hv livM in pain,
;d measured back his steps to earth again.
s?es had his dotage run !
PMt God, to save the father, took tne son.
To all hut thee in fits he seem'd to go ;
And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow.
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust,
Now owns in tears the punishment was just.
But how had all his fortunes felt a wrack,
Hid that false servant sped in safety back !
This night his treasur'd heaps he meant to stea},
An-- what a fund of charity would fail!
Thus Heav'n instructs thy m-ind : this trial o'er,
Dep,\rt in peace, resign, and sin no more."
On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew :
The sage stood wond'ring as the seraph flew.
Thus looked Elisha, when, to mount on high,
His master took the chariot of the sky;
The fiery pomp ascending left the virw ;
The prophet gaz'd, and wished to follow too.
The bending Hermit here a pray'r begun :
Lord ! as in heav'ti on earth thy will be done*
Narrative Pieces. 17$
Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place ;
And pass'd'a life oi piety and^eace. PARNELL.
CHAPTER II. DIDACTIC PIECES.
SECTION i. The love of the world detected.
THUS says the prophet of the Turk :
Good Mussulman, abstain from pork :
There is a part in ev'ry swine
No friend or follower of mine
May taste, whatever his inclination,
On pain of excommunication.
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge,
And thus he left the point at large.
Had he the sinful part express' d
They might with safety eat the rest :
But for one piece they thought it hard
From the whole hog to be debarr'd ;
And set their wit to work to find
" What joint the prophet had in mind.
Much controversy straight arose:
These choose the back, the belly those j
By some 'tis confidently said
He meant not to forbid the head ;
While others at that doctrine rail,
An-! piously prefer the tail.
Thus, conscience freed from ev'ry clog,
Mahometans eat up the hog.
You laugh 'tis well the tale applied
May make you laugh on t'other side.
" Renounce the world," the preacher cries :
44 We do,'* a multitude replies.
While one as innocent regards
A saug and friendly game at cards :
And one whatever you may say,
Can set no evil in a play ;
Some love a concert, or race,
And others, shooting and the chase.
RevilM and lov'd, renounc'd and followed,
Thus bit by bit the world is swallowed ;
Each ihinks his neighbour makes too free.
Yet likes a slice as well as he ;
174 Sequel to the English Reader.
With sophistry their sauce they sweeten.
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten. COWPEB.
1
SECTION ii. On Friendship*
WHAT virtue, or what mental grace,
Biu men, unqualified and base,
Will boast it their profession?
Profusion apes the noblest part
Oi liberality of heart,
And dullness, of discretion.
If ev'ry polish d gem we find
Illuminating heart or mind,
Provoke to imitation ;
No wonder Friendship does the same.
That jewel of the purest flame,
Or rather constellation.
No knave but boldly will pretend
The requisites that form a friend,
A real and a sound one,
Nor any fool he would deceive,
But prove as ready to believe,
And dream that he has found one.
Candid, and generous, and just,
Boys care but little whom they trust.
An error soon corrected
For who but learns in riper years,
That man when smoothest he appears
Is most to be suspected ;
But here again a danger lies,
Lest having misemployed our eyes
And taken trash for treasure,
We should unwarily conclude
Friendship a false ideal good,
A mere Utopian pleasure.
An acquisition rather rare,
Is yet no subject of despair ;
Nor is it wise complaining,
If either on forbidden ground,
Or where it was not to be found,
We sought without attaining.
No irienuship will abide the test
That stands on sordid interest,
Or mean self-love erected :
Didactic Pieces
Nor such as may awile subsist
Between the sot, and sensualist,
For vicious ends connected.
Who seeks a friend, should come disposed
T' exhibit, in full bloom disclos'd,
The graces and the beauties,
That form the character he seeks
For 'tis an union that bespeaks
Reciprocated duties.
Mutual attention is implied,
And equal truth on either side,
And constantly supported ;
>Tis senseless arrogance t' accuse
Another of sinister views,
Our own as much distorted.
But will sincerity suffice ?
It is indeed above all price,
And must be made the basis ;
But ev'ry virtue of the soul
Must constitute the charming whole,
All shining in their places.
A fretful temper will divide
The closest knot that may be tied,
By careless sharp corrosion:
A temper passionate and fierce
May suddenly your joys disperse
At one immense explosion.
In vain the talkative unite
In hopes of permanent delight-
The secret just committed,
Forgetting its important weight.
They drop through mere desire to prate,
And by themselves outwitted.
How bright soe'er the prospect seems,
All thoughts of friendship are but dreams
If envy "chance to creep in :
An envious man, if you succeed,
May prove a dang'rous foe indeed,
But not a friend worth keeping.
As Envy pines at Good possessed,
So Jealousy looks forth distress'd
On good that seems approaching :
15
176 Sequel to the English Reader.
And if success his steps attend,
Discerns a rival in a friend,
And hates him for encroaching.
Hence authors of illustrious name,
Unless belied by common fame,
Are sadly prone to quarrel ;
To deem the wit a friend displays
A tax upon their own just praise.
And pluck each others laurel.
A man renowned for repartee,
Will seldom scruple to make free
With friendship's finest feeling;
Will thrust a dagger at youi breast.
And say he wounded you in jest,
By way of balm for healing.
Whoever keeps an open car
For tattlers, will be sure to hear
The trumpet of contention ;
Aspersion is the babbler's trade,
To listen is to lend him aid,
And rush into clissention.
A friendship that in frequent fits
Of controversial rage emits
The sparks of disputation,
Like hand in hand insurance plates,
" Most unavoidably creates
The thought of conflagration.
Some fickle creatures boast a soul
True as the needle to the pole,
Their humour yet so various
They manifest, their whole life through,
The needle's deviation too,
Their love is so precarious.
The great and small but rarely meet
On terms cf amity complete ;
Plebeians must surrender,
And yield so much to noble folk,
It is combining fire with smoke,
Obscurity with splendour.
Some pre so placid and serene
(As Irish bogs are always green)
They Meeo secure from wakmer
Didactic Pieces. 1*7
And are indeed a bog that bears
Your unparticipated cares,
Unmov'd and without quaking.
Courtier and patriot cannot mix
Their het'rogeneous politics,
Without an effervescence,
Like that of salts \vith k-mon juice,
Which does not vet like that produce
A friendly coalesc* nee.
Religion should extinguish strife,
And make a calm of" hum. m life ;
But friends that chance to differ
On points which God has ieit tit large,
How fiercely will they meet and charge,
No combatants are stiffcr !
To prove at last my main intent.
Needs no expense of argument,
No cutting and contriving
Seeking a real friend, we seem
T' adopt the chy mists golden dream,
With still less hope of thriving.
Sometimes the fault is all our own,
Some blemish in due time made known,
By trespass or omission ;
Sometimes occasion brings to light
Our friend's defect, long hid from sight,
And even from suspicion.
Then judge yourself, and prove your man
As circumspectly as you can ;
And having made election,
Beware no negligence of yours,
Such as a friend but ill endures,
Kn feeble his affection.
That secrets are a sacred trust,
That friends should be sincere and just,
That constancy befits them,
Are observations on the>case
That savour much of common place,
And all the world admits them.
But 'tis not timber, lead, and stone.
An architect requires alone,
To finish a fine building -
3 Sequel to the English Ret
The palace were but half complete,
If he could r-t
The carving any! ih< gilding.
The man tiuu hails you, Tom or Jack,
And proves, by thumps upon }our back,
How he esteems your merit,
Is such a fritnd, that one had need
Be very much his friend indeed,
To pardon or to bear it.
As similarity of mind,
Or something not to be defnvd,
First fixes our attention ;
So, manners decent and polite,
The same \ve practis'd at first sight,
Must save it from declension.
Some act upon this prudent plan,
" Say little and hear all you can j"
Safe policy but hateful
So barren sands imbibe the show'r,
But render neither fruit nor flowY,
Unpleasant and ungrateful.
The man I trust, if shy to me,
Shall find me as reserved as he,
No subterfuge or pleading
Shall win my confidence again ;
I will by no means entertain
A spy on my proceeding.
These samples for alas \ at last
These are but samples and a taste
Of evils yet unmention'd
May prove the task a task indeed,
In which 'tis much if we succ> eel,
However well-intention'd.
Pursue the search, and you will find,
Good sense and knowledge of mankind
To be at least expedient ;
And after summing all the rest,
Religion ruling in the breast,
A principal ingredient.
The noblest friendship ever shown,
The Saviour's history makes known,
Though some have turn'd and turn'd it :
Didactic Pieces. '179
And whether being craz'd or blind,
Or seeking with a bias'd mind,
Have not, it seems, discern'd it*
Oh Friendship ! if my soul forego
Thy dear delights while here below ;
To mortify and grieve me,
May I myself at last appear
Unworthy, base, and insincere,
Or may my friend deceive me ! COWPER.
SECTION in. Improvement of time recommended.
HE mourns the dead, who lives as they desire.
Where is that thrift, that avarice of Time,
(Blest av'rice !) which the thought of death inspires?
O time I than gold more sacred ; more a load
Than lead, to fools ; and fools reputed wise.
What moment granted man without account?
What years are squander'd, wisdom's debt unpaid ?
Haste, haste, he lies in wait, he's at the door,
Insidious death ; should his strong hand arrest,
No composition sets the prisoner free.
Eternity's inexorable chain
Fast binds ; and vengeance claims the full arrear.
How late I shudder'd on the brink ! how late
Life calFd for her last refuge in despair !
For \vhat calls thy disease? for moral aid.
Thou think'st it folly to be wise too soon*
Youth is not rich in time j it may be poor :
Part with it as with money, sparing; pay
No moment, but in purchase of its worth :
And what its worth, ask death-beds, they can tell.
Part with it as with life, reluctant; big
With holy hope of nobler time to come.
Is this our duty, wisdom, glory, gain ?
And sport we, like the natives of the bough,
When vernal suns inspire ? Amusement reigns.
Man's great demand : to trifle is to live:
And is it then a trifle, too, to die ?
Who wants amusement in the flame of battle ?
Is it not treason to the soul immortal,
Her foes in arms, eternity the prize ?
Will toys amuse, when medicines cannofe cure ?
*15
1 8O Sequd to the English Reader.
When spirits ebb, when life's enchanting sc,
Their lustre lose, and lessen in our sight ;
(As lands, and cities with their jjlitt'ring spires
To the poor shattered bark, by sudden storm
Thrown off to sea, and soon to perish there; )
Will toys amuse ? No : thrones will then be toys,
And earth and skies seem dust upon the scale.
Redeem we time ? its loss we dearly buy.
What pleads Lorenzo for his high-priz'd sports ?
He pleads time's numerous blanks ; he loudly pleads
The straw-like trifles on life's common stream.
From whom those blanks and trifles but from thee ?
No blank, no trifle, nature made or meant.
Virtue, or purpos'cl virtue, still be thine :
This cancels thy complaint at once ; this leaves
In act no trifle, and no blank in time,
This greatens, fills, immortalizes all :
This, the blest art of turning all to gold ;
This, the good heart's prerogative to raise
A royal tribute, from the poorest hours.
Immense revenue ! ev'ry moment pays.
It nothing more than purpose in thy pow'r,
Thy purpose firm, is equal to the deed :
Who does the best his circumstance allows,
Does well, acts nobly ; angels could no more.
Our outward act, indeed, admits restraint;
? Tis not in things o'er thought to domineer ;
Guard well thy thoughts ; our thoughts are heard in heav'c
On all important time, thro 5 ev'ry age,
Tho" much, and warm, the wise have urg'd ; the man
Is yet unborn, who duly weighs an hour.
u I've lost a day" the prince who nobly cried,
Had been an emperor without his crown.
He spoke, as if deputed by mankind.
So should all speak ; so reason speaks in all.
From the soft whispers of that God in man,
Why fly to folly, why to phn nzy fly,
For rescue from the blessing we possess ?
Time, the supreme ! Time is eternity ;
Prtgnant with all eternity can give,
Pregnant with all that makes arch-angels smile:
Who murders time, he crushes in the birth
A pow'r ethereal, only not ador'd. YOUNG.
(481 )
CHAPTER III. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES.
SECTIOIJ i. The Spring.
Lo ! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Fair Venus' train, appear ;
Disclose the long-expected fiow'rs *
And wake the purple year !
The Attic warbler pours her thro^,
Responsive to 'the cuckoo's note,
The untaught harmony of Spring ;
While, whispVing pleasure as tiw iljr,
Cool zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky
Tl^eir gatlur'd fragrance fling.
Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade ;
Where'erjthe rude and moss-grown beech
O'er-canopies the glade ;
Beside some water's rushy brink,
With me* the Muse shall sit and jtljfhk
^At ease reciin'd in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great !
Still is the toiling hand of care ;
The panting herds repose:
Yet, hark, how ihro' the peopled air.
The busy murmur glows !
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honeyM spring,
And float amid the liquid noon :'.
Some lightly o'er the current skim,
Some show their gaily-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.
To contemplation's sober eye
Such is the race of man ;
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began. .
Alike the busy and the gay-
Bat flutter thro' life's iittie day,
In fortune's varying colours drest :
BrushM by the hana of rough mischance,
Or chill'd by age, their airy dan.;.-
They leave in dust to rest* -GRAY*"
1 32 ScqiteTto the English Reader.
SECTION ir. Description o/' winter at Copenhagen,
FROM frozen climes, and endlessktr^cts of snow,
From streams thut northern winds forbid to Cow*
What present sliali tin- muse to Dorset bring,
Or how, so nea* the Pole, attempt to sing ?
Thr hoary winteV h-re conceals from sight
All pleasing oSjeqto that to verse invite.
The hills and rnp from pride :
But still that scrap is bought wiiii many a sigh,
And pride embitters what it can't dt n\ .
Say, ye oppressed by some fantastic woes,
Some jarring nerve that bafiles your repose ;
Who press the downy couch, whil advance
With timirl eye, to i >nt glance ;
Who with sad prax'rs I'IK ioaor tease
To name th' ase ;
AVh(; with mock -pat; ints endure,
Which real pain, and ai euic ;
Hovv would you h.:.r in
Despis'd, neglected, left aluue to d'u- ?
How would }t !)ear to draw \om latest breath,
Where all that's wretched pav-.s til*- way for death ?
Such is that room whi i one am divides,
A '.! naked rafters form the sloping si
Where the vile bands th.a bind thu are seen,
And lath and mud are all that lie between ;
Save one dull pane, that, coarsely patch'd, gives way
To the rude tempest, yet excludes the dny :
Here^on a matted flock, with dust o'crspread,
The Grooping wretch reclines his languid head.
For mm no hand the cordial cup applies,
Nor wipes the tear that stagnates hi his eyes ;
No friends with soft discourse his pain beguile,
Nor promise hope till sickness wears a smile, CR ABBE.
Descriptive Pieces.
SECTION TV. A Summer Evening*? Meditation.
" Oue sun by day, by night ten thousand shine.' 1 YOUNG,
'Tis past ! the sultry tyrant of the- south
Has spent his short-livM rage, More grateful hours
Move silent on. The -.kies no more repel
The dazzled sight ; hut, with mild maiden heams
Of tern pe r'd light, invite UK cherished eye
To wander oVr their sphere ; where, hung aloft,
Dianas bright crescent, like a silver hpvv
SVw strung in heav'n, lifts high its beamy horns,
[mpatient ior the night, und seems to push
HU-r brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines
E'en in the eye of day ; with sweetest beam
propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood r
Df soften'd radiance from her dewy locks.
The shadows spread apace ; while mceken'd eve,
tier cheek yet warm with blu hes, slow retires
Thro' the Hesperian gardens of the west,
And shuts the gates of day. 'Tis now the hour
hen contemplation, from her sunless haunts,
The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth
Df unpierc'd woods, where, wrapt in silent shade,
She mus'd away the gaudy hours of noon,
And fed on thoughts unripen'd by the sun,
Vloves forward ; and with radiant finger points
To yon blue concave, swell'd by breath divine,
/Vhere, one by one, the living eyes of heav'n
\wake, quick kindling oVr the face of ether
3ne boundless blaze ; ten thousand trembling fires,
And dancing lustres, where th' unsteady eye,
Restless and dazzled, wanders uncoufin'd
O'er all this field of glories : spacious field,
And worthy of the Master ! he whose hand,
/Vith hieroglyphics elder than the Nile,
nscrib'd the mystic tablet, hung on high
[]o public gaze ; and said, Adore, O man,
The finger of thy God! From what pure wells
Of milky light, what soft o'erfiowing urn,
Are all these lamps so fill'd ? these friendly lamps,
7 or ever streaming o'er the azure deep,
To point our path, and light us to our home.
190 Scqurl to the English Reader.
How soft they slide along their lucid spheres!
And, silent as tlv j loot ol .161
Their destin'd c hush'd,
And, but a sea'* . M/
The thick-wove
To br ak ;!T. n>i ear,
Intensely listening, drinks in i
How deep the silence. ^ praise!
But are they siK -; : not
A tongiu. in ev'ry star that talks with man.
And woos him t nor woos in vain :
This dead of midnig; p.oon ot" thought,
And wisdom mounis her zenith with the s
At this still hour the self-collected soul
Turns inward, an -tranter there
Of high descent, and more than moral rank ;
An mbryo God ; a spark of fire divine,
Which must burn on for ages, when the sun
(Fair transitory creaUire of a day '.)
Has clos'd his golden eye, and, wrapt in shades,
Forgets his wonted journey thro" the east.
Ye citadels of light, and seats of bliss !
Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul,
Revolving periods past, may oft look back,
With recollected tenderness, on all
The various busy scenes she left below,
Its deep-laid projects, and its strange events,
As on some fond and doting tale that sooth'd
Her infant hours. O be it lawful now
To tread the hallow'd circle of your courts,
And, with mute wonder and delighted awe,
Approach your burning confines ! Seiz'd in thought,
On fancy's wild and roving wing I sail
From trie green borders of the peopled earth,
And the pale moon, her duteous fair attendant;
From solitary Mars ; from the vast orb
Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk
Dances in ether like the lightest leaf;
To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system,
Where cheerless Saturn, 'midst his wat'ry moons.
Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp,
Sits like an exii'd monarch. Fearless thence
Descriptive Pieces. 191
I launch into the trackless deeps ot space,
Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear,
Of elder beam ; which ask no leave to shine
Ol our terrt stial star, nor borrow light
From the proud regent of our scanty day :
Sons of the morning, first-born of creation,
And <>nlv less than he who marks their track,
And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop,
Or is there au^ht beyond ? What hand unseen
Impels me onward, thro' the glowing orbs
Of habitable nature, far remote,
To tht- dread confines of eternal night.
To solitudes of vast unpeopled space,
The deserts of creation, wide and wild,
Where embryo systems and unkinciled suns
Sleep in the womb of chaos ? Fancy droops,
And thought astonish'd stops her bold career.
But, oh, thou mighty MIND ! whose powerful word
Said, Thus let all things be, and thus they were,
Where shall I seek thy presto ? how, unblam'd,
Invoke thy dread perfection ?
H ive the ? broad eye lids of the morn beheld thee
Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion.
Support thy throne ? O look with pity down
On erring, guilty man ! not in thy names
Of terror clad; not with those thunders arm'd
That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appall'd
The scattered tribes : ihou hast a gentler voice,
That whispers comfort to the swelling heart,
Ab,'ish'd, yet longing to behold her Maker.
But now my soul, unus'd to stretch her pow'rs
In flight so daring, drops her weary wing,
And seeks again tht known accustom'd spot,
Drest up w'uh sun, and shade, and lawns, and streams ?
A mansion fair and spacious for its guest,
And full replete with wonders. Let me here,
Content and grateful, wait th' appointed time,
And ripen for the skies: the hour will come
When all these splendours bursting on my sight
Shall stand unveilM, and to my ravish'd sense
Unlock the glories of the world unknown. JBAJIBA:
192 Sequel to the English Reader.
SECTION vii. Cheerfulness.
FAIR as the dawning light! auspicious guest,
Source of all comfort to the human breast !
Depriv'd of thee, in sad despair we moan,
And tedious roll the heavy moments on.
Though beauteous objects all around us rise,
To charm the fancy, and delight the eyes ;
Tho* art's fair works and nature's gifts conspire
To please each sense, and satiate each desire,
'Tis joyless all till thy enlivening ray
Scatters the melancholy gloom away.
Then opens to the soul a heavenly scene,
Gladness and peace, all sprightly, all serene.
Where dost thou deign, say, in what blest retreat,
To choose thy mansion, and to fix thy seat ?
Thy sacred presence how shall we explore ?
Can av'rice gain thee with her golden store ?
Can vain ambition, with her boasted charms,
Tempt thee within her wide-extended tirms ?
No, with Content alone canst thou ab'de,
Thy sister, ever smiling by thy side.
When boon companions, void of ev'ry care, "1
Crown the full bowl, and the rich banquet share, S-
And give a loose to pleasure art thou there ? J -
Or when the assembled great and fair advance
To celebrate the mask, the play, the dance,
Whilst beauty spreads its sweetest charms around, ~J
And airs ecstatic swell their tuneful sound,
Art thou within the pompous circle found ? J
Does not thy influence more sedately shine ?
Can such tumultuous joys as these be thine ?
Surely more mild, more constant in their course,
Thy pleasures issue from a nobler source ;
From sweet discretion ruling in the breast,
From passions tempered, and from lusts represt ;
From thoughts unconscious of a. guilty smart,
And the calm transports of an honest heart.
Thy aid, O ever faithful, ever kind !
Thro' life, thro' death, attends the virtuous mind;
Of angry fate wards from us ev'ry blow,
Cures/ Vry ill, and softens ev'ry wo.
Whatever good our mortal state desires,
Descriptive Pieces. 19 J
What wisdom finds, or innocence inspires ;
From nature's bounteous hand whatever flows,
Whatever our Maker's providence bestows,
By thee mankind enjoys ; by thee repays
A grateful tribute of perpetual praise.- FITSGLRALD,
SECTION VIH. -Providence.
Lo ! now the ways of heavVs eternal King
To man are open !
Review them and adore ! Hear the loud voice
Of Wisdom sounding in her works ! a Attend,
Ye sons of men ! ye children of the dust,
Be wise ! Lo ! I was present, when the Sire
Of heav'n pronounced his fiat ; when his eye
Glanc'd thro' the gulf of darkness, and his hand
Fashion'd the rising universe : I saw,
O'er the fair lawns, the heaving mountains raise
Their pine-clad spires ; and down the shaggy cliff
I gave the rill to murmur. The rough mounds
That bound the madd'ning deep ; the storm that roars
; Along the desert ; the volcano fraught
With burning brimstone ; I prescribe their ends.j
I rule the rushing winds, and, on their wings
Triumphant, walk the tempest. To my call
Obsequious bellows the red bolt, that tears
The cloud's thin mantle, when the gushing show'r
Descending copious bids the desert bloom."
u I gave to man's dark search superior light ;
And clear d dim reason's misty view, to mark
His pow'rs, as through revolving ages tried,
They rose not to his Maker. Thus prepar'd
To know how distant rom his narrow ken
The truths by heav'n reveal'd, my hand displayed
The plan fair-op'ning, where each nobler view,
That swells th' expanding heart ; each glorious hope ?
That points ambition to its goal ; each aim.
That stirs, exalts, and animates desire ;
Pours on the mind's wrapt sight a noon-tide ray."
" Nor less in life employed, 'tis mint- to raise
The desolate of heart ; to bend the brow
Of stubborn pride, to bid reluctant ire
Subside ; to tame rude nature to the rein
192 Sequel to the English Reader.
SECTION vn. Cheerfulness.
FAIR as the dawning light! auspicious guest,
Source of all comfort to the human breast !
Depriv'd of thee, in sad despair we moan,
And t'.dious roll the heavy moments on.
Though beauteous objects all around us rise,
To charm the fancy, and delight the eyes ;
Tho* art's fair works and nature's gifts conspire
To please each sense, and satiate each desire,
v fis joyless all till thy enlivening ray
Scatters the melancholy gloom away.
Then opens to the soul a heavenly scene,
Gladness and peace, all sprightly, all serene.
Where dost thou deign, say, in what blest retreat,
To choose thy mansion, and to fix thy seat ?
Thy sacred presence how shall we explore ?
Can av'rice gain thee with her golden store ?
Can vain ambition, with her boasted charms,
Tempt thee within her wide-extended *irms ?
No, with Content alone canst thou ab'de,
Thy sister, ever smiling by thy side.
When boon companions, vo'ui of ev'ry care, "Y
Crown the full bowl, and the rich banquet share, V
And give a loose to pleasure art thou there ? J *
Or when the assembled great and fair advance
To celebrate the mask, the play, the dance,
Whilst beauty spreads its sweetest charms around,
And airs ecstatic swell their tuneful sound,
Art thou within the pompous circle found ?
Does not thy influence more sedately shine ?
Can such tumultuous joys as these be thine ?
Surely more mild, more constant in their course,
Thy pleasures issue from a nobler source ;
From sweet discretion ruling in the breast,
From passions tempered, and from lusts represt ;
From thoughts unconscious of a -guilty smart,
And the calm transports of an honest heart.
Thy aid, O ever faithful, ever kind !
Thro'" life, thro' death, attends the virtuous mind;
Of angry fate wards from us ev'ry blow,
Cures/ Vry ill, and softens ev'ry wo.
Whatever good our mortal state desires,
Descriptive Pieces. 19 J
What wisdom finds, or innocence inspires ;
From nature's bounteous hand whatever flows,
Whatever our Maker's providence bestows,
By thee mankind enjoys ; by thee repays
A grateful tribute of perpetual praise. FITSGERALO>
SECTION VIH. -Providence.
Lo ! now the ways of heav'n's eternal King
To man are open 1
Review them and adore ! Hear the loud voice
Of Wisdom sounding in her works ! u Attend,
Ye sons of men ! ye children of the dust,
Be wise ! Lo ! I was present, when the Sire
Of heav'n pronounc'd his fiat ; when his eye
Glanc'd thro' the gulf of darkness, and his hand
Fashion'd the rising universe^: I saw,
O'er the fair lawns, the heaving mountains raise
Their pine-clad spires ; and down the shaggy cliff
I gave the rill to murmur. The rough mounds
That bound the madd'ning deep ; the storm that roars.
Along the desert ; the volcano fraught
With burning brimstone ; I prescribe their ends.j
I rule the rushing winds, and, on their wings
Triumphant, walk the tempest. To my call
Obsequious bellows the red bolt, that tears
The cloud's thin mantle, when the gushing show'r
Descending copious bids the desert bloom. "
u I gave to man's dark search superior light ;
And clear'd dim reason's misty view, to mark
His pow'rs, as through revolving ages tried,
They rose not to his Maker. Thus prepar'd
To know how distant roin his narrow ken
The truths by heav'n reveal'd, my hand displayed
The plan fair-op'ning, where each nobler view,
That swells th' expanding heart ; each glorious hope ?
That points ambition to its goal ; each aim.
That stirs, exalts, and animates desire ;
Pours on the mind's wrapt sight a noon-tide ray."
u Nor less in life employ'd, 'tis mint- to raise
The desolate of heart ; to bend the brow
Oi stubborn pride, to bid reluctant ire
Subside ; to tame rude nature to the rein
: cqud to the English Reader.
Ot virtue. What tho% screened from mortal view,
I walk the deep'ning ^loom ? What tho' my w;r, s,
Remote from tlv '>ewilder'd search, are wrapt
Li triple darkness ? Yet I work the springs
Ot life, and to the genVal good direct
Th'obsequious means to move. O ye, who toss'd
On life's tumultuous ocean, eye the sh
Yet far remov'd ; and wish the happy hour,
When slumber on her downy couch shall lull
Your cares to s v awhile,
And I will jvuide you to the balmy climes
Of rest ; will by the silver stream
Crown'd with elvsian bow'rs, where p nds
Her blooming olive, and the temp.
Its killing blast no m
i irj ; thus calls him thro i :. il form
Of nature, thro' R Tigion's ftilier noon,;
Thro' lii lYuig mazes ; to observe
LVIE.
,T10S IX. '.. i '-/,'/.
AT the destinM hour,
By the loud charge,
S(-e, dl tile i r .
Eruptions, earthquakes, Cf htnings, play
Th< r 'lies ; all at once disj;
Their hlaz.ng jnag-tzir.es : and take by storm
rrestrial tit d 1 or man.
A -i-izing period ! \vhen e ch n- untain-height
Oui-burns Vesurius ; rocks eternal pour
Their melted mass, as rivers once they pour'd ;
Strirs rush ; and final ruin fiercely drives
Her ploughshare O\T creation ! while aloft,
M >r than astonishment ! if more can '
Far other firmament than -Vr was seen,
Th'-in e'er was- thought by man ! far other stars L
S animate, that govern these of fire ;
Far other suv ! A su>, O how unlike
The bain j m I "Mow unlike the man
That groan'd on Calvary ! Yet HE it is ;
Thcit man of sorrov.-s ! O how changVi ! what pomp !
In grandeur terrible, all heav'n descends :
Descriptive Pieces. 1
A swift archangel, with his golden wing,
As blots and clouds, that darken and disgrace
The scene divine, sweeps stars and suns aside.
And now, all dross removed, heavVs own pure day,
Full on the confines of our ether, flames :
While, (dreadful contrast !) far, how far beneath !
Hell, bursting, brlches forth her blazing seas,
And storms sulphureous ; her voracious jaws
Expanding wide, and roaring for her prey.
At midnight, when mankind is wrapp'd in peace,
And worldlv fancy feeds on golden dreams,
Man, starting from his couch, shall sleep no more !
The day is broke, which never more shall close !
Above, around, beneath, amazement all !
Terror and glorv joined in their ex.remes !
Oar God in grandeur, and our world on fire !
All nature struggling in the pangs of death !
}j,t thou not hear her ? dosjt thou not deplore
Her strong convulsions, and her final groan ?
Where are we now ? Ah me I the ground is gone
On which we stood! Lorenzo I while thou mayst,
Provide more firm support, or sink for ever!
Where ? how ' from whence ? vain hope ! it is too late f
Where, where, for shelter, shall the guilty fly,
When consternation turns the good man pale ?
Great day ! for which all other days were made ;
For which earth rose from chaos ; man from earth ;.
And an eternity, the date of gods,
Descended on poor earth-created man !
Great day of dread decision, and despair !
At thought of thee, each sublunary wish
Lets go its eager grasp, and drops the world ;
And catches at each reed of hope m heav'n.
Already is begun the grand assize,
In us,fin all: deputed conscience scales
The dread tribunal, and forestalls our doom ;
Forestalls ; and, by forestalling, proves it sure.
Why on himself should man void judgment pass?
Is idle nature laughing at her sons ?
Who conscience sent, her sentence will support,
And God above assert that God in man.
Thrice happy they, that enter now the court
Sequel to the English Reader.
Heaven opens in their bosoms; hut how rare!
Ah me! th.it magnanimity, how ran !
What hero, like the man who stands himself?
Who dares to meet his naked heart alone ;
Who hears intrepid the lull charge it brings,
R-jsoh M t< silence i'.iuire murmurs there ?
The coward flies, and, fl\ \ j. is undone.
Sh;ill man alone, uh ^e final fate,
Hangs on that hour, exclude it from his thought?
I think of nothing else ; J set- ! I leel it !
All n.it-.ire, lik- ,;ii earthquake, trembljtog round !
I see the Judge en'hronM! the flaming guard!
The volume o; enM ! npcn'd ev'ry heart!
A sun I) ret thought !
No patron! intercessor none! now past
Tli-- s-.viet, the clement, mediatorial hour!
For guilt no plea! to pain, no pause ! no bound,
Inexhorable, all ! and all e
Nor man alone ; the foe of God and mar.
From his dark d-n, blaspheming, drars his chain,
And rears h -i front, with thunder scarr'd.
"Like meteors in a stormy sky, how roll
His baleful eyes 1 he curses whom he dreads ;
And deems it the first moment of his fall. YOUNG.
CHAPTER IV. PATHETIC PIECES.
SECTION i. Hymn to Humanity.
PARENT of virtue, if thine ear
Attend not now to sorrow's cry;
If now the pity-streaming tear
S ould haply on thy cheek be dry ;
Indulge my votiv strain, O sweet Human
Come, ever welcome to my breast,
A t'-nder, but a cheerful guest !
Nor i-i-.vays in the gloomy cell
Of life-consuming sorrow dwell ;
For sorrow, long indulged and slow,
Is to Humanity a foe ;
And grief, that makes the heart its prey,
Wears sensibility away.
Then comes, sweet nymph, instead of thee,
Pathetic Pieces.
The gloomy fiend Stupidity.
O may that fiend be banish'd far,
Though passions hold perpetual war !
Nor ever let me cease to know
The pulse that throbs at joy or wo*
N'>r let my vacant cheek be dry,
When sorrow fills a brother's eye ;
Nor may the tear that frequyn flows,
From private or from social woes,
E'er make this pleasing sense depart :
Ye cares, O harden not my heart I
If the fair star of iortune smile,
Let not its flutt'ring pow'r beguile ;
Nor, borne along the fav'ring tide,
My full sails swell with bloating pride,
Let me from wealth but hope content,
Hernemb'riag still it was but lent ;
To modest merit spread my store,
Unbar my hospitable door ;
Nor feed, for pomp, ah idle train,
Whilf want unpitied pines in vain.
-If Heav'n, in ev'ry purpose wise,
The envied lot of wealth denies ;
If doom'd to drag life's painful load
Through poverty's uneven road,
And, for the due bread of the day,
D; j stin'd to toil as well as pray ;
To thee, Humanity, still true,
I'll wish the good I cannot do ;
And give the wretch, that passes by,
A soothing word a tear a sigh.
Hovve'er exalteji or deprcst,
Be ever mine the feeling breast.
From me remove the stagnant mind
OJ- languid indolence, reclin'd ;
Tlu- ,5011! that one long sabbath keeps,
And through the sun's whole circle sleeps ;
Dull peace, that dwells in foP-'s eye,
And self-attending vanity,
Alike the foolish and the vain
Are strangers to the sense humane.
O for that sympathetic glow
108 Sequel to the English Reader.
Which taught th hnly tear to flovy,
When the prophetic eye survey 'd
Sion in future ashes laid ;
Or, i ais'd to Heav'n Hhpior'd the bread
That thousands in th- desert fed !
O;, when the heart o'er friendship's grave
Bigh'd and forgot its pow'r to save
for that sympathetic glow,
Which taught the holy tear to flow !
It comes : it fills mv laboring breast,
1 feel my beating heart opprest.
Oh ! hear thai lonely widow's wail !
See her dim eye ; her aspect pale !
To Heav'n she turns in deep despair ;
Her infants wonder at her prayV,
And, mingling tears, they know not why.
Lilt up their little hands and cry.
O Lord ! thi-ir moving sorrows see !
Support them, sweet Humanity ! ^
Life, filPd with griefs distressful train,
F<-r ever asks he tear humane.
Behold in yon unconscious grove
The victims of ill-fated 1cm- !
Heard you that agonizing throe ?
Sure this is not romantic wo ! >
The golden day of joy is o'er
And now they part to meet no more.
Assist them, hearts from anguish free !
Assist them, sweet Humanity \
Parent of virtue, if thine ear
Attend not now to sorrow's cry ;
If now the pity-streaming tear
Should haply on thy cheek be dry,
Indulge m) votive strain, O sweet Humanity !
LAMGHORNE.
SECTION ii. A night-piece on dec.
BY the blue taper's trembling light,
No more 1 waste the wakeful night,
Int* nt with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the sages o'er :
Their books from wisdom widely stray,
Pathetic Pieces* 199
Or point at bc-st the longest way.
I'li seek a readi :V p-.ith, and go
Where wisdom's surely taught below.
How deep yon azure dies the, sky !
Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie,
While through their ranks in silver pride
The nether crescent seems to glide.
The slumb'ring breeze forgets to breathe >
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire :
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night ;
There pass with melancholy state,
By all trie solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly -sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,
" Time was, like thee, they life possest,
And time shall be, that thou shah rest."
Those graves with bending osier bound.
That nameless heave the crumbled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought disclose
Where toil and poverty repose.
The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chisel's slender help to fame ;
(Which, ere our set of friends decay,
Their frequent steps may wear away ;)
A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones,
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones,
These, (all the poor remains of state)
Adorn the rich or praise the great ;
Who while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give.
17
> Sequel to the
Ha ! while I gaze, pale Cynthia l.i
The bursting eai t|
All slow and wan, and -wr^pp'd with shrouds.
They rise in visionary cro\\i
And all with M.in r ac. ent cry,
"Think, Mort.il, \. h.t it is to die.
Now iroiu yon black and fun'
That h;u.
Metninka 1 in ;
(Y ..!in,
Yt toiling cl<
OVr tin long Inke ,.nd mi<.,M'.>Jit ground;}
It sends a peal of \v
Thus speaking fr acs.
u When iru n my
Hou great a kmg ol I !
The) view n :gs :
Tiny make, js.
Fools ! it von ars,
No more m\
D ath's but a patli tli
' : .
A port of cal.
From th
" Whv
Dee}^
Loose scarts : L ds,
I, ng palls, di n t ds,
And pi i.' tread,
Nod o'er the scutcheons of the dead ?"
u X'>r can the partrd body know,
Nor wants the s:>ui, these forms of wo ;
As men who long in prison clwdl,
With lamps that glimmer round the cell,
Whene'er their saffVing years are run,
Spring ibrth to greet the glitt'ring s-.m ;
Such jov, tho' far transcending sense,
Have pious souls at parting hence,
On earth, and in the body plac'd,
A few and evil years they waste ;
But when their chains are cast aside,
See the glad scene unfolding wide,
Pathetic Pieces. 201
Clap the glad wing, and tow'r, away,
And mingle with the blaze of day." PARNELL.
SECTION in. In every condition of life, praise is due to
the Creator.
PRAISE to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days ;
Bounteous source of ev'ry joy,
Let thy praise our tongues tin ploy :
For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield,
F'-r the vine's exalted juice,
For the gen'rous olive's use.
Flocks -thai whiten all the plain ;
Yellow sheaves of ripen'd grain ;
Clouds that drop their fat'ning dews ;
Suns that temp'rate warmth diffuse ;
All that spring, with bounteous hand.
Scatters o'er the smiling land j
All that lib'ral autumn pours,
From her rich overflowing stores :
These to thee, my God, we owe,
Source from whence all blesbings flow ;
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows, and solemn praise.
Yet, should rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem the rip'ning ear ;
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot ^
Drop her green, untimely fruit ;
Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store ;
Though the sick'ning flocks should fall,
And the herds desert the stall ;
Should thine alter'cl hand r, strain
The early and the latter rain ;
Blast each opening bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy ;
Y^t, to thee my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise ;
And, when ev'ry blessing's flown,
Love the'e for thyself alone. -BARB AULD,
'i Reader.
SECTION iv. Folly of human fwfsuil
tb ,.t hnivl divin , v, ,itly laid
My heart at rest he ( i
The ^g'rous seas,
"With ]/: ,.t our peril.
Hi > shore,
I hear the tumult of
As that ms ;
Ad medita: ut still ;
Puisne n ah.
Hi u,
.-laff,
r am bill
I see the ci relic; i.-n
.juls of ri
for rapim- ; as ilu- lox, tin- wiKs ;
Till dt-a'.h, thin mighty hunter, earths them all.
\\"hy all this toil ior triumphs of an hour ?
Whnt, tl; . ..or soar in lame,
/s highest station ends in, " here he Ii.
And u dust to di.st" concludes her noblest song.
If this song 1 \ shall know
One, tho 1 in Britain born, with courtiers bred,
Who thought e'en gold might come a day too late -,
Nor on his subtle death- bed planu'd his scheme
For future vacancies in church, or state ;
Some avocation deeming it to die ;
Unbit by rage canine ol dying rich ;
Guilt's blunder ! and the loudest laugh of hell.
O my coevals ! remnant of yourselves !
Poor human ruins, tottering o'er the grave I
Shall we, shall aged men, like aged trees,
Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling,
Still more enamour'd of this wretched soil ?
Shall ov pale, wither'd hands be still strctch'd out,
Trembling, at once, with eagerness and age ?
With av'rice, and convulsions grasping hard ?
Giasping at air ! for what has earth beside ?
M ;n wants but little ; nor that little long :
How soon must he resign his very dust,
Which frugal nature lent him for an hour !>
Pathetic Pieces.
Years unexperienc'd rush on numerous ills ;
And soon u, man, expert from time, hits found
Thr key of life, it opes the gates of death.
When in this vale of years I backward look,
And miss such numbers, numbers too of such,
Firmer in health, and greener in their age,
And stricter on their guard, and filter far
To play life's subtle game, I scarce believe
I still survive : and am I fond of life,
Who scarce can think it possible I live ?
Alive by miracle ! if still alive,
Who long have bury'd what gives life to live ?
Firmness of nerve, and energy of thought.
Life's lee is not more shallow, than impure,
And vapid ; sense and reason show the door,
Call for my bier, and point me to the dust.
thou great Arbiter of life and death !
N mire's immortal, immaterial sun !
Whose all-prolific beam late call'd me forth
From darkness, teeming larkness, where I lay
The worm's inferior, and, in rank, beneath
The dust J tread on, high to bear my brow,
To drink the spirit of the golden day,
And triumph in existence ; and could *st know
No motive, but my bliss ; with Abraham's joy,
Thy call I follow to the land unknown ;
1 trust in thee, and know in whom I trust :
Or lite, or- death, is equal ; neither weighs ;
All weight in this O let me live to thee I "
SECTION v. An address to the Deny.
GOD of my life, and Author of my days !
Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise ;
And trembling take upon a mortal tongue
That hallow'd name to harps of seraphs sung :
Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more
Thm hide their faces, tremble, and adore.
"WWms. angels, men, in every different sphere,
Are equal all, for all are nothing here.
All nature faints beneath the mighty name,
Which nature's works, thro' ail her parts proclaim.
*17
204 Sequel* to the English Reader.
I feel that name my inmost thoughts control,
And breathe an awful stillness through my soul :
As l>y a charm, the waves of grief subside ;
Impetuous passion stops her headlong tide.
At thy felt presence all emotions cease,
And my hush'd spirit finds a sudden peace ;
Till ev'ry worldly thought within me dks,
And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eves :
Till all my sense is Just in infinite,
And one vast object fills my aching sight.
But soon, alas ! this holy calm is broke ;
Mv soul submits to wear her wonted yoke ;
With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain,
And mingk-s with the dross of earth again.
But he, our gracious Master, kind as just,
Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust.
His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind,
Sees the first wish to better hopes inclin'd ;
Marks the young dawn of ev'ry virtuous aim,
And fans the smoking flax into a flame.
His ears are open to the softest t
His grace descends to meet the lifted eye ;
lie reads the Lmguage of a silent tear,
And sighs are incense from a heart sincere.
Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give ;
Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live :
From each terrestrial bondage set me free ;
Still ev'ry wish that centres not in thee ;
Bid my fond hopes, my v. in disquiets cease,
And point my path to everlasting peace.
If the soft hand of winning pleasure leads
B\ living waters, and thro' flow'ry meads,
When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene,
And vernal brainy paints the flatt'ring scene,
Oh ! teach me to elude each latent snare,
And whisper to my sliding heart Beware !
Will caution let me hear the Syren's voice,
And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice.
If triendhss, in a vale of tears I stray,
Where briars wound, and thorns perplex my way,
Still let my steady soul thy goodness see,
And with strong confidence lay hold on thee ;
Pathetic Pieces.
With- equal eye my various lot receive,
KesignM u) die, or resolute to liv
PreparM to kiss the sceptre or the rod,
While God is seen in all, and all in God.
I read his awlul name emblazon'd high
With golden letters on th' illumined sky ;
Nor U ss the mystic characters i see,
Wrought in each flowV, inscribM on ev'ry tree r
In evVy leaf that trembles to the breeze,
I hear the voice of God among the trees.
With thee in shady solitudes I walk,
With thee in busy crowded cities talk ;
In ev'ry creature own thy forming powV ;
In each event thy providence adore :
Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul,
Thv precepts guide me, and thy fear control.
Thus shall I rest unmov'd by all alarms,
Secure within the temple of thine arms, ;
From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free,
And feel myself omnipotent in thee.
Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh,
And earth recedes before my swimming eye ;
When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate
I st mcl, and stretch my view to either state j
T . h me to quit this transitory scene,
With decent triumph, and a look serene ;
Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high,
And, having liv'd to thee, in thee to die. BARBAULD*
SECTION vi A monody on the death of lady Ly tie it on.
AT length escap'cl from ev'iy human ey,
From evVy duty, ev'ry care,
That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
Or iorce my tears their flowing stream t .> dry ;
Beneath the gloom of this embow'ring shade,
This lone retreat, for tendtr sorrow made,
I now may give my burden V ho srt relief,
And pour forth all my stores of grief ;
Of griff surpassing evVy othi r v\ o.
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind btstovv,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move ? '
Sequel to the EiigHsli Reader.
Our pfross desires, in
mg rills,
Y : .l([s,
u ith prrpi lual green,
Oft have you mv Lucy seen!
But never shall \ I i In r more :
N-ir will hi- now, \\ ith i .;!it,
An Tm'd,your rural xplore.
ClosM are those bea- j night,
Those beauteous eves \vi ,hine
Reason's pu: divine.
In vain I look around,
well- known ground,
iNIy F.ury^ -teps to d
Where oit M ) \valk ;
re oft ii
\vn the sky ;
fountain
N'
Along the v; lound ;
In a ..pie bound,
No more my mournful i
Can -uight ' py,
But the sad sacn-d ea?-th ; - . clear rt lies lie.
O shades of Hagley, where is now your boast ?
Your bright inhabit tnt is lost.
Yon she preferred to all the gay resorts,
W-t-re i. nity might u ish to shine,
T!i<- [ omp of cities, and the pride of courts.
Her mo.Vst beauti'-s shurta'd the public eye :
To vour seque- c tr < - ? J dales
And fiower embroider'd vales,
From nn admiring world she chose to fly '
\Vi f h Nat-ire tlvrr retired, and Nature's God,
The silent paths of wisdom trod,
And hanish'd every passion irorn hrr breast;
But those, the gentlest and the best,
Wives' holy flames, with energy divine,
The vimior. id improve,
The copjup^d ;md the maternal love.
1 wno, -'.L the littU 'hyi'ul fawns,
Were wont to^rip along these verdant lawns,
Pathetic Pieces. 207
Bv your delighted mother's side,
Who now vour infant steps ^h.dl guide?
Ah ! where, is now the hand, who* e ten i r care
TV) ev'rv virtue would have form'd your youth,
And strew M with flow'rs the thorny ways of truth ?
O loss hevond repair !
O wr< tch'.-d <:ith< r ! left alone,
To weep th.-ir dire misfortune^ and thv own !
How sh .\\\ thv .vcik" i op^reRs'd with
And drooping o'e^$jj> ;L ; i v's ejrave,
Perform the duties||? we,
N'iw she, .Js8HR v >ne,
From i 1 ^MjSBf^ thrir helpless age to "save ?
Oh! ho\- .-fagSPFiiii of !ii-r niinrl and face
W >s hrL^pPn -s, h\- the world refin'd,
Leave all the taint nf .modish vice behind,
And make e;>ch ch r n of po^ish'd courts agree
With candid truth's simplicity,
And uncof runted innocence !
To cfrr-at. to more th^n manlv sense,
She join'd the sofVning influence
Of more than female tenderness.
How, in the thoughtless ^avs of wealth indjoy,
Which oft the care of others' good destroy,
Her kindly- melting heart,
To everv want, and every wo,
To guilt itself when in distress,
The balm of pitv would impart,
And all relief that bounty c >uld bestow!
E'en for the kid or lamb, that pourM its life
Beneath the bloody knife*,
Her gentle tears would fall;
Tears, from sweet virtue's source, benevolent to all.
Not only good and kind,
But strong -nd elevated was her mind :
A spirit that, with noble pride,
Could look superior down
On fortune's smile or fro-n ;
That could, without regret or pain,
the English Header.
To virtue's lowest duty sacrifice
Or intt n st or amh'n hcst prize ;
Thar, iujur'd or offended, never tried
Its li'/nity by vengeance to maintain,
Bur hv magna.iimous disdain.
A \\ \f that, L mperatc ly bright-,
With inoffensive light,
All pie ,ne ; nor ever passM
Th d< (. 'U b >i:;uls that wisdom's sober hand,
An voknce's mild command,
And bashful modest- it cast.
A prudence ^ ing, undvceiv'd,
r too much believ'd ;
That scorn VI UP icion's co\v;.rd K-ar,
And, without \veakncss, knew to re.
Such Lucy \ n in her iairest days,
Amidst tlv acclaim of universal praise.
In life's and glory's freshest bloom,
Death came rt morsrlfss on, and sunk her to the tomb*
So, when- the silent streams of Liris glide,
In the soft bosom of Campama'b vale,
When no\v the uint'ry tempests all are fled,
1 summer br< r g- ntle gale,
The verdant orange lifts its beauteous head;
From evVy branch the balmy flow'rets rise,
On ev'ry U)iigh the golden fruits are seen ;
With* odours sweet it fills the smiling ski
The wood-nymphs tend it, and th* Id aii an queen :
But, in the mid^t of all its blooming pride,
A sudden Mast from Apenninus blows,
Cold with perpetual snows ;
The tender-b!i>;hted plant shrinks up its leaves, and dies*
O best of women 1 dearer far to me
Than when, in blooming life,
My lips firsr call'd thee wife j
H can my soul endure the loss of thee ?
Ho v, in the world, to me a desert grown,
Abandoned and alone,
Without my sweet companion can I live ?
Without thy lovely smile,
The dear reward of evVy virtuous toil,
Wh.it pleasures now can pail'd ambition give :
Pathetic^ Pieces. 209
E'en the delightful sense of well-earn'd praise,
UnsharM by ther, no more my lifeless thoughts could raise.
For my distracted mind
What succour can I find ?
On whom tor consolation shall I call ?
Support me, ev'ry friend ;
Your kind assistance lend,
To bear the weight of this oppressive wo.
Alas ? each friend of mine,
My dear departed love, so much was thine,
That none has any comfort to bestow.
My books, the best relief
In evVv other grief,
Are now with your idea sadden" 1 d all :
lUiich f w'rite author we together read
My tortur'd mem'ry wounds, and speaks of Lucy dead.
We were the happiest pair of human kind :
The rolling year its various course perform'd,
And back returned again ;
Another, and another, smiling came,
And saw our happiness unchanged remain.
Still in her golden chain
Harmonious concord did our wishes bind :
Our studies, pleasures, taste, the same,
O fatal, fatal stroke !
Thai all this pleasing fabric love had raisM
Of rare felicity,
On which e'en wanton vice with envy gaz'J,
And ev'ry scheme of bliss our hearts had rorra'd,
With soothing hope for many a future day,
In one sad moment broke !
Yet, O my soul ! thy rising murmur stay ;
Nor dare th' all-wise Disposer to arraign,
Or against his supreme decree
With impious grief complain.
That all thy full-blown joys at once should fade.
Was his most righteous willand be that will obey\I.
Would thy fond love his grace to her control ;
And, in these low abodes of sin and pain,
Her pure exalted soul,
Unjustly, for thy partial good, detain ?
No rather strive '-thy 'grov'Ilmg mind to raise
210 Sequel to the English Rc<
Up to that unclouded blaze,
That heav'nh radiance of eternal light,
\xhich i-i- tin on d, she now with pity si
How frail, how UISLCUIV, liow slight,
Is every mortal bliss :
Ev'n love its< If, if rising by degrees
Beyond the bounds oi this imperfect state.,
Whose fleeting joya so soon must end,
It c to its sovereign good ascend.
Rise then, my soul, with hope elate,
And seek those regions of serene delight,
\\';IO-K- peaceful p.ith, and ever-open g^rr,
No feet but those of hardened guilt shall miss ;
There death himself thy Lucy shall restore ;
'liiere yield up all his pow'r, ne'er to divide you more
LORD LYTTELTON.
CHAPTER V. PROMISCUOUS PIECES.
SECTION i. Hymn to contentment.
LOVELY, lasting peace of mind!
Sweet 'elight of human kind !
Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the fa v 'rites of the sky,
With more of happiness below,
Thau victors in a triumph know I
Whither, oh whither art thuu fli cl,
To lay thy meek contented head ?
V T hat happy region dost thou please
To make the Scat of calm and ease ?
Ambition searches all its sphere
Oi pomp and state to meet thee there
Increasing avarice would find
Thy presence in its gold inshrin'd :
The bold adventurer ploughs his way
Through rocks, amidst the foaming sea,
To gain thy love ; and then perceives
Thou wast not in the rocks and waves.
The silent heart which grief assails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales,
Sees daisies open, rivers run,
And seeks (as I have vainly done)
Promiscuous Pieces.
Amusing thought ; but learns to know-
That solitude's the nurse of wo,
No real happiness is found
In trailing purple o'er the ground :
Or in a soul exalted high,
To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its forms below :
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies ;
And doubts at last for knowledge rise.
Lovely, lasting peace, appear ;
This world itself if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.
'Twas thus, as under shade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And, lost in thought, no more perceiv'd
The branches whisper as they wav'd :
It seem'd as all the quiet place
Confessed the presence of the grace ;
When thus she spoke : u Go rule thy will.
Bid thy wild passions all be still ;
Know^ God, and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow ;
Then ev'ry grace shall prove its guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest."
Oh ! by yonder mossy seat,
In my hours of sweet retreat,
Might I thus my soul employ,
With sense of gratitude and joy,
Rais'd as ancient prophets were,
In heav'nly vision, praise, and pray V ;
Pleasing all men, hurting none,
Pleas'd and blest with God alone ;
Then while the gardens take my sight,
With all the colours of delight ;
While silver waters glide along,
To please my ear, and court my song ;
I'll lift my voice and tune my string,
And thee, Great Source of Nature, sing.
The sun that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day \
18
Sequel to the English A\-r:
The moon that shines with borrowed light ;
The stars that gild th \ night ;
Tht- seas that roll unnum;
The wood th.it spreads its shady Kav,
The field \vhosi 1 the grain.
The yellow treasure of the plain:
A'l of these, and all I B<
Should he sung, and sung by me :
They speak their Maker a ran,
But want and ask the tongue of man.
(Jo search among your idle dreams.
Your busy or your vain exi'vmes :
And find a life of equ.il bl
Or own the next brgun in IL PARNEJ.L.
SECTION n. An . in a country church
The curlew toils th< kn* 11 of parting d. y,
The lowing herd wsr.ds sim\ ly o'er the lea,
The plough id plods his v, -ary way,
And leaves ih< u.ijld to darkness and to me.
Now fades thi glimmYii: on the sight,
And all the air a soh-mn siillr.es- lv/!
Save where thu betti ^ht,
And d o\\-,\ tinki'ngs lull the distant loids ;
Save ihae, from \ \ m.iiult d tr
The moj/mg owl does to the moon complain
Of suet ;er secret bow'r
Moli st her an/u-nt solitary reign.
Bent'a h th \ ew-trees shade,
Where henves the tin moulci'ring heap,
Each in his nanow c.U lor t-\
The ruue to ol" tlv- Ivuriet sleep.
The !)reez^ call of incenst -g morn,
The sw-.,llow twitt'ring from t\v straw-built she* ,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the < choing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care :
Nor children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ;
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ;
Promiscuous Pieces. 21 <
How jocund did they drive their teams afield !
How bovv'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke !
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that weahh e'er gave.
Await alike, th' inevitable hour ;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave ;
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If menVry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long drawn-aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death ?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wake to ecstacy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unrol ;
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Ful 1 many a gem, of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear :
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest ;
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling hind,
And read their hist'ry hi a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues ; but their crimes confined,
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ;
14'
The sir* ^cious truth to hide,
To quench -the b :ne,
Or heap th i pride
\V it! i at the n -TIT.
1'ar fj-n .
Their sober \.
Along the cool M
Thty kept the i ! ;r way.
Yet t
Some (rail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth i uire deck'd,
Implores
d muse,
Upply :
An i man] a hoi] ws,
to i lie ;
Fo. > dumb forge liuln
This pleasing, anxious b< ing e'er i\ signed +
ol ilif ehi !!iii d
Nor cast one loi ..;f ring look behind i*
On some fond I
Some pious drops t; e 1^41111 <
E'en from the tomb the voice uf nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonu
>r thee, who, mindful ot th' unhonourM dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ;
If, chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haplv some hoary-headed swain may say,
u Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the Upland lawn.
There at the foot of yonder nodding beech.
That wreatlus its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.
Hard by yon wood, now smiling, ^
Promiscuous Pieces. 215
Another came ; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.
The next, with dirges due, in sad array,
Slow thro 1 the churchyard path we saw him borne :
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn*"
THE EPITAPH.
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown ;
Fair Science- frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send :
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear ;
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose.
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God. GRAY,
SECTION in. Ode to Wisdom.
THE solitary bird of night
Thro' the pale shades now wings his flight,
And quits the time-shook tow'r.
Where, sheltered from the blaze of day,
In philosophic gloom he lay,
Beneath his ivy bow'r.
With joy I hear the solemn sound,
Which midnight echoes waft around,
And sighing gales repeat :
Fav'rite of Pallas ! I attend,
And, faithful to thy summons, bend >
At Wisdom's awful seat.
She loves the cool, the silent eve,
Where "no false shows of life deceive,
Beneath the lunar ray :
Here Folly drops each vain disguise,
Nor sports her gaily-colour'd dyes,
As in the glare of day.
O Pallas ! queen of ev'ry art
: ' That glads the sense or mends the heart,'*
Blest source of purer joys ;
f 18
Sequel to the
In ev'ry form of beauty bright,
That captivates the mental sight
With pleasure and surprize ;
To thy unspotted shrine I bow,
Assist thy modest suppliant's vow,
That breathes no wild desires :
But, taught by thy unerring rules
To shun the fruitless wish of fools,
To nobler views aspires.
Fortune's gem, Ambition's plume,
Nor C\>: Aiding bloom,
Be objects oi my pra
Let av'rice, vanity, and pride,
i se glitt'ring envied toys divide,
The dull rewards of care.
To me thy better gifts impart,
Kacli moral beaut) oi ihe heart,
I3y stuiiious thought rein;
wealth, the smiles of glad conu
For pow'r, its ampK extent,
An empire o'er my mind.
Wnen Fortune drops her gay parade,
AViu ,i Pleasure's transient r-/ses K.
And wither in ihe the tomb,
TJi 'Chang' d is thy immortal prize,
Thy ever- verdant laurels rise
In undeca) ing bloom.
By thee protected, I d
The coxcomb's sneer, the stupid lie
Ot ignorance and spite ;
Alike, contemn the kaden tool.
And all the pointed ridicule
Of undiscerning wit.
Fr m envy, hmry, noise, and strife,
'Toe dull impertinence of hie,
In' thy retreat I rest;
Pursue "thee to thy peaceful grov
Whvre Plato's sacred sprit roves,
In :-ll thy graces drtst.
H^ hid Ilyssus' tune '.m
eV die i
Ot perfect fair, and good :
,Prc'ri: iscuoHs Pltu's.
Attentive Athens caught tin
Am: allMier listening sons arour.J,
In awful silence stood.
Reclairn'd, her wild licentious
Confessed the potent voice of truth,
And felt its just control :
The passions ceas'd the ir loud alarms,
And virtue's soft persuasive chai
O'er all their senses stole.
Thy breath inspires the poet's song,
The patriot's free unbiass'd tongue,
The hero's gen'rous strife :
Thine are retirement's silent joys,
And nil the sweet enclraring ties
Of still, domestic life.
No more to iabieci names confin'cl^
To thee, supreme, all-perfect mind,
My thoughts direct their flight:
Wisdom's thy gift, and all her force
From dice deriv'd, unchanging so .-.
Of intellectual light !
O -,end her sure, her sieiidy ray
TV regulate my doubtful way,
Tiiro' life's perplexing road ;
The mists of error to control;
And thro 1 its gloom direct my soul'
To happiness and good I
Beneath her clear clioCv rnmg eye
The visional": s iiy
Oi Folly's painted show :
She sees, thro' ev'ry fair disguise,.
That all but Virtue's solid joys
Is vanity and wo. CARTER,
SECTION iv. The Rale and the Her ml.
A YOUTH, a pupil o! tne re on llic sacred hour intrude.
Then turn your eyes to heav'ns broad fran
Attempt to quote those lights by name,
Which shine so thick, and spread so far;
Conceive a sun in cv'ry star,
Kound which unnumber'd planets roll,
While comets shoot athwart the whole ;
From system still to system ranging,
Their various benefits exchanging,
And shaking from their flaming hair
The things most needed evYv 1
this glorious scene, and say,
T : iat night discover's less than day ;
T : a 'tis quite useless, and a sign
That chance disposes, not des;
Who'er maintains it, I'll pronounce
Him either mad, or else a dunce ;
For re son, though 'tis far from strong,
\Vill soon find out that nothing's wrong,
From signs and evidences clear
Of wise contrivance evYy where.
The Hermit ended, and the youth
B'-c-une a convert to the truth ;
At least he yielded, and confess'd
That all was order'd for the best. WILKIE.
Promiscuous Pieces. 221
SECTION v. The deserted village.
SWEET Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the. laboring swain :
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayM;
Dear lovely bow'rs of innocence and ease,
Scats of my youth, when ev'ry sport could please,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green.
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene !
How often have I paus'd on ev'ry charm,
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
Th<- never-failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topp'd the neighE'ring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and youthful converse made !
How often have I bless'd the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play ;
And all the village train, from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ;
While many a pastime circled in the shade,
The young contending as the old survey'd ;
And many a gamble froiick d o'er the ground,
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these.
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please j
These round thy bow'rs their cheerful influence shed ;
These were thy charms, but all these charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village ! loveliest of the lawn,
: ports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ;
Ami 1st thy bow'rs the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thv green :
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And hair a tillage stints thy smiling plain,
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But chokVl with sedges, works its weedy way ;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The fellow-sounding bittern guards its nest :
Amidst thy desert walks, the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bow'rs in shapeless ruin all,
And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall ;
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Scq
Far, far away thy children U
111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulate s, ;,nd men decay.
Princes and lords may flourish, oV may fade ;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made r
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy 'd, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
\ViicM ev'ry rood of ground maintained its man ;
For him light labour spread her wholesome store j
Just gave what life requirM, but gave no more :
His best companions, innocence and health ;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are alter'd trade's unfreling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain.
Along the lawn, where scatur'd hamlets rose,
Unwieldy wealth and cumb rous pomp repose j
And ev'ry want to luxury allied,
And ev'ry pang th.it folly pays to pride.
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room,
Those healthful sports that pjrac'ci the peaceful scene,
Liv'd in each look, and brightened all the green
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrants pow'r.
Here, as 1 take my solitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds ;
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view
e once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew :
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wand'rings round this world of care,
In ail my gri* fs and God has giv'n my share
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bow'rs to lay me down ;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting, by repose :
I si ill had ho ;*s, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skil! :
Around my fire an evening group to draw.
PromtscnoU'
And tell of all I Mt, and all I saw :
And, as a hare, \vr-.\\ IK id horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence ;u first lie flew,
I still had no-n-s, my long vexatigns past,
He re to return tncl die at home at List.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreat from care, that never must he mine 1
How blest is he, who crowns, in shades like these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease ;
Who quits a world where strong temptations try,
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly !
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep ;
No surly porter stands in guilty state,
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ;
Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay.
While resignation gently slopes the way ;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heav'n commences ere the world be past !
Sweet was the sound, v-hen oft, at ev'ning's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ;
There as I pass'd with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came soften'd from below ;
The swain, responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young,
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school,
The watch-dog's voice that bayM the whisp'ring wind,
And the loud laugh, that spoke the vacant mind i
These ail in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled :
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing,
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;
She, wretched matron ! forced in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
19
To pick her wint'ry i >rn,
To seek her nigh ' ; till morn ;
She only left ot all the harmless train,
The sad historian t;t t re ]>lain !
Near yonder copse, \ ice the garden smilM.
And still where man ,n flow'r iid,
There, where a iV'\v turn shrubs tir
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was, to all the couiitiy <_i
And passing rich, with forty pounds a year:
R- mo?e from to-vsns he run his godh race,
Nor e'er h:r ! to change, his phi
Unskilful he to fawn, or Y,
By doctiv
Far other aims his heart had han.'d to pri.
ire hent to ra:
His house \\ ^ knc^-.n i-.> i train ;
He chid rh'.-ir wanderings, hiu t their pain.
The long-remenatw
Who ast ;
The ruin'd spen ;d,
Claimed kindred .us allow'd :
Th br^fk
S,a hy his (ir ty ;
, o'er his wouncls jne,
Shoulder'd his c! '.von.
PieasM with his g
And quite forgot th; ir vices in tin ir \vo ;
Careless their mei iv f mils to scan,
His pitv began,
Thus to relic' r< tchcd \v r as his pricle,
And e'en hi - ItanM to virtue's side :
But, in his duty prompt at ev'iy rail,
He watch'd arid wept, he p- 1 felt for all :
And, as a hird each fond endearment; t:
To ttmpt her new-fledg'd oii^| ring to the skies ;
He tried each art, reprovM eacV> dull delay,
AllurM to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed, where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns drsmay'd,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ;
Prom iscu o us Pieces .
Comfort came down tho uv.m'>lin wretch to raise,
And his last falt.Ymg accents \Vhkper'd pr-
At church,\Yith .oe.,k and im.iiuaed grace,
His K vciierahK- place ;
Tnuh from sway;'
Ar.fi i-o pray.
The .-.ervice past, a.oun.i the |iit>.i)S : r,an,
V. h -" ;
K' n vhilvile,
And pluckM his gown, to shatv the gorvj -nan's smile*
His reads' smile, a pi rent's \v;-rmth ex;;r< ss'd ;
Thi ir wtii art* pkrasM h'm, and tht ir circs dlstr^ss'd*
To ih m his heart, hi* love, his grit is wtrc giv'n ;
But all his S'Tiou -:s had resi n heav'n :
As some tall cliff ih.t lilts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossom furze unprofitahly gav,
There, in his noisy mansion skilfd to rule,
The village master taught his little school.
A man severe he was, and stern to view ;
I knew him well, and every truant knew.
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face ;
Full well, they laugh \j, with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, for many a joke had h. ;
Full well the busy whisper circling round
ConveyM the dismal tidings when he frowfc'd.
Yet he was kind j or, if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault.
The village all declared how much he knew :
'Twas certain he could write and cipher too ;
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage ;
And e'en the story ran th it he could guage.
In arguing too the parson own'd his skill,
For e'en tho' vanquished, he could argue still;
While wordS of learned length, and thundYmg suond,
Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around ;
And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is nil hi- fa r .
Where many a time he \ ot.
W .err once thu
Lo lies thj:
Wh
imag
Th
.
1'i^. \ ;>. :i (l the door ;
!ebt to j...
'1 he picture b placed lor ornament and i
Th-- t.velve goo-. ;;-oose ;
Th- hearth,' ilM the day,
- Vs, and I
While brok.
Ranged o^f tlj&A n in a row.
Vain trSfeitft^ggkfn clour ! could not all
Retrieve the tott r rfpg mansion IVor.i its fall?
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the* poor man's heart;
Thither no more the peasant shall repair
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ;
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,
K<-!ax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear :
The host himself no longer shall be found
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round.
Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain.
These simple pleasures of the lowly train :
To me more dear, congenial to my heart,
One native charm, than all the gloss of art.
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play,
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born s\vi-
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Wnenvied, unmolested, unconfin'd ;
Promiscuous Picctx* . 22 7
But the iong pomp, the midnight masquei^de,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth airay'd,
In these, ere triaYrs half their wish ohtain,
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ;
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy.
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy ?
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey
The. rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand,
Between a splendid and a happy land.
Pro'ud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,
And shouting folly hails them from her shore;
Hoards, e'en beyond the mistrrV wish, abound,
And rich men flock from all the world around ;
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name
Th it leaves our useful product still the same.
Not so the loss: the man of wt-alth and pride
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ;
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;
The- robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth
Has robh'd the neighboring fields of half their growth;
^His seat, where solitary sports are s< j en,
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green.
- Around the world each needful product flies,
For all the luxuries the world supplies :
While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure all,
In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female, unaclorn'd and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,
Slights evVy borrow d charm that dress supplies,
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ;
But when those charms are past, (for charms are frail,)
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
Shf thm shines forth, solicitous toj>less,
In nil the glaring impotence of dress:
Thus fares thr land, by luxary betray 'd,
In nature's simplest charms at first arrayM;
But, verging ?o decline, Us splendours rise,
s \istas strike, its palaces surprise ;
le, scontgVj by famine from the smiling land,
The mournful peasant Itads his humble band ;
* 19
228 Sequel to the Engllxh Rtc,-
And while he sinks, without one arm to save,
The country blooms a garden and a grave !
Where then, ah where, shall poverty reside,
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride?
It, to some common's fenceless limits stray'd,
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped what waits him there ?
To see profusion that he must not share ;
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ;
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know,
Extorted from his fellow creature's wo.
II' re, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ;
Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display.
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ,
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!
Sure these denote one iinivL-rs.il joy !
Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah, turn thine eyes
re the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies.
She, once, perhaps, in village plenty blest,
ILis wept at talcs of innocence distrest ;
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn :
Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled,
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head ;
And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the sho
W th heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,
When idly first, ambitious of the town,
She left her wheel, and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train,
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?
E'en .now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread !
Ah no ! to dis ant climes, a dreary scene,
Where half the convex world intrudes between,
'Promiscuous Pieces. 229
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go^
Where will Altama murmurs to their wo.
F ir cliff "rent there from all that charm Yl before,
The various terrors of that horrid shore ;
Those blazing- suns that dart a downward ray,
And fiercely stied intolerable day ;
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling :
Those pois'nons fields with rank luxuriance crown'd,
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; '
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ;
W T here crouching tigers wait their hapless prev ;
And savage men, more murcl rous still than they :
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,
Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies,
Alas ! what sorrows giootrf d that parting d ?y,
That called them from their native walks away ;
When the poor txiks, ev'ry pleasure past,
Hung round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their last,
And took a long farewell, and wishxl in vain
For seats like these bevond the western main ;
And shuudVmg still to face the distant deep,
Returned and wept, and still retuin'd to weep !
The good old sire the first prepared to go
To new-found worlds, and wept for others wo :
But for himself in conscious virtue brave,
Ht j only wishM for worlds beyond the grave.
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,
The fond companion of his hapless years,
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,
And left a lover's for a lather's arms.
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes.
And bless'd the cot where ev'ry pleasure rose ;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close in sorrow doubly clear;
W T hilst her fond husband strove to lend relief,
In all the silent manliness of grief.
O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree,
'1 exchanged are things like these for thee !
do thv notions, v/ith i jov,
:se their pleasures only to destroy !
Scyu
Kingdoms, by thee to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigour n I ,vn.
AT ev~r\ . ge and large they grow,
A bloated nv:ss of rank u
Till sapp'd their strength, :rt unbound,
]) )\vn, down they sink. HI i a ruin round !
K'en now t begun,
And half the bus'ness ol" (i .,1 done;
KVn now, methin' hfere I stand,
1 sec the rural virtues leave thr land.
Down whviv von .uitlionng \n-ssel spreads the sail,
idlv wailing ll:\j)s with e.v'r\ ^ale,
. -nvard they u aid,
n the shore, and darken all the strand.
And kin-.l there :
And pi;
: il love.
An 1 thuu, sweet liest maid,
nvade ;
shame
.or honest lame ;
:cd,
M \ shamt in cruv iditary prid^ !
'J" sonrce oi : oi wo,
Thou fou ul'st me poor at firsthand ke'-j)'st me so;
T'tou guide, by which the no.der arts ^xc 1,
Thou source of evVy virtue, tare thee \\\ 11 !
Farewell! and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried,
On Torrio's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Wlv ther wht-re equinoxial ftrvodrs glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
let thy voice, prevailing over ti
;he rigours of th' inclement clime ;
Aid slighted truth with th> pers asive strain,
'] it h erring man to spurn the ragv or' gym;
Tvaeh him that states, of nat; .;th pussest,
T)'.->u..h very poor, mav still b( VMV blest;
Th >t trade's proud empire hast.-s to b
As ocean sw^ps ths l.i'?our*d rn; : av-.
V : ' self-dt p'.-nc! nt pou'r c-t:, r ; . tl i*/,
As rocks resist the biliaws and the sky. GOLDSMITH*
Promiscuous Pieces. 231
tf vn. -The Traveller: or, a prospect of society.
Insc: ' \ Author's Brother.
REMOTE, unfriended, tfteUvncholy, slow,
Or by the lazv Scheld, or wandVmg Po ;
Or onward, where the rue ian boor
Against the.- houseless st: he door;
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste, expanding to ihe skies ;
Whv-re'er I roam, whatever rt ilms to see,
My he-trt untruvdi'd, (OM lly turns J.o thte :
Still to my brother turns, with c^ast-K-ss pain,
And drags at each remove a leng'th'ning rhuin.
}\ petual blessings crown my earliest friend,
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend !
Bless'd be that spot where cheerful guests retire.
To pause from toil, and trim their ev'ning fire:
Bless'd that abode where want and pain repair,
And ev'ry stranger finds a ready chair :
Bless'd be those feasts, with simple plenty crown'd 5:
Where all the ruddy family around
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail,
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;
Or press the bashful stranger to his food,
And learn the luxury of doing good !
But me, not destin'd such delights to share,
My prime of life in wancPring spent, and care ;
I'm pel Pel, with steps unceasing, to pursue
So;ae fleeting good that mocks me with the view;
That, like the circle bounding earth and skies,
Allures from far, yet as I follow flies ;
Mr: fortune leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own.
E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ;
And plac'd on high, above the s form's career,
Look downward where an hundred realms appear ,
Lakes, forests, cities, plains, extending wide,'
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.
When thus creation's charms around combine,
Amidst the store, should thankless pride repine ?
I, I
An 1
^\
I
.
\
.
1 1
ill ;
.11,
. til ;
A'!
\v 1
Ma;
B >ldlv i :i ;
An-i
T i n ;.. .
\viue ;
I
ii the good L.
S c \ U , roam ;
His first, best coi; ; >aie.
Asi ; yet, perhaps, are,
And estimate th re,
T'loa^li patriot -i fl.itter, still sh ill wiscfum find
A i qua! portion dealt t,> .ind;
.'a l*i\-at good, by art or nature giv'n,
To diifVent nations, makes their blessings f
Promiscuous Pieces. 233
Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Still grants her Miss at labour's earnest call.
With food as well the peasant is supplied
On Idra's cliffs, as Arno's sheivy side ;
And tho' the rocky-crested summits frown,
Fhese rocks by custom turn to beds of down.
From art more various are the blessings sent,
Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content ;
Vet these each other's now'rs so strong contest
That either seems destructive of the rest.
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails;
And honour sinks where commerce long prevails.
Henct ev'ry state, to one lov'd blessing prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone.
Each to the fav'rite happiness attends
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ;
Till carried to excess in each domain,
This iav'ritt good Begets peculiar pain.
But let us try these traths with closer eyes,
And trace them through the prospect as it lies :
Here for a while, my proper cares resigned,
Here let me sit, in sorrow for mankind ;
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast,
Thar, shades the steep, and sighs at ev'rv blast.
Far to the right, where Appennine ascends,
Bright as the summer Italy extends ;
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ;
While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between
With venerable grandeur mark the scene.
Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
The sons of Italy were surely bltst.
Whatever fruits in diff'rent climes are found,
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground;
hatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,
Whose bright succession decks the varied year;
hatever sweets salute the northern sky
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die :
These here disporting, own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ;
While sea-born ga'es their gelid wings expand,
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.
234 .SV"
But small the I.! ne bestows;
And sensual - :*.ion knows.
In florid br;, ts and fields appear;
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here.
Contrasted faults througn ;11 his m.n, ^n,
Though poor, lux /in :
Though grav i untrue;
And e'en in pi-nance |>', - anew.
All evils here cor.taminat, nd,
That opulence depait* behind ;
For wealth was tL the date,
When cumin 1 through the state:
At her command the p.tKi.
Again the long -lall'n column sought the skies;
The canvas glou'd bes ond i\n n.aure warm;
Th pregnant rjuarry lecinM with human form;
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale,
Commerce on other shores displayed her sail;
"While nought remain'd ol all that riches gave,
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a s)
And late the nation found, with fruitless skill,
Its former strength was but plethoric ill.
Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied
J3v arts, the splvndid wrecks of former pride :
From these the feeble heart and long-fall'n mind
An easy compensation seem to find.
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array 'd,
The pasteboard triumph, and the cavalcade ;
Processions fornVd for piety and love,
A mistress or a saint in ev'ry grove.
By sports liktf these are all their cares begtlil'd ;
The sports of children satisfy the child.
E;ich nobler aim repress'd by long control,
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ;
While low delights, succeeding fast behind,
In happier meanness occupy the mind ;
As in those domes where Cesars once bore sway,
Defac'd by time, and tottYmg in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ;
And, wond'ring man couid want the larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.
Promiscuous Pieces,
SECTION vin. The Traveller, continued *\
MY soul, turn from them turn we to survey
Where toughest climes a nooler race display ;
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread,
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ;
No product here the barren hills afford,
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword,
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array,
But winter lingering chilis the lap of May ;
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast,
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest*
Yet still e'en here content can spread a charm,
Rr- dress the clime, and all its rage disarm.
Tho' poor the peasant's hut, his feast tho ? smallj
He sees his little lot the lot of all ;
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head,
To shame the meanness of his humble shed ;
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal.
To make him loathe his vegetable meal ;
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.
Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose,
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ;
With patient angle trolls the finny deep,
Or drives his vent'rous plough-share to the steep ;
Or seeks the den where snow- tracks mark the way,
And drags the struggling savage into day.
At night returning, ev'ry labour sped,
He sits him down the monarch of a shed ;
Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys
His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze;
While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard,
Displays her cleanly platter on the board :
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.
Thus ev'ry good his native wilds impart,
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart;
And e'en those hills that round his mansion rise,
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies.
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms :
20
236 ///.9/i Pe<
And as a child, whi<
Clin
S<> i ;ind the v
But bind him t<;
Such ar
Then \v iM.
Yet let th m or/!
If few th.
F -. i-vYy want th;it stimulates the bn .
B C'nin-s a Jiourcc oi p!i st.
nee i'roin sue
.
M 1) t() thfjll, N
T' fill the languid p.-.p.s: with \ ;
icnvn ih
'i y nen i in*
Th
I T ; K i;ch\l by lannM by strong desire ;
V (it for r;i r
On
T, : bui
:')\V J
Their m(>' ut lo\v :
For, as refiru-m-.-iU stops,
TJr.ulurVi, u
A\\(\ f lart
Fa) : -)-t.
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain'^ brtast
May sit like : -jn the nest ;
B-.it .ill the gL such ,is
T -lo 1 life's more - \vaiks, and charm the way ;
.se, far ci -ini'rous pinions lly,
To sport and il utter in a kinder h
To kinder skies, whc: .-in-.-rs reign,
I turn and France displays her bright domain.
Gay sprightly land oi mirth and SOCK;
Pieas'd with thyself, whom all the world, can please ;
How often have I led thy sportive choir,
With tuneless pipe, beside the murm'ring Loire !
Wh'.-re shading elms along the margin grew.
And, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr Hew ;
Promiscuous Pieces. 337
And haply, tho' my harsh touch faltVmg still,
But mock'd all tune, and m.irr'd the dancer's skill,
Yet would the village praise my wondVous pow'r,
And dance, forgetful of die noon-tide hour !
Alike all ages : dames of ancient days
Have led their chilbrcn ti ro' the mirthful nrize $
And th' j gay grandsire. skUl'.i in gestir lore^
Has WskM bmeath the burd< n oi thivescore.
So gay a life these thoughtless realms display 5
Tnus idly busy rolls their world away.
Theirs are thos^ arts that mind to mind endear ;
For honour forms the social tamper here,
Honour, that praise which real merit gains,
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains,
Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand,
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land.
From courts to camps, to cottages, it strays,
And all are taught an avarice of praise :
They please, are plcas'd, they give to get esteem ;
Till, seeming blest, they, grow to what they seem.
But while this softer art their bliss supplies,
It gives their follies also room to rise -,
For praise too dearly lov'd or warmly sought,
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ;
And the weak soul, within itself unblest,
Lean's for all pleasure on another's breast.
.Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art,
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ;
-Here vanity assumes her p^rt grimace,
And trims her robe of frieze with copper-lace ;
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer,
To boast one splendid banquet once a year:
The mind still tur- ; where shifting fashion draws,
Nor weighs the solid worth of self- applause.
To men of other minds my fancy flies,
Embosom'd in the deep where HolLind lies.
Methinks her patient sons before me stand.
Where the broad ocean leans against the land ;
Ahd sedulous to stop the coming tide,
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride.
Onward methinks, and diligently slow,
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow;
;e7 to tin
Spreads its long arms amidst the wat'rv roar,
While 1 1-- ( .ilc,
Se-'s an h him smile ;
'
1
: soil
tail t
In<'
And induct'
.pice :;!! th( ^g&j
XV ith .ill tho
Their m
Co- vcr
But,
.sell' is b:irtcrM 1
:is all freedom fli.
n buys :
A land oi ! a den o
Here wretcnes seek dishonour, vcs ;
And, calmly bent, to servitude conlbrm,
Dull as their lak i the storm,
! how unlike their ires of old ;
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold :
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow :
How much unlik' the sons of Britain now !
Fir'd at the sound, my Genius spreads her wing,
And flies where Britain courts the western spring;
Wlu^re hr.vns extend that scorn Arcadian pride,
And brighter streams than fam'd Kydaspes glide.
-There all around the gentlest breezes s ^.y,
There gentle music melts on ev'ry spray ;
Creation's mildest charms are there combin'd ;
Extremes are only in the master's mind !
Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state,
With daring aims irregularly great:
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,
1 see the lords of human-kind pass by j
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band ;
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's har
Promiscuous Pieces. 239
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,
True to imagined right, above control:
While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan,
And learns to venerate himself as man.
Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictur'd here,
Thine are those charms, that dazzle and endear :
Too blest indeed were such without alloy,
Bat foster'd e'en by freedom ills annoy.
That independence Britons prize too high,
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie;
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone ;
All claims that bind and swerten life unknown*
Here, by the bonds <>f nature feebly held,
Minds combat minds, repelling and repejl'd ;
Ferments arise, imprisoned factions roar,
Repressed ambition struggles round her shore ;
Till, over-wrought, the genVal system fet Is
Its motion stop, or phrenzy fires the wheels.
Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay,
As duty, love, and honour, fail to sway,
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law,
Stil? gather strength, and force unwilling awe.
Hence all obedience bows to these alone,
And talents sink, and merit weeps unknown;.
Till time may come, when, stripp'd of all her charms,
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms,
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame,
"Where kings have t il'd, and poets wrote for fame,
One sink of level avarice shall lie,
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonour'd die.
Yet think not thus, when freedom's ills I state,
I mean to flatter kings, or court the gnat.
Ye pow'rs of truth, that bid my soul aspire,
Far from my bosom drive the low desire !
And thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feel
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ;
Thou transitory flowV, alike undone
By proud contempt, or favour's fost'ring sun,
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure :
I only would repress them, to secure :
For just experience tells, in ev'ry soil,
That those who think must govern those who toll ;
240 Sequel to the English
And all that freedom's highest aims can reach,
Is but to lay proportionM loads on each :
Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow,
Its double weight must ruin all below.
then, how blind to all that truth requires,
Who think it freedom when a part aspires !
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms,
Except when fast-approaching danger warms :
But when coaler the thro-;
Contracting regal powV to stretch their own ;
When I behold a factious ,ree
To call it freedom when themselves are free ;
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw,
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ;
The wealth of climes, wl: g nations roam,
PiUag'd from slaves, to purchase slaves at horn
Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start,
TV ar off reserve, and bare my swelling heart ;
Till, half a patriot, half a coward grown,
1 fly from petty tyrants, to the throne.
Ah, brother! how disastro at hour,
Whm first ambition struck at iv^il pow'r;
And thus, polluting honour in its source,
Gave wealth to .v mind with double for
Have we not seen, round 13 1 -hum's peopled shore,
Her useful so. mg\l for useless ore ;
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste,
Like flaring tapers bright'nin^ as they waste ;
S^en opulence, her grandeur to maintain.
Lead stern depopulation in her train ;
And over fields, where scatter 1 d hamlets rose.,
In barren, solitary pomp repose ;
Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call,
The smiling long frequented village fall?
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decayed,
The modest matron, and the blushing maid,
Forc'd from their homes, a melancholy.train ;
To traverse cl'nrus beyond the western" main ;
TVhere wild Oswego spreads her swamps around,
And Niagara stuns with thundYmg sound?
E' n now, perh ps, s tlv.re some pilgrim strays
Thro' tanj _: thro* daag'rous ways ;
Promiscuous Pieces. 241
Where beasts with ma^> divided empire claim,
And the brown Indian marks with munl'rous aim ;
There, while above the giddy tempest flics,
And all around distressful yells arise,
The pensive exile, bending with his wo,
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go,
Casts a long look where England's glories shine ,
And bids his bosom sympathise with mine.
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find
That bliss which only centres in the mind !
Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose.,
To seek a good each government bestows ?
In evVy government, though terrors reign,
Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain,
How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure *
Still to ourselves in ev'rv place consign'd,
Our own felicity we make or find:
With secret course, which no loud storms annoy.
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy ;
The lifted ax, the agonizing wheel,
Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel,
To men remote from pow'r but rarely known,
ILeave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own.
GOLDSMITH
SECTION ix. The vanity of human ^v^shes*
LET observation, with extensive view,
Survey mankind from China to Peru ;
Remark each anxious toil, each eager strife,
And watch the busy scenes. of. crowded life ;.
Then say how hope and fear, desire and hate ?
OVrspread with snares the clouded maze of fate ?
Where wavYmg man, betray''.! by vent'rous pride,
To tread the dreary paths without a guide,
As treachVous phantoms in the midst delude,
Shuns fancied ills, or chases airy good.
How rarely reason, guides the stubborn choice,
Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice r
How nations sink by darling schemes oppr st,
When vengeance listens to the fool's request.
242 uel to the English Reader.
Fate wi- h trT af. r ; rt,
ift ;
With latal heat impet \vs,
;
Imp- .t stops t: breath,
iih.
, scarce <' ' ihc bold
F ill in t
W :lr- wasting p st ! t .M,
An.! 'he reco; .nkind !
F'- g'H ; .Hian dr\<
For hirtlin
>j ;i.i\l or, ;or tnitii nor
command,
Anv! i hind,
i he rt-fu- /d,
tl than the lord.
!' po\v ? r,
A iv \- ;
s'Jir-id,
Tho* confist. ad.
The ne
id heath-. is toil away.
Dot.-s env\- sv ize thee ? crush th' upbraiding joy,
Irci\ asc his rich, roy.
Nov. 1 fears in din . i>ie invad-/ ;
nistlihg brake alarms, -iiul quivVing shade:
Nor light noi' darkness, brings his pain r-, lct,
One shows th- plunder, and on-/ hides the thief.
Yet still on. gc.nVal cry thr skies assails,
And gain and grandeur load the tainud gait s :
Ft \v know thu j toiling statesman's fear or care,
Th 5 insidious rival, and the gaping heir.
Once more, Democritus, arise on earth,
W th cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth \
See motley life in modern trappings drest,
And feed with v.iried fools th' eternal jest :
Thou who couldst l.-iugh where want tnchain'd caprice 5
Toil crush'd coucf-it, and man was of a piece ;
"Where wealth unlovM without a mourner died j
And scarce a sycophant was fed by pride ;
Promiscuous Pieces.
Where ne'er was known the form of mock debate,
Or seen a new made mayor's unwi Id s.att ;
Where change of favVitea made no change of laws,
And senates heard before theyjudg'd a cause:
How wouldst thou shake at Britain's modish tribe,
Dart the quick taunt, and edge the piercing gibe !
Attentive, truth and nature to descry,
And pierce each scene with philosophic eye.
To thee were solemn toys or empty show,
The robes of pleasure = nd the veils of wo :
. Al: aid the farce, and all thy mirth maintain,
Whose joys are causeless, or whose' gneis are vain
S"ch was the scorn that filled the K-ig-'-'s mind,
Renew'd at ev'ry glance on human kind :
How just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare,
Search r.v*rv state, and canvass ev'ry pray'r.
UnnumberM su >;>li;mts crowd preferments gate,
A'hirst for wealth, and burning to be great;
Delusive fortune hears ,h : in tssant call ;
They mount, they shine, evaporate, and fall.
On ev'ry stage the foes of peace attend,
Hate dogs their flight, and insult mocks their end.
Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's door
Pours in the morning worshipper no more ;
For growing narmes the weekly scribbler lies,
To growing wealth the dedicator flies ;
From ev'ry room descends the painted face,
Fh it hung the bright palladium of the place;
And, smok'd in kitchens, or in auctions sold.
To better features yields the frame of gold ;.
For now no more we trace in ev ry line
Heroic worth, benevolence divine :
The form distorted justifies the fall,
And detestation rids th' indignant wall.
^ But will not Britain hear the last appeal,
Sign her foes' doom, or guard her fav rites' ze ' r
1 ho' freedom's sons no more remonstrance rings,
Degrading nobles and controling kings ;
Our supple tribes repress their patriot throats,
And ask no questions but the price of votes;
With weekly libels and septennial ale,
Their wish is full to riot and to rail.
244 Se./itel to the English Reader.
In full blown dignity, see WoUey stand,
in his voice, and fortiiiv in his hand :
To him the church, the real-.n, thc-ir posvYs consign,
Through him thh r :vs of rt-g.il bounty shine ;
Turn'd by his nod the ^ cream oi honour flows,
II is smil'> alone s.-C'inty bestows ;
Stdl to new heig 1 * ,tl ss wishes tow'r;
Claim leads to claim, and pow'r advances powY ,
Till conquest unresistcd ceas'd to ])!< ;
! rights subuiitt'd It ft him none* to st i v
At K-ngth hi is the tr nn of state
Mark the keen glanc ','ne sign lo h,
Where- t-'er h turns he uuxts a strang.
His suppliants scorn him, and his followfrs fly:
drops at once th?pri !ul state,
Tht- golden canoi)' "itVing plate,
The n gal palace, the luxurious bo
The liv'ried army, and the nu nial lord.
Wii "tes opprest,
ic rest.
Grief aid ';er'd foils- stings,
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings.
Sp<*ak thou, \vho-e thougivs at lui \ce repine 9
Shall Wolst \ 's wealth svith Wolscy's end be thine ?
Or liv'st thou now, with safer pridi- content,
The. \vist-.st jusrice on the banks of Trent?
For \vhv did W- ir t e steeps of fate,
foundations raise tir enormous weight?
.)Ut to sink, beneath misfortune's blow,
With louder ruin to the gulfs b-.-low ?
: eat Villi^rs to th' assassin's knife,
And fix'd disuse on Hurley's closing lite ?
What murd^i-'d vVent;vorth, and what exil'd Hyde,
B\- kings protected, and to kings ally'd ?
"What but their wish indulged in courts to shine,
And prnvV too great to kt-ep,or to resign?
When first ti^e college rolls receive his name,
The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame;
Resistless burns the fever of renown,
rht from the strong contagion of the gown:
O'er Bodiey's dome his future labours spread,
And Bacon/s mansion trembles o'er his head.
Promiscuous Pieces. 2
Are these thv views ? proceed, illustrious youth,
A-id virtue guard thee to the throne of truth !
Yet should thy soul indulge the gen'rous heat,
Till captive science \ iclds her last retreat ;
Should reason gfeide thee with her brightest ray,
And pour on misty doubt resistless day ;
Should no false kindness lure to loose delight,
N r praise relax, nor difficulty fright :
Should tempting novelty thy cell retrain,
And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain ;
Should brainy blunt on tops her fatal dart,
Nor claim the triumph of a letter'd heart ;
Should no disease thy torpid veins invade,
Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade ;
Y i hope not HIV from grief or danger free,,
Nor think the doom of man revers'd for thee :
Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes*
And pause awhile from learning, to be wise ;
T .ere mark what ills the scholas's life assail,
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail.
Set nations slowly wise, and meanly just.
To buried merit raise the tardy bust.
If dreams yet flatter, once again attend,
Her Lydiat's life, and Galileo's end.
Nor deem, when learning her last prize bestows,
The glitt'ring eminence exempt from foes ;
Set, when the vulgar 'scapes, despis'd or aw'd,
Rebellion's vengeful talons seiz- on Laud.
From meaner minds, tho* smaller fines content^
The plunder'd palace or stquester'd rent ;
Mark'cl out by dangerous part* he meets the shock,
And fatal learning leads him to the block :
Around his tomb let art and genius weep,
But h ar his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep.
SECTION x. The vanity of human wishes continued,
THE festal blazes, the triumphal show,
The ravishM standard, and the captive foe,
The senate's thanks, the gazette's pompous tale,
With force resistless o'er the brave prevail.
Su> ;>!ioes the rapid Greek o'er Asia whirled,
For such the steady Roman shook the world -,
246 Sequel to the English Reader.
For such in distant hinds the Britons shine,
And stain with blood the Danube or the Rhine :
This povvV has praise , that virtue scarce can warm,
Till fame supplies the univers.il charm.
Yet reason frowns on war's unequal game.
Where wasted nations raise a single name,
And mortgaged states their grandsires wreaths regi
From age to age in everlasting debt ;
Wreaths which at List the dear-bought right convey
To rust on medals, or on stones decay.
On what foundation stands the warrior's pride,
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide ;
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,
No dangers fright him, and no labours tire ;
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain,
Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain ;
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield,
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field ;
Behold surrounding kings their pow'r combine,
And one capitulate, and one resign ;
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain
4C Think nothing gam'd," he cues, till nought remain,
u On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly,
u And all be mine beneath the polar sky. 5 '
The march begins in military st
And nations on his eye suspended wait ;
Stern famine guards the solitary coast,
And winter barricades the realms of frost ;
He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay ;~
Hide, blushing glory' hide Pultowa's day !
The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands,
And shows his miseries in distant lands :
Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait,
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.
B't did not chance at length her error mei
D:d no subverted empire mark his end ?
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound,
Or hostile millions press him to the ground ?
His fall was destin'd to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand ;
H<- left the name, at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.
! mlscituiis Pieces.
All times their r.c :nes of pompous woes afford,
'From Persia's tyrant, to Bavaria's lord.
In gay hostility, and barbVous pride,
With half mankind embattled at his side,
Great Xerx: 3 comes to seize tho certain prey,
And starves exhausted regions in his way ;
* Attendant fl.UtVy counts his myriad* o'er,
Till counted myriads sooth his pride no more ;
Fresh praise is tri-jd till m rln.-so fires his mind,
The waves he lashes, and enchains *he win-! :
New pow'rs are claimed, new pow'rs are still bestowM
Till rude resistance lops the spreading god ;
The daring Greeks deride the martial show,
And heap their vallies with the gaudy foe ;
Th* insulted sea with humbler thoughts he gains,
A single skiff to speed his flight remains :
Th' encumber'd oar scarce leaves the dreaded coast
Through purple billows and a floating^ host.
The bold Bavarian, in a luckless hour,
Tries the dread summits of Cesarean pow'r,
With unexpected legions bursts away,
And sees defenceless realms receive his sway ;
Short sway ! fair Austria spreads her mournful chatms,
The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms ;
From hill to hill the beacon's rousing blaze
Spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise :
The fierce Croatian, and the wild Hussar,
With all the sons of ravage crow'd the war ;
The baffled prince, in honour's flatt'ring bloom
Of hasty greatness, finds the fatal doom,
His foes derision, and his subjects blame,
And steals to death from anguish and from shame.
Enlarge my life with multitude of days,
In health, in sickness, thus the suppliant prays :
Hides from himself his state, and shuns to
That life protracted is protracted wo.
Time hovers o'er, impatient to destroy,
And shuts up all the passages of joy :
In vain their gifts the bounteous seasons
The fruit autumnal, and the vernal fiow'r
With listless eyes the dotard views lh6tere,
24B
IK x
IV.vvv pall th.
And luxury wit'.
roach, \
Liffusc tiv. uin<:lul lenitr :i :
wr.uki tourh ili'
nd f
I-*
Bui ei
Pi 1 v
'
Pi ? i U x the i
In }--ruv. -,
mould his }
: itiibri'ci in:iladi-
Jc ;
:l hands,
]
Or \ i^\% s h;:
c till he
Bin ;: virtues ot a ten
iipt iVor..
An
i modest
\V
Vv"(H>:^ nighv
The getvral 1'uv* rite as the g\ : ;;d :
/age there is, and \vho shall \
Y t e'en ou this ht-r load misfortui:
To press th \vt.\rv n nig win.
: sorro'.v rr.rs as the day rear
A sister sickens, o- a daughtri
Kow kindred merit fills the sank birr,
"No v lut-nued friendship claims a tv.rr,
Year chasts year, decay pcrsues decay,
Promiscuous Pit -
Still drops some joy from whirring lift' away :
Nt-\v forms arise, and diiTrent views engage,
Superfluous lags the vetVan on the. s ,a^,e ;
Til! t.hf last release,
An Uicted worth retire to p< ;,.
re whom hours like these awaic,
d in the gnlfs of fate.
i Lvuhi's monarch should the search descend,
By I :ion'd.to regard his end,
Iii 11 \urprise,
Fears of the hrave, 'and follies of the wise !
From A! nrlb' rough's eyes the streams of dotage flow,
An-.t Snift > driv'ler md a show.
The timing mother, anxious for her race,
Begs for each birth the fortune of a face :
Yet Vane could tell what ills from beauty spring j
And Sedley curs l d the form that pleas'd a king.
Ye nymphs of rosy lips and radiant eyes,
Whom pleasure keeps too busy to he wise ;
Whom joys with soft varieties invite,
BY day the frolic, and the dance by night :
Who frown with vanity, who smile wuh art.
And ask the latest fashion of the heart ;
What care, what rules your heedless charms shall save,
- Each nvmph your rival, and each youth your slave ?
Against vour fa v nt- with fondness hat.-- combinS ?
The rival betters, and the lover mines.
-With distant voice neglected virtue calls ;
L.-.SS heard and less, the faint remonstrance falls ;
Ti'-'d with contempt, she quits the slipp'ry rein,
And pride and prudence take her seat in vain,
In crowd at once, where none the pass defend,
The harmless freedom, and the private friend.
lardians yield, by force superior ply'd,
To intVest, prudence ; and to flart'ry, pride.
Here beauty falls betray'd, despis'd distrest ;
And hissing ; - 'oclaims the rest.
Where then shall hop . t r their objects find <
Must dull su.-- gnruu mind ?
Mu ss man, in ignorance sedate,
Koii darkling down the torrent of his fate ?
Must no iarm, no wishes rise,
No cries invoke the r <>f the skits 2
lii. juirer, cc:,
'Which Heav'n iv. : nor derm religion vain.
Still raise for good the supplicating vo
Bat leave to Ikav'u tin
in his pow'r . far
lore his aid, in his decisiu-.
!iate\;r he gives' he gives the 1
when the sense of Sacred Presence nY
An; 1
ir forth thy 1 healthful
' Obedient passior^, :v., -.n'd '
. . fill :
reign o ? er trar.nmuti d ill ;
For faith, that, panting for a happl
,'\ kind nature's signal of retreat :
se goods for man die laws of Heav'n ordain,
These goods he grants, who grants the pow'r to gain ;
With these celestial wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she does not find.
PR. JOHNSON,
APPENDIX:
Containing Biographical Sketches of the authors mentioned in the "In-
to the K;; uler," "The Kngi'-sh Reader" itself,
and ; ike Header." With Occasional Strictures on
their writings.
ADDISON, Joseph, one of the most celebrated men in
English iiurature, was born in the year 1672. Alter re-
ceiving the rudiments of his education at different schools,
he was admitted into Quern's College, Oxford. In 1693,
he took his degree oi Master of Arts, and was eminent
for his Latin poetry. He distinguished himself by several
small pieces; and in 1699, obtained from king William a
pension of oOOl a year, to enable him to travel. He went
leisurely through France and Italy, improving his mind to
the best advantage ; as Appears from his u Letter to Lord
Halifax," esteemed the most elegant of his poetical, per-
formances; and his u Travels in Italy."
His celebrated " Campaign," procured him the appoint-
ment of a commissioner ot appeals. In 1706 he was made
under-secretary to the secretary of state ; and in 1709, the
Marquis of Wharton being appointed Lord Lieutenant of
Ireland, to->k Addison with him, as his chief secretary* In
1716 he married the countess dowager of Warwick. This
marriage neither found nor made the parties equal : and
Addison has left behind him no encouragement lor ambi-
tious love. In 1717 he rose to his highest elevation, being
made secretary of state to George the First. His insuper-
able diffidence, and his want of talent for public speaking,
joined to his declining health, induced him soon afterwards
to solicit his dismission from office. This was granted,
\vith a pension of 15001. a year.
He had for some time been afHicted with an 'asthmatic
disorder, which ended in the dropsy. He employed the
leisure of his closing life, in supporting those religious
principles which had accompanied the whole course of it.
He drew up a " Defence of the Christian Religion," which
\vas published in an unfinished state after his death. When,
all hopes of prolonging life were at an end, Addison sent
for a young man, nearly related to him, (supposed to have
been his step-son the earl of Warwick,) and grasping hi*
: 21
2o2 APPEKD1X.
hand, said to him with tender emphasis, u See in what
peace a Christian can die." He expired in 1719, in the
48th year of his life.
The writings of Addison, are, chiefly, poetical, critical,
and moral. He had a large share in the Tatlcr, Spectator,
Guardian, and other periodical works. His Hymns are
much admired for their ease, elegance and harmony, as
well as for the cheerful and correct strain of piety that per-
vades them. " The Spectator" stands at the head of all
publications of a similar kind. With the happiest combi-
nation of seriousness and ridicule, these papers discuss the
smaller morals and the decencies of life, elegance and just-
ness of taste, the regulation of temper, and the improve-
ment of domestic society. In some ot thtm, Addison takes
the higher tone of a religious monitor. All the ench tnt-
ments of fancy, and all the cogency of argument, are em-
ployed to recommend to the reader his real interest, the
care of pleasing the Author of his being. His papers in
" The Spectator," are marked by some one of the letters
composing CLIO. The popularit) of this work rose to such
a height, that, in a much less reading age than the present,
, /, mu^t give his days and nights to the vo-
-v.-s of Addison.' 1
AKENSIDE, Mark, an English poet and physician, was
''cm at Newcastle upon Tyne, in J 7-1. Kis father was a
ubst i'O gave his son a liberal education,
iaundin- to quaiifv him for the office of a d^en.ing mi-
uisiei. fh son, how ever, preferred the stuuy of physic*,
and in 1 744- took the degree of Doctor,
APPENDIX. 5:53
la this year appeared his capital poem, " On the Plea-
sures of the Imagination;" which was n ceivul with
applause, and at once raised the author to poetical f-mc.
In 1745 he published ten odes on different subjects, and in
a style and manner much diversified. These works charac-
terised him as a zealous votary of Grecian philosophy and
classical literature, and an ardent lover ot libei ly.
He wrote several medical treatises, which increas. d his
practice and reputation. But it is said he had a haughti-
ness, and ostentation of manner, which were not, calculated
to ingratiate hmi with his brethren 01 the faculty, or to
render him generally acceptable. He died of a puirid fe-
ver, in 1770, in the 49th year of his age.
The rank which Akenside holds among the English clas-
sics, is principally owing to his didactic po m, on the
" Pleasures of the I magi nation,*' a work finished at. three-
and-twenty, and which his it performances never
e quailed. Its foundation is th- elegant, f.nd even pr-etical
papers on the same subject, by Aadison, in the Spectator ,
but he has so expanded the plan, and enriched the illu>tru-
tions from the stores of philosophy and poetry, tr
would be injurious to deny him the claim of an original
writer. No pot- m of so elevated and abstracted a kind was
ever so popular. Ii is thought by some persons of fine
taste, to be the most beautiful didactic poem that ever
adorned the English language.
ARSIS! RONG, John, a poet rxnrl physician, was born \r
;nd, about the year 17O9. He studied in the univer-
sity of Edinburgh ; and took his degree vviih reputation, in
1732. He settled in London, w*here he appeared in the
double capacity of author and physician : but his success
in the former, as has frequently b- seems to
have impeded his progress in the latter. He \frott several
small pieces, both in prose and verse. But his reputation
as a poet, is almost solely founded on his u Art of preserv-
ing Health ;'* for his other pieces scarcely rise above me-
diocriiy. This may well rank among thtr first didactic po-
ems in the English language. Though that cl ss of poetry
is not of the highest order, yet the variety incident to his
subject, has given him the opportunity of displaying his
powers on some of the most i.-levated and interesting to-
pics -, and they are found fully adequate to the occasion.
and
'
ilc
der.
. n in
Sco
Ai
thv un'r.
ilch
i.iti-
ful piece c
The M
of v
. .
; PhiiobOjvhy
Not long ar\ r y on
-.try and
Scepticism." This work d< him to be an anx-
ious promoter c; ;ind ; a judicious
philosopher; ar, ner. It
cxr Circle of his
nils : var^-ji^st \\ ! :-iied Dr. Gregory of
Edinburgh, the earl of ? t, Dr. Johnson, lord Lyt-
rs liurd and Porte us, the bishops oi Wor-
cester and London.
In iT83, he : I u Dissertations Moral and Criti-
,.rto ; and in 17b6, at m-
ion of t: L bishop of Loiiu-.-n, u E\iJc;:ces
Religion/'' in two small volumes. l:i i
red " The Elements of Moral Science," iu
:tavo. .All these works A display good sense,
ledge, and able reasoning. Dr. Bv attic's ill
two volumes
extensive fen-
state of health disqualified hi:r,, for some rime heibre his
death, from performing the duties of his cftice in the uni-
ity. lie died in 1803, in th; 68th year of his age,
Dr. Beattie possess- d a vigorous understanding and a
' most benevolent heart. His talents were improved to a
high degree, by - very species of science and litera-
ture, lie had deeply studied the evidence on which the
truth of Christianity rests ; anrn in Kclin!
entered the hursiar.m '.i the I'
assi-1 1
' d his
3 the
i St. An
in 1757, i I). I).
oi liis
i table
salary. Ii n,
>vho had i i ad lh
ty ( ' . mi-
pli(. aiity
tin m(jst am
She :o " The
KanihUr," \^ -r. John
The ion
urc i an iu-
gt nius , iiiociish p! the
i -arc oi (.
'lh\^ it \vr^ni:in ivaa r su-
perior i null r nd
familiar, i; pm i! the
ITU' 1 ! -^ { '
311, - !, sh. \v
\ er in triii.
int-) conripjiiiy. Hrr
-ibility to all the f the alilicted ; and her
mind piously resigned to meet with fortitude the chaiv
and chances of lite. Her firm faith in the Christian religion
strengthened in her the performance ri every duty: and it
may be truly s aid, that with all her very rare endowments,
goodness of heart, mildness of t -mper, and suavity of man-
ners, were eminently cons_>iv -o . 'his tmiahle and dis- ,
languished person di j d in the year 1806, at the advanced
age of eighty-eight years.
APPENDIX. 251
COWPER, William, an Kn^'i. h poet of great celebrity,
IV.-, oo- n I rambled, 1 ' said he, *' from the
thorny road of my austere patroness, jurisprudence, into
the primrose paths of htev ature and poetry." Cowper was
appointed C?erk of the Journals of the House of Lords ;
and a parliamentary dispute making it necessary for him to
appear at the bar of the house, h~s terrors on this occasion
rose to so astonishing a height, that they overwhelmed his
reason : he was obliged to relinquish a station so formida-
ble to his singular sensibility.
In a few months, his mind became tranquil and clear;
and resolving to abandon all thoughts of a laborious pro-
fession, and all intercourse with the busy world, he settled
in t 765, in the town of 'Huntingdon. Here commenced his
acquaintance v ith a respectable clt rgyman, and his amiable
, who resided in that town : their name was Unwin.
About two years afterwards, the^hulba^d di< d ; and from
ng the course of near thirty years, this ex-
in was a most distinguished friend and guar-
dian oi- Cowper. Of her piety and virtue, and her eminent
invariable kindness to him, he has Mt many aff ctionate
and grateful memorials. In the lapse of these years, he was
several times oppressed with derangement of "mind, which
was extremely distressing 19 his friends, who entertained
for him the purest sentiments eSest*em and re^rd, Dur-
ing his lucid intervals, which continued several years, he
,IX.
s perfectly himself; a :ited, in his writings, ihe
st uneqmvo&il proofs of it. His
Hciiijr, for th
ienced, \ } lis p^. u as
ijatingnjslu
ich are. r,
with fine traits of ti
m in i lu-
This v
Tiu> Taj he; " mn
fancy,
fmess; his
; his dangers, and s ; all with
i isite facility, ce of expression, will:
;>race and digmt\ r, that rational beings, \vlio
v>ish to render tin.
in the
k Tranhlalicn of il, aiei', in I
:3e. 5> This wrr c to last, gave Couper ten
years of useful and pleasing employment. It has consider-
able merit; particularly in its near approach to that sweet
majestic simplicity, which forms one of the most attractive
features in the great prince and father of poets.
The inquietude and darkness of Cowper's latter years,
were terminated by a most gentle and tranquil dissolution.
He died in the year 180O- We shall close this sketch of
him, with a striking eulogium made by his biographer on
his character and writings : u The more the works of Cow-
per are read^the more hlBheaders will find reason to ad-
mire the variety, and the extent, the graces, and the ener-
gy, of his literary talents. The universal admiration excit-
ed by these, will be heightened and endeared to the friends
of virtue, by the obvious reflection, that his writings, ex-
cellent as they appear, were^xcelled by the gentleness, the
benevolence, and the sanctity of his life.''
CUNNINGHAM, John, was born in Dublin, in 1729, he re-
ceived his education at the grammar school of Djrogheda ;
and earlv hejra
' -APPENDIX.
s "P!>o S ecl, hy his stv]
-' a gl . Hi, work is the
s of
s work. H - J
the A %H,s!
ning atcount we
"" ^ ng ch,n !aWe i; tl ,s n r r ar Hblt f r hi a
Sw J ' .', which 4 ^2SSr^ ij ^*%d lt s
(
* 22
APPI
DonniUDr.F., Philip an eminent
t d >n\ in London, in the year 17O^. IK v.
l;ir, and had a n> \\ith a
variety of knowledg he kept
lemy of distinguished reputation. Du
is, in which h ied the ofTicc of tutor, he h
about two hundred young m .'>iu
one hundred and twent\ i in the iuinistiy. At
thampton, he a m'm-
r and instriu : in d and i
ry j n, for tr.e extent of his Kain
ness of his mam ofhisliie. Th
lent man died in 175l v at Lisbon, whither he had g
with the hope of recovering his ht>
His work entitKd kk i I of K* '
mi-
L for rank, learning and piety, in tl: -hed church,
s v.
. not onlv in this but in A
the continent of
vols, oetavo, is hi < it }
and
with the 'iip. It i r, ;i M-
Ligi
lain or e
am! el.
We shall coi; h the testimo;
Dr. Doei-.liKlge \vus I
ut and us --iis,
sti.in m'n.sti is, that t ^ J d.
DYKR, J<>hn .n English poet, was born in Wales, in
the year 17(X). II- ' in the
countrv, an--: 1 his studies at Westmlnsttjf school.
His father in him for the profession of the law : but
pair.tingand pott v were his most agreeable sUul;
. int.. luix" ior improvcinmt ; and at Home formed
of his poem c.ille < u The Ruins oi Home ;" which
aftr-.r his return, in 1 74O.
A KC nous turn of v uul. ill health,
rude, and reflection, inclined him to the cluuui ;
APPENDIX.
he accordingly entered into orders. He was a very ami;;
and rc-p': Liable man ; beloved by his friends for the sw
ne^s and gentleness of his disposition, and respected by
world, as a person of superior endowments.
In 1757 he published h:s u Fleece ;'' but he did not loru^
survive it. He died in 1753, in the 58th year of bis tig.
Dr. Johnson says that 4i Dyer's ' Grongar hill 7 is the
happiest of his productions. It is not indeed very nccur.
ly written : but the scenes which it displays are so pleasing,
the images which they raise so welcome to the mind, and
the reflections of the writer so consonant to the general
sense or experience of mankind, that when it is once reacfi
it will be read ag.-iin.''
ENFII:.LD, William an eminent djsstmung minister, and
an elegant writer, was born at Sluibury, in 1741. In 1763,
he was ordained minister of a congregation at Liverpool,
where ! ne,d notice as a pie:, sing preacher, and
an amiable y. I- 1770, he accepted an invita-
tion to - : t tutor, n:ui lecturer in the belles-
es, in the academy at ' m; and he fulfilled
these offices for several years, vvitl hligence avid re-
putation. In 1635, h-. of tlie princip ;1 con-
gregation at i ; where he contitniui usefully and ho-
nourably occupied, till his drain, \vhich happened in 1797.
publicati chiei of i.heai ar'
rx.lr
: al Sermons on the principal Characters in the Old and
s;"" Institutes^! Natural Philosophy,
retic-1 ;" and .lution called
"'i -V,
* FLATLOX, Francis de Sali^u archbishop
of Ca' t
his time, was born of ai c iuniii--. in
France, in the year 1G51. He made a rapid progress in
learning 1 ; and being destined to the ecclesiastical proles-
s became a preacher as early as his nineteenth year.
At the age of twenty-four, he entered into orders, and ex-
erci! -.i'mistry : his sin-
:ed the king
i chief ol'-a H rsion of
A IMM'.VIHX.
Mild not acc
In 1
i he
him am
ch-
ititied vk An
,!)lc
i
'
.} to
.i iv n them iron/
- to them, and c
his cour.tr v ; for in tlu- 1. si w XIV. i:
O f station, cxpr^sly
the lands o; 1 spared.
tit man died in 1715 : he expired in perfect
tr.snquUity, ilteplv 1 by all the ii the
Low-countries, and especially by the flock Commuted to
hi*? ' h .>ri-.
Brides other uorks, he wrote the following:
logues on Eloqiv nee : v they contain the most solid princi-
ples on the art of persuasion, of vvhich.hr tn-ats hoth like
an orator and a ])hilosopher. u Ttlemachus/' a highly po-
pular work. Nc\< r vvere purer, more useful, and more eie-
vated moxim** of public and pnvate conduct, -offered to the
htiroi rchv. "A Treatise on the Education of
Daughters ;" an excellent work. u Dialogues of the dead.
APPENDIX.
K A clem; . i of the existence of God, by
drawn from Nature." u Tiie most touching charm of Fe-
rn Ion's works," says an eminent writer, "is the sensation
of peace and repose, with which he inspires his reader : he
is a fiiencl who joins himself to us ; is his sou! iri-
to ours ; who t- and at least for a time, suspends our
troubles and altlict:
FR \\XMN, Benjamin a philosopher and statesman, of
Viiv, was .horn at Boston in New-England, in
1705. Fr .i!y indications of a disposition for lite-
raunv he exhibited, his father destined him for the
church: ; >ut tlv of a large family prevented him from
continuing the education comnu. need for this purpose ; and
at th' j age- often, he was taker, home to be employed in the
offices of the family trade, which was that of a soap boiler
and tallow-chandler : he however, soon after became an ap-
prentice to an elder brother, who was a printer. In a short
time he removed to Philadelphia, and engaged in the ser-
vice of a printer in that city: he contracted an acquaint-
ance with several young men iond of reading, in whose so-
ciety he opent his evenings and improved his taste : his
strong powers of mind joined to uncommon industry, fur-
J him with a large stock. of useful knowledge, and
rendered him highly respectable : he gradually passed
through a variety of public employments, constantly gain-
ing an accession of honour and esteem : his fame stood
high boih in the political and scientific world, in 1778 he
was sent as American ambassador to France, and was suc-
cessful in 'negotiating an alliance with that country. In
1783 he also acted as one of the plenipotentiaries, in sign-
ing the treaty of peace with England. In 1785, he return-
ed to America ; and received from his grateful countryrru n
those honours and distinctions, which he had justly merit-
ed. In 1788, his increasing infirmities caused him to with-
draw from all public business; .md in 1790, he closed, in,
enity and resignation, his active and useful life of eigh-
t -four years,
Dr. Franklin has been surpassed by few, if any men, in
that solid practical wisdom, which consists in pursuing va-
luable ends by the most appropriate means : his cool tt-m-
per and sound judgment, generally secured him from Use
views and erroneous expectations. In his speculations and
268
APPENDIX.
pursuits, so:-. s ever in Nation :
he i * 1 h;.;\ c alv .
hi< .', than 01
ki (1 oi rt-pa: .:
n ti) o
^ \ . d t>\ t
. . i in s , ;
n>n
GAY John-
13 a -hiie, IT) 1CKS : 1:
tion ;l llie fr
put appivnt:.
! igqi)t ai;
agrt- iiu-nt. iJr !
iv 10 otli- tilii
niu-'vs. In 1711
> iln-d to w idi
himseU. 'I'his coinj/i ; \\\\\-
ing temj iip,
\vhic!i u . In 171J he ucci-pivd ;m
o'V r 'I , ; ling \vi h tii d ic. quality
ie pr clucc-il the poen) en-
^' Lon-
ihe
The
ral
a-n
to
r. In 1 7
r the instruction of the ck;k>- c/t' C
it tntrit,
an ; il<' wiote
^vhich a>: hi^ literary rc-pu-
15. t his most i'r>rnvince of this kind has
h, t i jn ivincr a tendency to sap tiu If) .n-
njoraiity : though it ih hi^niy c
that G:r is Mitentions in Anting it.
Gay met with disappointments, which dejected his spi-
APPENDIX. 269
rits and affected his health : he however employed himself
in composition, till the year 1732, when he died
of an inflmnmation of UK bowels, at the ag of forty -four.
The private character of Gay was that of easy good na-
ture, and undesigning simplicity ; and he was much belov-
ed by his friends. He possessed but little energy of mind;
and had too much indolence to support that independence,
to which his principles inclined him.
GILHIN, Will:am a clergyman of great worth, was bora
in the year 17^4. In 1753, he first attracted public notice
by his merit as a biographer, wh<-n he published the liie of
his lineal ancestor, the celebrated Ik i nurd Gilpin, com-
monly called "The Northern Apostle:" he aftterwards
wrote th. lives of Latimer, John WicklifFe, John Huss,
Jerome of Prague, and Zisca. They are lively, well writ-
ten, interesting pieces of biography. His " Lectures on the
Church Catechism," have been much read and approved :
he was author of several other publications, which do cre-
dit t" his taste and abilities : his life corresponded with his
writings. Few men have left behind them a higher char. -c-
ter for wisdom, piety, and virtue : he died in the eighti-
eth year of his age.
GOLDSMITH, Oliver a celebrated English writer, was
born in Ireland, in the year 1.731 : he was the son of a cler-
gyman, who gave him a literary education, aiixl ent him,
at an early period, to Dublin college. Being designed for
the medical profession, he removed to the university of
Edinburgh, where he continued about three years. Unable
to pay a d<-bt which he had contracted there, he left Edin-
burgh clandestinely ; but he was arrested af Sunderland,
and was indebted to the friendship of two fellow-collegians,
for his release fro.n confinement. Under these unfavour-
able auspices, he launched into the world ; and in spite of
penury, resolved to gratify his curiosity by a European
tour : he remained four years on the continent, travelling
e\vr the greater part of it, enjoying the scenes of nature,
and studying the human passions : his learning and other
attainments, procured him a hospitable reception at the mo-
nasteries ; and his German flute made him welcome to the
peasants of Flanders and Germany. " Whenever I ap-
pro --tched ! peasant's house t nightfall,* 1 \t day "
On his return to 9 in so narrow circum-
stance, that it was long be lore he could get 'employment
iii London, IK in 3 ujecte.. . i al apoth^carus, lo \\hom
he of ft- red hnns- It as a journeyman. v c me of his first i m-
ploy meats were those o! occupying a department in the
JVlomhly Review, and writin ral papers in the Pub-
lic ] ;sed his pen in obst u-
rity : but in 1765, he suddenly blazed out as a poet, in his
u ^ i'ravellti, or a Pi. ," Oi this wor!;, that
, Dr. Johnson, liberally and justly said, that
u trure had not K I'ope's tuiiv." 1
The public \vt r its m lit, and it con-
ferred upon him lical tame nai'h-
c,ood-
ness ot his heait; and his <.onsumm;Ur knowledge ot hu-
man nature and ot the world. He j;tib!ished r.lso, u A com-
parative View of the S: } an and other Anim ti.s."
13 sides his moral writing.*, ; \viih great abiiiu in
the line of his profession. i his excellent man died sud-
denly in the year 1773.
HARRIS, James im English n of ver\ UP
mon parts and learning, was boin at Salisbury, in i 7O9.
Aft'-r his grammatical education, he was icmoved in 1726,
to Wadham college in Oxiord, but took no he
however cultivated letters most attentu ly ; and in the liie-
orv and practice of music, he had few equals. In 1703, he
was appointed one of the loids commissioners of the ad-
miralty. In 1774, he was m - and comptroller
to the queen ; which till his death : he died in
178'), after a long illness, which he bore with calmness and
jesignat:
He is the author of sever il \ -Uu?>le works. 1. u Three
treatises concerning Art; Music, Fainting, and Poetry;
and Happiness. 2. u Philosophical Arrangements. ' 3,
" Philological Inquireis." 4. 4 Hermes; or, a Philosophi-
eal Inquiry concerning Universal Granwnar." Oi this work
bishop Lowth speaks "very highlv ; nd adds, u I his is the
most beautiful and perfect i-xamph of analysis, that has
been exhibited since the days of Aristotle,
HAWKESWORTH, John. a celebrated English wn er,
\vas born in 1715 He was brought up to a mechanical pro-
j\ , -i >n ; but possessing a r li -. ta te, and a liv-:lv m.i.^i-
nation, he chose to devote nunseif to literature. He resi-
273
clecl some time at Bromley in Kent, where his wife kept a
bo.ir.il :> scivjoi. A' -ui author, his k - Adventurer" is his
capital work ; the rm . its ot which it is said, procured him
the Of LL. D. from Herring, archbishop of Cant r-
bury. He compiled fcfc A Narrative of the Discoveries in
|he South Sens ;'* and it is said he received for it tru.- r nor-
tnous sunn of six thousand poumis. The performance (iicl
not however satisiv the public. The province of Hawk< s-
worth was works of taste and elegance, where imagination
and the passions were to be affected ; not works of dry,
cold, accurate narrative.
In 1773 he died ; some say ot chagrin from the ill re-
ception of his " Narrative ;" for he was a man ol the
keenest sensibility, and obnoxious to all the evils of that
unhappy temperament
In the last number of " The Adventurer," are the fol-
lowing pathetic admonitions: a The hour is hasting, in
which whatever praise or censure I have acquired, will be
remembered with equal indifference. Time, who is impa-
tient to date my last paper, will shortly mou ; der, in the
dust, the hand which is now writing it; and still the breast
that now throbs at the reflection. But let not this be read,
as something that relates only to another: for a few years
only can divide the eye that is now reading, from the hand
th.'t has written."
HERVFY, James a pious and- ingenious English divine,
was born at Hardingstone, in Northamptonshire, in 1714.
Af;er he had received his academical education at North-
ampton, he was removed to Lincoln college, Oxford, w r here
he was distinguished tor his classical attainments, and the
seriousness of his deportment. ' He succeeded his father in
the living of Weston Favtll and Coliingtree ; and diligent-
ly pursued his studies, and the labours of the ministry, un-
der the disadvantage of a weak constitution.
In 1746, he published his u Meditations among the
Tombs, and Reflections on a Flower Garden ;" and the fol-
lowing year appeared the u Contemplations on the Night
and Starry heavens; and a Winter Piece." The sublime
sentiments in thes. pi-.-ces, are conveyed in a flowing and
elegant style. The language has, however, been deemed
to j flowery and rather too elevated. These public \ - ns
have been much read, and have often cherished pious and
274 APPENDIX.
gr.teful emotions towards the Author of all good. In 17j;>
c;i.ne out iiis kk i'h:ron and A^pasio ; 01 , a S, i u * of ,
loii< s and L-tters on thr mi-si important subjects." i nis
work has had many admirers, and some opposers. The
D. -logucs ai eraih introduced with deseiipiions of
som of th< mosv \[ scents of the creation.
A.S his works had * yrr.it sale, his profits \ve-u- large ;
but he applied the whole- of tht in to chaiitabu purposes.
His chanty uas indeed, \<:y e m.irk:l>le. it was ah\
his -J.sire to elk- just even with the world, and l<> IK, as iie
called it, his ow*i txecnr , truly good man dud in
thv. winter of 1758, leaving tlu- little he possessed, 10 pur-
chase warm clothing :
HOME, Henry, lord Kames an eminent Stotiish law-
yer, and author of m . d works on \ nb-
jects, was born in the )'ear 1(>9(). In early youth he was
lively, and eager in the acquisition uf knowledge : he never
attended a public school ; but was instructed in the ancient
and modern languages, as \vell as in several branches of
the mathematics, by a private tutor, who continued to be
his preceptor f..r : ars..
He was long an ornament to the Scottish bar; and in
47,52) v i,cd to the beach, as one of the judges of
the court of session, under the title of lord Kames.
He wrote several tracts respecting law and equity, which
exhibit marks of great penetration and profound know-
ledge. Several of his publications also show that he was
distinguished for his taste in polite literature. It is observ-
ed by a late celebrated author, that, " to read, write, and
converse, in due proportions, is the business of a man of
letters ; and that he who hopes to look back hereafter with
satisfaction upon past years, must learn to know the value
of single minutes, and endeavour to let no particle of time
fall useless to the ground." By practising these lessons,
lord Kames rose to literary eminence, in opposition to all
the obstacles, which the tumult of public business could
place in his way. -In the year 1782 he died, honoured and
regretted, of debility resulting from extreme old age.
Lord Karnes's u Elements of Criticism," 3 vols. octavo,
show that the art of criticism is founded on the principles
of human nature. It is not only a highly instructive, but
an entertaining work. His " Sketches of the history of
APPENDIX. 275
Man," contain much useful information, and are lively and
HooKf , Nuihauiel celebrated for a kt Roman history,"
extending from the ioundati<>n < i the city to the ruin of the
commonwealth, died in 1764, but the time of his birth can-
not be ascertained, B\ the recommendation ot the earl of
Ghesterfieid, he was employed by the duchess ot Marino-
rough to digest " An account of the conduct of the dowa-
ger-- iuchess of Mariborough, from her first coming to
court to the year 1710 :" he executed this work in. so mas-
terly a m '-inner, and so much to the satisfaction of the
ducihss, that she complimented the author with a present
oi five thousand pounds.
in 1723 he translat- d jVom the French, u A history of
the Life of the late Archbishop of Cambray :" and soon
afu*r published a translation oi Ramsay's Travels of Cy-
rus. lit- was concerned in several other works, which con-
tributed to support his literary reputation ; and he long en-
jovtd the confidence and patronage ot men, not less distin-
guished by virtue than by tides.
HORNC. George bishop of Norwich, was born in 173G,
at Oiham, near M.-idstone, in Kent. At the age of fifteen
he removed from Maidstone school to University college,
Oxford. At college his studies were in general, the same
as those of other virtuous and ingenious youths; while the
vivacity of his conversation, and the propriety of his con-
duct, endeared him to all whose regard was creditable. In
1753, he entered into orders, and was soon distinguished
as an excellent preach* r : he appeared also as an acute wri-
ter, particularly in controversy. After several preferments
and honours, he was appointed bishop of Norwich : but his
infirmities were then very great. As he entered the palace,
he said, " I am come to these steps at a time of life, when
I can neither go up them nor down them with safety." In
1792 he died at Bath, full of faiih and hope. It seldom
falls to the lot of the biographer, to record a man so blame-
less in character and conduct as bishop Home. Whatever
might be his peculiar opinions on some points, he was un-
doubtedly a sincere andi exemplary Christian.
His writings are numerous and valuable. We shall only
niention, u Considerations on the life and death of St. John
the Baptist ;" " A Commentary on the Psalms $" "
APPLNDiX.
volumes of Sermons on several subjects and occasions ;"'
u A Letter to Adam Smith, LL. D. on the Life, Death,
and Philosophy, of David Hume ;" u A Lttter to Doctor
Priestley, by an Undergraduate."
HUME, David,- a celebrated philosopher and historian,
was born in Scotland, in the year 1711. He possessed shin-
ing talents, which were greatly improved by education, stu-
dy > and observation of the world. The desire of literary
fame was his ruling passion : but his endeavours to accom-
plish this object, were, at first, and for a long time, unsjic-
cessful. Even his history of Britain under the house of
Stuart, (which afterwards formed a part of his great work
the history of England,) was on its publication, almost uni-
versally decried. He felt this disappointment very keenly,
and his spirits were so much sunk by it, that he formed the
resolution of retiring to France, changing his name, and
bidding adieu to his own country for ever. 13ut his design
was frustrated, by the breaking out of the war of 1 755, be-
tween France and England.
He wrote several Treatises, of a moral, philosophical,
and political nature ; the merits of which have been vari-
ously appreciated. But the work for which he has been most
deservedly celebrated, is the " history of England, Jkc."
He may, with great propriety, be styled a profound and el-
egant historian. \VY find, however, even in this history,
some scepticism on the subject of r ligiou, and sentiments,
not friendly to Christianity It is to be lanu nted that so
fine a writer as Hume, whose works are so extensively cir-
culated, had not satisfied his mind of the truth of Christi-
anity ; and ranged himself among the advocates of a reli-
gT>n, which is completely adapted to the condition of man
in this life, and whkh opens to him the sublimest views of
happiness hereafter.
Dr Bt:uttit:, a zealous and enlightened philosopher and
chrittian. on reviewing t&e philosophical writings of Hume,
expresses his regret and surprise in the following terms.
w That he whose manners in private life arc said to be so
enable to manv of his acquaintance, should yet, in the
public capacity of an author, have given so much caus^ of
just offmce to all the friends of virtue and mankind, is to
me matter of astonishment and sorrow. That he, who suc-
ceeds so well in describing the fates of nations, should
APPENDIX. 2/->
have failed so egregiously in explaining the operations of
the mind, is one of those incongruities in human genius,
for which perhaps philosophy will never be able fully to ac-
count. That he, who hath so impartially stated the opposite
pleas and principles of our political factions, should yet have
adopted the most illiberal prejudices against natural and
revealed religion ; that her, who on some occasions hath
displayed even a profound erudition, should, at other times,
when intoxicated with a favourite theory, have suffered af-
firmations to escape him, which would have fixed the op-
probrious name of Sciolist on a less celebrated author; and ,
finally, that a moral philosopher, who seems to have exert-
ed his utmost ingenuity in searching after paradoxes, should
yet happen to light on none, but such as are all, without
exception, on the side of licentiousness and scepticism :
these" are inconsistencies perhaps equally inexplicable, iiis
philosophy hath done great harm. Its admirers 1 know are
very numerous ; but I have not as yet met with one person,
who both admired and undTS nh.nn, th- " (> nil"
of Dver, an . ho
his
tiie
u $ \valln\\ s;" ar (1 hv ai.
and tender S ,ich
jusih entitle bun i J.!K- exclusive tlisiinci: lk i^ott
oi the B
As a (L-scrii' , ' i ma-
gi ji .
In ^ .uui
in 1781, in { \ ear
styl-. (1 thr Li
S ho/r. ;a Lirh(i( i.1 in
S, in r, u ho u ;is u
:. Hi- . :;iarks o!
S" . !-.l-ni.iily
fa-
h'uu in t; i liter, tiure.
M.'Cl
I-; hib snuli-.-s -inii ii Ijo
in ',-);. a religion is
true i aiui wluc <;< , Oxford. Dr. Adam said of him, 4t that he was the
be^t qu -Lfird young man that he ever remembered to have
s n .1 mitted :" here he produced a fine Latin Version of
.iiah. Pope re;:ci the translation, and n turned
it with this encomium ; u The writer oi this poem will leave
it u qiKSti<-n, for posterity, whether his or mine be the ori-
^ " F;om his father's insolvency, and the scantiness of
his finances, he was obliged to leave Oxford before he had
completed the usual studies, and without a dtgree*
APPFNDIX. 279
From the university, ru returned to Lien field, with little
itr- >! ov< nu-nt of his prospects ; and oon ait r engaged as
usiirr in a school in Leicestershire. But being unkindly
treated bv the patron of the school, he Kit it, after a f< w
m nubs, in disgust. In 1735 he married a widow of Bir-
mingham, much older than himself, and not very engaging
in person or manners. She was possessed of GO 1. ; v hich
enabled him to fit up a house and op :dctny. But
this plan also fail< d for want of ^ncourac-ment : he obtain-
ed only three scholars, one of whom \vns- the celebrated
D -.vid Garrick. In 1/37 hr settl d in London,., where, for
several years, he J.^nv-d his principal employment and
support, bv writing for the Gvntl-man's M-i^azme.
la 1738, he published his ifc London," an admirable po-
em, which laid the foundation of his fame. It contains the
most spirited invectives against tyranny and oppression,
the warmest prtciileciion for his o\vn country, and the pur-
est love of virtue. -In 1744, appeared his u Life of Savage.'*
The narrative is remarkably smooth and well disposed, the
observations are just, and the reflections disclose the inmost
recesses of the human heart. u The vanity of Human
Wishes," was produced in 1749. It contains profound re-
flections : and the various instances of disappointment, are
judiciously chosen, and strongly painted. vl The Rambler"
came out in 175O. In this work, Johnson is the great mo-
ral teacher of his countrymen : his essays form a body of
ethics : the observations on life and manners, are acute and
instructive : and the papers, professedly critical, serve to
promote the cause of literature. Every page shows a mind
teeming with classical allusion, and poetical imagery. In
1 755 he published his grand work the "Dictionary of the En-
glish Language." This performance may properly be called
the Mount Atlas of English literature. The labour of form-
ing it was immense ; and the definitions exhibit Astonishing
proofs of acuteness of intellect, and precision of language.
His u Lives of the English Poets'* were completed in
1781. This is an eminently valuable work. His judgment,
taste, quickness in the discrimination of motives, and his
happy art of giving to well known incidents the grace of
novelty, and the force of instruction, shine strongly in these
narratives. Sometimes, however, his colourings receive a
tinge from prejudice, and his judgment is insensibly war
APPENDIX.
Cd !'. :OtC
also *T
I
an-!
I . i :
.
tills
L\\ . J
born in \
cert
h<- i'
the; . I his
p'h-ie m
Lj Uelt< J merit,
Lun 'duc-
ns
of 1
. I k * A Tr.n
Tbi
ins-
tr v," wthich -^ l ^
\ , and humnnjty. l v .
time h^ lK-:;hh : i; aiul iie died in 17/
L.inithorn % private- i
ami ;. As a poet, his scntmu
ticns art I ; his descriptive i
show a luxiiriaiU imn^ini.tion ; and his 1\ ric pieces teem
\viih the
LOGAN, a Scottish uivine and poet. rn in
^ the county oi Aiid Lothian, about the ycur 1748. Alter
APPENDIX. 281
passing through the usual course of school education in the
country, he was svnt to the university of Edinburgh, where
he completed his classical education, and afterwards ap-
plied with success to the several branches of philosophy
and theology. In 1779, he delivered a series of If ctures oa
the " Philosophy of History ;" and was gratified with the
approbation and friendship of Dr. Robertson, Dr. Blair,
Dr. Ferguson, and other mt-n of genius and learning.
In 1781, he published " Elements of the Philosophy of
History.' 1 This work displays deep penetration, compre-
hensive views, and animated composition. The same year,
he published a volume of poems ; in which he reprinted,
with some alterations, the " Ode to the Cuckoo." This
ode is highly distinguished by the delicate graces of sim-
plicity and tenderness.
After a lingering indisposition he died in London, in
1788, in the 4Oth year of his age.
In 1790, a volume of u Sermons, 9 ' selected from his
manuscripts, was published at Edinburgh, under the sup r-
intendence of Dr. Blair, Dr. Robertson, and Dr. Hardy,
professor of ecclesiastical history in the university. His
sermons, though not so highly polished as those of Dr.
Blair, have been thought to possess, in a greater degree,
the animated and passionate eloquence of Massillon and
Atterburr.
LYTTELTON, George a nobleman of literary eminence,
was born in 1709: he received the rudiments of education
at Eton school, where he was so much distinguished, thafc.
his exercises were recommended as mods-Is to his school-
fellows. From Eton he went to Christ Church, Oxford,
where he retained the same reputation of superiority : here
he wrote several of his pastorals , and sketched the plan of
his Persian Letters.
In the year 1728, he set out on the tour of Europe : his
conduct while on his travels, was a lesson of instruction to
the rest of his countrymen. Instead of lounging away his
hours at the coffee houses frequented by the English, and
adopting the fashionable follies and vices of France and
Italy, his time was passed alternately in his library, and in
the society of men of rank and literature. .On his return to
ngland^, he obtained a seat in p -jrh 'ent ; .wl distin-
guished himself by his patriotic exertions : he afterward?
IX.
filled, with gr-at reputati ;1 high offices in the si
was en a -s patent, a prt r 01 ( rtt -t Brit, tin.
In politics and public li:e, he made t' : ,d good the
ml- ol his conduct: :., .,/s in parliament exhibit
sound j powerful rl>quence, ant! inflexible inte-
grity. In Lucy, the d 'ughter ot Hugh
This ladv's c \< -uplary conduct, an uni-
iorm practice of religion and virtue, plaet-d his conjugal
happiness on the most prom! . Hut in th< course
of four year vcelient wom-n died, in the i>9th \t_ar
of hvr ap;e. J.ord L\ttelton, on th ,nt,
wrote a .Monody, which will n j u g a l a<>
tion, and a t t^u- |V.|- , --'juntry-
In 1747, he !.,-d ki Dssst-rtation on
the Conversion of St. Paul;'' a treatise to which ininUlity
has ru-ver hrcn able- to fabricate a . !
he published his lk Dialogues of tru Dead ;" in which the
morality of Fenelon, and the spirit of Fontenelle, are hap-
pily united : his production \\MS the a his;
of Henry the S i 1 tbour of twtnty years. This
work is justly ranked among the most valuable historical
performances in the English language. It is executed with
great fidelity. I I i unaflVued, ge-
nerally correct, and ( mt and master!} The senti-
ments and remarks are judicious and pertinent ; liberal
with respect to religion, and friendly to the cause oi liber-
ty and the rights of mankind.
During the last ten years of lord Lyttelton, he lived
chiefly in retirement, in the continual exercise of all the
virtues which can ennoble private life. In the summer of
1/T3, he was suddenlv seized with an inflammation of the
bowels, which soon terminated in death : his last moments
were attended with unimpaired understanding, unaffected
greatness of mind, calm resignation, and humble but confi- s
dent hopes in the mercy of God. As he had lived univer-
sally esteemed, he died lamented by all parties.
MELMOTH, William was born in 171O: his father was
a bencher of Lincoln's Inn, and the author of that excel- H
lent treatise, entitled, u The Great Importance of a Reli-
gious Life." The present subject of our biographical
sketch, was the author of the elegant classical letters, which
bear the name of Sir Thomas Fitzosborne : he wrote, also
APPENDIX. 80
Memoirs of his Father; and published admirable transla-
tions of [Tmy's and Cicero's Epistles. In 1799 he died.
MERRICK, James an ingenious poet, was born about
the ye,*r 1718 : he was educated at Trinitv college, Oxford;
where he took his degrees in arts, and was elected fellow:
he published " Poems on Sacred Subjects," and " A Trans-
lation of Tryphiodorus," a Grt ek poet who wrote a poem
on the destruction of Troy : but the work by which he is
most known is, u The Psalms translated or paraphrased. "
This is the best poetical English version of the psalms now
extant : his tk Annotations on the Psalms," are very learn-
ed and judicious. They are interspersed with many valu-
able notes by the late archbishop Seeker.
Merrick died at Reading in 1769: his character is fair
and respectable.
MILTON, John the most illustrious of the English po-
ets, was descended from an ancient family at Milton near
Oxford : he was born in London, in the year 1608, and re-
ceived the first rudiments of education under the care of
his parents, assisted by a private tutor. For this tutor he
felt a grateful regard ; and, during several years, held at
affectionate correspondence with him : he was afterwards
placed at St. Paul's school, where he applied so intensely
to books, that he hurt his constitution, which naturally was
not strong : for, from his twelfth year, he generally sat up
half the night at his studies. This practice, with his fre-
quent heaclachs, is supposed to have occasioned the first
injury to his eyes. From St. Paul's school, he went to
Cambridge, where he took his degrees in the arts : he was
designed for the clerical office ; but not having much incli-
nation for that profession, he declined it.
From 1632 to 1637 he resided at his father's house io,
Buckinghamshire ; where he enriched his mind with the
choicest stores of Grecian and Roman learning: here he
wrote his FAflegro\ II Penseroso, and Lycidas^ pieces which
alone would have acquired for him a high literary fame.
In 1638, he travelled into France and Italy ; where he
was treated with singular respect and kindness, by persons
f the first eminence, both for rank and learning. On his
return to England, he settled in London ; and kept a semi-
nary for the education of a few children, seas of gentlemen.
II"
!
P U
.
,
'
. It
ith the ; i>t <'f j
i-rai \vas spl
ttended.
MOORE, Edward, v.- ^ingclon, in I*
in the \< -> p r^onal history, the
rdefl by ms ' '.re insufTuient to uri- j
His reputarion at\;ony: tin pe-
jrio .iral
ilis lather dyin when he was ubout ten years oiu, the
28$
direction of his education was kindly undertaken by his
u -r. With him he spent some year- ok" !
his early IdV, and was then removed to the school ot Kast
Orchard, in Dorsetshire.
His ori;;innl destination appears to have been trade ; and
at a propel age, he was placed with a wholesale linendrapeV
in London. Bat his taste not corresponding with the views
oi his friends, he relinquished the business to. which he was
bred, b^r:ine a candidate for tame, and attached himseli to
the muses. In 1744, he courted public attention by pro-
ducing his first performance entitle 1, c * Fables ior the Fe-
male S f -x ;" which was fnvouraMv rec ived. I* 1753, be
began a periodical paper, called %w Thr \Vori\bv Ad.ra
Fitz-Adam," whi, h he carried on in weekly numbers ior
four years. The design, as he explains it in the first num-
ber, " was to ridicule, with nov- lu and good humour, the
fashions, follies. vie<-s, and absurdities, of that part of the
human species, which we call the World ; and to trace it
through all its business, pleasures, and amusements." The
wits of the age were invited to join in it, and they ^ave it
their assistance. The demand for this work greatly excted-
ed expectation ; and, during its appearance, it was the only
fashionable vehicle, in which men of rank and genius chose
to convev their sentiments to tin public.
1 1 is to be lamented that this resp crable person did not
acquire the means of a comfortable subsistence. All his ex-
ertions were barely sufficient to ward off the in onv eniences
of poverty.* He died in 1757, in the 45th. year of his age.
The character of Moore was truly amiable and estima-
ble. He had a peculiar swt-einess of temper, and was a
most entertaining and cheerful companion. Tee simplicity
of his manners much endeared him to all his acquaintances,
and made them always speak of him with particular regard.
From the names of his coadjutors in the World, and of the
persons to whom his several pieces are addressed, it ap-
pt-ars that he was honoured with the trie ndship of almost
idl his cotemporanes, who were themselves remarkable for
talents and learni* g.
As a poet, his Compositions a^e characterized by a refin-
ed v'kgance of sentiment, and a correspondent happiness of
explosion. But his greatest recommendation, is tlu puri-
ty which pervades his writings, and the apparent tendency
APPENDIX.
'Hem to promote morality and virtue. His Fablcx, the
t pop.i! works, iii , m _
pos, -.ions u\ th i. ; om tt ,, c |
i the moral,
, -road; nearer to
of tin n is of
uitiful i
n imcjm-
..
ire of human
MURRAY, Willum, r.n-l ..r Mansfield- .. n at
Penh, in i;< waa lv.pp;ly rndowtd 1\ aid
haij/ilv . ,- m g
several d^iinj>i:; , wan in 17o(>, m.ide chi' ! jus-
of th^ king's Bench : hi* t l;iwy-r, an:, tiis
attachment to the common la\v <,; 1 5 have b^cn va-
2-iously apn he hiul \v:i-m irii-iuS and Zi-alf-us ;
mies. The. addn c gentlemen qf tht liar to him, af-
ter his resignation of office, is an honourable tt-siimonv to
his merit; and virtually n-i'u 1 .- mst
him. Lord mansfit 1 , most eloquent spcakt-r : his
eloquence was not, indeed, of that daring, declamatory
kind, so irresistibly powerful in the momentary bust!
popular assemblies ; but it was possessed of that pure
Attic spirit, and seductive power of persuasion, that de-
light, instruct, and eventually triumph.
After hav ng long eminently served his king and coun-
try, he perceived the infirmities of body to press upon himj
and, in 1788, he thought it his duty to resign the office of
chief jus- ice, and to retire from public business. From this
period, his bodily powers continued to decline ; and in 1793
he died, in the 89th year of his age.
The last will of lord Mansfield begins with the follow-
ing elegant and pious paragraph, with which we shall close
our sketch of him.
u When it shall please Almighty God to call me to that
state, to which, of all I now enjoy I can carry only the sa-
tisfaction of my own conscience, and a full reliance upon
his mercy through Jesus Christ, I desire that my body
may be interred as privately as may be ; and out of respect
for the place of my early education, I should wish it to be
In Westminster Abbey."
APPENDIX.
PARNELL, Dr. Thomas a well known poet, contempe-
rarv wuh POJK, Suift, &c. was bora in Dublin in 1679.
Wh.L-n he was only thirteen years old, he became a nn MI-
ber of Trinity ColK g< -, Dublin : and in 1700 was admitted
to tlu- d'-grrt" o!' vLmter <>f Arts. About three years after-
wards, h- ente:. d into Priests orders: and, about the Sitne
time, married a young woman of gre.it beauty and merit,
About the year 1706, h. first visited England, where his
friendship was very generally sought, even before he had
distinguished himseU by his writings. Pope was particu-
lar! \ fond of his company ; and appears to h ive been under
so:n'- obligations to him in his translation of ilv Iliad.
Amidst his honours and expectations, he had the afflic-
tion to lose his amiable wife, which made a deep impres-
sion on his mind. They h ul lived together in great Conju-
gal felicity : his grief for this loss induced him to seek re-
lief in society ; and brought on habits which were injurious
to his health. He died at Chester, in h>s way to Ireland,
in t.ht -9th vear of his ige.
Parn 11 was a man of great benevolence, and very agree-
able :n:i:wers: his conversation is said to have been ex-
Uerriely pleasing. His prose writings are, his papers in the
.Spectator and Guardian, his Essay on Homer, life of Zoi-
_lus, and rrmarks on Zoilus. In general, they have not been
thought to :lisplav a great degree oi force or comprehen-
sion of mind: 'but they are rich in imagery, and full of
learning, good sense, and knowledge of mankind. Asa
port, he is not distinguished hy strength of intellect, or fer-
tilitv of invention. His taste was *'< Lc.tU, ; *nd improved
by classical study ; but his admiration ol the ancen-'S in,
s^me degree precluded originality : his though s, without
being very new, are just and pleasing. The images, Chough
not great, are well selected and happily applied: hi* senti-
mt:nts are'natural and agreeable. The moral tendency of
his poems, is excellent ; and his language pure and correct.
The Wight Piece on Death deserves every praise, it is ia-
directh preferred by Goldsmith to Gray's " EL-gv;" but
in Dr. Johnson's opinion, Gray has the advantage, in dig.*
nity, variety, and originality of sentiment. The most poj
pillar ot Parnell's poems has always been his Hermit^
which is certainly conspicuous for piety ei desigUj utili
t>t' moral, and elegance of de
88
APPENDIX.
PERCIVAL, Thomas, was born at Warrington, in the
year 1740. His education commenced at a private school
in the neighbourhood ; from whence he was, in his eleventh
year, transferred to the Free Grammar School of Warring-
ton, in which hr gave striking promise of talents and in-
dustry. In 1757, he was enrolled the first student of the
Warrington Academy : and after prosecuting his studies
there with diligence and reputation, for more than three
years, he removed to the University of Edinburgh ; in
which place, he employed a considerable time, in close ap-
plication to the study of physic. In the year 1764, at an
unusually early period of life, he was unanimously elected
Fellow of the Royal Society of London.
Having passed some time at Paris, Hamburgh, and va-
rious other places on the Continent, but principally at Ley-
den, in the university of which he graduated, he returned
to England in the year 1765. The theatre of his profes-
sional practice then became the object of his serious deli-
berations : and, after a variety of plans proposed and re-
jected, his choice was ultimately directed to Manchester ;
in which town he settled in the year 1767, and there con-
tinued till his death, in the unremitting exercises of his
profession.
His merits as a practitioner of physic, and the benefits*
conferred by him on medical science, were vt-ry distin-
guished. A quick penetration, a discriminating judgment,
a comprehensive knowledge, a d abovr all, a sole run sense
of responsibility, were tru endowments which fitted him at
once to discharge the duties, and toextmd tbr boundaries,
of the heali g :.rt. His external accomplishments, and man-
ners were alike happily adapted to the offices of his ^roiV.s-
sun. To an address peculiarly engaging, from its uncom-
mon mixture of dignitv, respectfulness, and ease, was unit-
ed a i avity ot deportment that bespoke the seriousness of
interest, not the gl-.orn of apprehension. The expression of
a i^Tinine, vmpathy, presented him likewise the
comforur in the physician. And the topics of encourage-
ment and consolation, which the goodness of his heart, and
the ample stores ot his cultivated mind, abundantly sup-
^plL<., enabled him to administer relief to the wounds of the
epi) -r, with no less efficacy than to the diseases of the body.
A * literary character. Dr. Percival held a distinguish-
APPENDIX, 289
e*l rank, His earlier publications were devoted to inquiries
extensively medical and philosophical,, mid they have long
obtained for their author high and deserved reputation
amongst the learned. The subjects which occupied his nm,
in later years, were of :i nature most congenial to his feel-
ings. In the several volumes of Fathers Instruction* and
red Dissertations ) which were originally designed to ex-
cite in the hearts of his children a desire of knowledge and
a love of virtue, we find purity of stvle, genuine feeling, re-
nned taste, and pious reflections. There is no object of
higher importance than tnat which the author held in view,
the intellectual, moral, and religious improvement of the
rising generation. The last work which Dr. Percival pub-
lished, the u Medical Ethics," and which appeared in the
year 1803, is alone sufficient to establish his character, as a
wise, good, and amiable man. This most valuable treatise,
which he expressly dedicated, as a u paternal legacy,'* to a
much loved son, may now be regarded ao his bequest to
his brethren of the faculty, and to the public. It is indeed
a monument of professional integrity and honour.
In social discussion. Dr. Percivai possessed powers of a
very uncommon stamp. But highly as he was to be admi-
red and loved for his engaging manners, and his intellec-
tual endowments, these sentiments were yet more forcibly
exeite by the qualities which dignified and embellished
his moral nature.. Thtse shed Around his characu r that
lustre which made him a public light. He was solicitous on
all occasions to rn-. the world with him fine pa? is awt of tuition, hr in .iid to be one oi t.
. are srll-tan
He early di^. < >v ert d an inclination to vtrsifV; :ind at iif-
, he hud s^ribblv-d a t>rt at cK-,il of poui v of various
the
n, he Mlt- r\v,ii(l^ n-y
of i . ;' , s\ h-n
I ^ ! ; :-si productions \\cre
the rhil dii n ol s? 'i! love .JIM!
he |)T mces ; and 1 th<>
ivv.^. IT \vs. but ilicM- de-
( mished lo'- t \ * r."
In 1! published his a Partorals,* 1 which first intro-
duced him to the wits of that period. His tk Kss ;! on
tic^ I in 1 7O8. ';I'this \vv>rk Dr. Johnson ob-
ervrs, th:.t it' he had written nothing else, it would have
pliH'.-d him .1 Cities and the first is it
exhibits e\\ ry ivod'- of txcellence that can embellish or
di^niiy did ' { Ds'nion- >n of matter, novelty
ot arran^-mi-nt. of precept, Splendour oi illustra-
LJ 171^2, be published
a rh of the Lock." This is the most attractive of
all ludicrous compositions. The creative i imagi-
nation, wlvr' .nstituu.s a poet, is, pi rhaps, more
i, than i'i !-is pu: t
tht r In 1715, he produced his kk Iliad;" a U n of
eminent Mierit. t is not the work of a m.-re schola: or \
siMer: it is the performance of a poet, 'i is so
exquisitely harmonious, that it m;sy be said to have tu
the English tongue, in the vc-ar 1728. his u Dunciad"' ap-
pi aivd. As a work of wit and ingenious satire, it h'ts t<"w
eqtials. Wltliotit approvi' and malignity -.'f
the design, it nuiv be s.iid, tint the vigour of intellect, and
the fertility of i.iitcv. which it displays, are equally admira-
ble. In 1733, he p'ubHsfejed hj s a Essay on Man/' Whi;t-
ever o'-j; rti>. =ns ma\ b-. made f> this work, as an ethical
the reader will find it a storehouse of great and ge-
APPENDIX. 293 .
tterous Keatiments : he will seldom rise from the perusal of
it, without kriing his mind animated with th, l-.ve ol \ ir-
tue ; and n.i ;u btn? voknce towards nib fellow crea-
tures, aiul pi tv towards his Creator.
Pope was the author of many other poems, which can-
not be enmiv, rated in this skcuh. In 1743, he found ins
cn.isiitution >p,.ired; and he declined gpiduali} nil
Yis (ie'tth. which happened in the 57th vcar ol his ug< .
FIUOR, Matthew, an emin-nt English poet, was horn in
L :) Ion in !o(H. His father dud whilst he was very young;
a;< an urcl , v?ho w\* a vintntr, gave him somr education
ni VVt stminter school; and afterwards tok him home, to
tririn him to bin own occupation. Young Prior, however, at
hs leisure hours, preset utcd the studv ot the classics, and
esp f 'C'- t) stow. Undei j the magnitude ol a
chit, u t h ;\ . ,d fatal to tl. cts
thai had hit' idles, h
critic, to a sacred di.ity all personal considei .iti'Mis ; .;nd,
accordm-U, hi. invited 1 uuilv to . -iir,
an*! prn roof,
till tlvy were s< r >lv in the world. This (
cl'Kt IKMIS ' to the gt-nerqsify
of his dis!)i)^iiioi
In 17.) ( J, he j I his fcw H I Scotlan-i." This
njse so unbound-
ed, that, ! a month from its publit. ition, he
\va-.
lion lu is tk Hist Fihh,*'
and in 1777, thr u H . uc;." It is not possible
to s works, in higher terms ol pi aise, than they
. With respect to selection of materials, imp.trti.di-
ly, nrr^n^ mi-nt, Ian., id interesting representation,
thty scare < l\ h'\. n historical composition.
In 1789, he | >n Ilistoucal I)i^([uisition con-
eruiing Ancient IIK>: >rk, which he periorme%l
in twelve months, exhibits in every part, a diligence in re-
search, a sound russ ot judgment, and a perspicuity of me-
%hod, little, if at all, interior to those which distinguish hie
otru r pt-rformant
He was principal of the university of Edinburgh, histo-
rapher for Scotland, and one of the king's chaplains for
that coantrv. He dud in \
ROLLIN, CharU-s, i Frenchman, celebrated for elo-
quence, and skill in the belles iettres, was the son of a cut-
It r at Paris, ami born there in 1601. II early distinguish-
ed himself by parts and application, and easily obtained
the first rank among his fellow students. In 1688, he be-
came professor of eloquence, in the royal college ; and ne
man ever exercised its functions with greater eclat. In
1694, he was chosen rector of the university of Paris. Here
he made many useful regulations. He substituted acade-
mical exercises in the place of tragedies, and promoted
among th- students a greater attention to the Holy Scrip-
tures. He was indefatigable in business, and educated a
APPENDIX. 295
very %-reat number of persons who did honour to the \
ous i th* **
296
from his bookseller, he return eu went ia
ik you lor your present. 1 a ihed a volume oi poems: ! .'. hich he \vi
I " Am well 1 *
ii easy and melodious dot oem. And the " Cri-
1 Kssays" possess a urn^: mviit. His
muse was singularly chaste and c; .1 iuan of
;it bene\ and a / '\ocate ior the poor
; distressed : his charm .live
b< nevolence ; for lie searched out and relit vcd/the objects
\vhn stood in need oi' his bounty and consolation. In the
SLED, Jeremiah an English divine, was born at Clif-
ton, near Penrith, in Cu i : iu: had hib school edu-
cation at Lo\vt!-iLr ; and hih acarUnncnl * were tiitn celebrated for genius or learning.'
Though his constitution as well as his fortune, requ
the utmost cure, he was equally negligent of both : and his
various repeated embarrassments, acting upon an imagina-
tion uncommonly fervid, produced temporary alienations
.of mind ; which, at last, became so violent and continued,
as to. render confinement necessary. At length, after suf-
fering the accumulated miseries of poverty, disease, and
insanity, he died of a disorder in his liver, in 1771, in i
49th year of his age.
His writings consist of Prize Poems, Odes, Sonnets>
Fables, Latin and English Translations, &c. : his fine po-
ems on the Divine Attributes, are written with the sub-
limest energies of religion, and the true enthusiasm of po-
etry. In composing them, hit was frequently so impressed
with sentiments of devotion, as to write particular passages
on his knees. The character of Smart was strongly varied
ov exr^tlr-ru-Hc ana failing - K- f. icmjlv, atfectioiate,
and liberal to excess ; so much so, as often to give that to
others, of which he was in the utmost want himself : but
his chief fault, from which most of his other faults pro-
ceeded, was his deviation from the rules of sobriety ; of
which the early use of cordials, in the infirm slate of hie
childhood and youth, might perhaps be one cause, and is
the only extenuation.
THOMSON,' James, an excellent British poet, was born
in the shire of Roxburgh, in the year 1700. From
school of Jedhurgh, where he was taught tire common ru-
diments of learning, ht was removed to the university of
Edinburgh. But at neither of these seminaries was he dis-
tinguished by any remarkable, superiority of parts. He \vivs
educated with a view to the ministry ; but his genius strong-
ly inclining him to the study of poetry, he chose' to relin-
quish his intention of engaging in the sacked function.
In 1726, he published his excellent poem on Winter.
Though it was not, at first, eagerly received by the readers,
of poetry, it soon met with great applause : and Thomson's
acquaintance was courted by persons of the first rank anr
fashion, The expectations which his Winter had raisec 1 .
A??EKT
n r fully satisfied by the successive publications of
isnns ; ot Summer, in the year 1727 ; oi Spring, in
ollowing ', -ear : and oi Autumn, in 17.
\>-oiks ha J appeared, he travelled with
tlv. honorable Charles Talb>t,and visited inu^t of the courts
: turned to England with his vivv. s greatly
i ; not (). rior nature, and the works of art,
'.id of the constitution and
polity of the several .nd their
jticular and judicious his ob-
in his poem on Li: :>u:h
.iit< r he re tin :
in H !no-
der, in a str. <:an
.cd
^t IflSt, V.'iLr. v vxi .^- It 'ret
of all his compositions. i with all tne de-
corations which pot tical imagination could c< The
pkm is artfully laid, ;uid naturallv conducted, and the de-
Dutiful succession.
In the summer of 1748, he was seized with a fever^
which soon put a period to his liie.
Thomson was an amiable and good man. His love of
mankind, of his country and friends ; his devotion to the
Supreme Being, founded on the most elevated and just con-
ceptions of his operations and providence, shine brightly in
his writings : he possesed great benevoli nee of heart, which
extended even to the brute creation. Through his whole
life, he was not known to give any person a moment's
pain, either by his writings or otherwise* These amiable
virtues, this divine temper of mind, did not fail to receive
their due reward. The best and greatest men of his time
honoured him with their friendship and protection ; the fa-
vour and applause of the public attended him ; his friends
laved him with an enthusiastic ardour, and sincerely la-
Aented his death.
ta As a writer, he is entitled to one praise of the highest
APPENDIX. 20D
ki, K ] his mode of thinking, and of expressing his thoughts,
is original, lie thinks always as a man of genius ; he looks
round on nature, and on life, with the eye which nature on-
lv b stows on a poet, the eye that distitiguis.es in every
thing presented to its view, wh.ftxvcr there is on whub : h
im sgi'.uition can delight to be detained ; and with a mind
that at once comprehends the vast, and attends to die mi-
nute. The reader of the ^ Season/' wond- rs that he never
Saw before what Thomson show* him, and that he had ne-
ver iVlt what Thomson impre
WATTS, Dr. Isaac,- a learned and eminent dissenting
minister, was born at Southampton^ in 1674,01 parents re-
nvirkabU- for pit tv. and virtue. From his infancy, he dis-
covered a stron, g ; and was early dis-
tinguished for the sprightiiness of his wit ; which, even m
the years of younger lite, vvtis regulated by a deep sense of
rell-?,iyn.. At the -school oi Southampton, he was taught
Latin, Greek, and Hebrew; -md in 169O wa **nt to an
r>Ccu!'. ;nv i.s London, to cnrv-j-^ **-- hi.8 education, His tutur
declared that ciu'ing the whole time of his tuition at this
c\nv, tic vv.is not only so inoffensive as never to give
occasion for reproof ; but so exemplary, that he often pro-
posed him as a pattern to his other pupils.
In 1696, he was invited by Sir John Martopp, to reside
in his family at Stoke Newington, as tutor to his son. Here
he continued about four yenrs ; and acquitted himselt with
fidelity and reputation. Believing it o be his dutv, he de-
termined to fie vote h?s life to the pastoral office, of the im-
portance of which, he had a deep sense upon his mind. He
began to preach on his birth- day 1698, when he had com-
pleted his 24th year ; and he met wiih general acceptance.
In 1712, he had a severe fever, which, by its violence
and continuance, reduced him so much that he never per-
fectly recovered. The languishing state of his health drew
upon him the attention of Sir Thomas Abney, who receiv-
ed him into his house ; where, with a constancy of friend-
ship and uniformity of conduct not olten to be found, he
was treated for thirty six years, with all the kindness that
friendship could prompt, and all the attention that respect
could dictate. From the time of his reception m this fami-
ly, his life was no otherwise diversified than by successive
30O
labours for the good of mankind ; the number and variety
of which sh c x .
tint oHiis c;: . the urm
:m 1 AlH-rdt ait his knov> , cohl
thr d< grri- of Doctor of Diviu.
His \vri ings ar.- : : i this sketch, we
Cannot . , nu |
. 5 volunv , nSj
,
ar- a sufl
an id, a
ils-
Miud^
.jndcci to all
you
] s the
nd oi his c! !m -
bi-r 'n;i Kir. lS u - orn g \-, \\ith-
out pain, till h ! in a,,
ctii;:l and moral accomp; ^ are uni-
Vers t), in the highest degree, iv.*-
PIT . ;uaintance with the most cntrqver&3
to heat and to reconcile dispr.
than to . nrty ; an-1 h - ith
-, us is truly inUru<
and exe:n:.>!.rv. His singular 'patience. an.l p;
tion to rii- >. i I of Gud in seasons of arlliction, eininentljr
denot-
WILKIE, William, -\ Scottish poet, was born in the
year 1721. H received his early education at the parish
school of Daimeny, under the care of a very re^ ,nd
successful ti-acher. At the age of thirteen, he was seat t
the university ol Edinburgh, where he distinguished him-
self in the diiFerent classes of languages, philosophy, and
-got
ideology ; ?mcl formed many of those friendships and con-
nexions which afforded him much happiness through life.
In 1757, he published his " Epigoniad," a poem ia nine
books. Hume characterised this work, " as one of the or-
naments ot our language. * His " Fables" were produced
in 1768. Previous to this publication* the university of St.
Andrews conferred upon him the degree of Doctor of Di-
vinity. He was fond of agriculture, and remarkable for hi
knowledge of its different branches. After a ling^ing in-
disposition, he died at Si. Andrews in 1772, in the fifty-
first \ ear of his age.
Wilkie was very attentive to the duties of religion. He
employed a considerable portion of his time in reading the
Holy Scriptures ; and he regularly kept up the worship of
G )d in his family. In every situation of life, he was kind to
persons in distress, and very liberal in his private chanty.
As a poet, his compositions are not less distinguished
by imagination and judgment, than his manners were te-
markable for eccentricity and originality- His a Epigoni-
ad," if he had written nothing else, is sufficiest to entitle
him to an honourable rank among British poets. His a Fa-
bles'* discover an ingenious and acute turn of mind, and a
thorough knowledge of the nature and manners of men :
but they are not recommended by a great degree of poeti-
cal spirit. If Wilkie's Fables do not possess the ease of
Gay, the elegance of Moore, or the humour and poigna \cy
f Smart, they have the merit of an artless and easy versi-
fication ; of just observation; and even, occasionally, of
deep reasoning : and they abound in strokes of a pathetic
simplicity.
YOUNG, Edward, was the son of a clergyman of the
same name, and was born in 1681. At a proper age, he
was matriculated of All-Souls college, Oxford, being de-
signed for the civil law, in which profession he took a de-
gree. In 17O4, he published his poem called u The Last
Day ;" which was soon followed by " The Force of Reli-
gion," or u Vanquished Love." These productions were
highly approved; arid procured him many respectable friends.
He was intimate with Addison, for whose il Spectator," he
wrote many papers. The turn of his mind inclining him
ttwards the church, he .enteml into orders, was made
AP:
c l\
u
ct tl RttnJ Tfl '
:.'!
<-n COrtN
MAY 2 a 198^
LD 21A-15m-ll,'72
(Q5761S10)476 A-32
General Library
University of California
Berkeley
04433
54 MUG
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY