Wmm Kl SOI f ENGLISH READER; OR, ' PIECES IN PROSE AND VERSE, FROM THE BEST WRITERS; DESIGNED TO ASSIST YOUNG PERSONS TO READ WITH PRO- PRIETY AND EFFECT; IMPROVE THEIR LANGUAGE AND SENTIMENTS: AND TO INCULCATE THE MOST IMPORTANT PRINCIPLES OF PIETY AND VIRTUE. WITH A FEW PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS ON THE PRINCIPLES OF GOOD READING. BY LINDLEY MURRAY. AUTHOR OF AN ENGLISH GRAMMAR, &C. & STEREOTYPED BY K. AND K. WM.LIS, (Koncortr, yt. &. AND PUBLISHED EY HORATIO HILL & HO, PREFACE. liak MANY selections of excellent matter hare been made for the benefit of young persons. Performance's of this kind are of so great utility, that fresh productions of them, and new attempts to improve the young mind, will carcely be deemed superfluous, if the writer makes his compilation instructive and interesting, and sufficiently distinct from others. The piesent work, as the title expresses, aims at the attainment of three objects : to* improve youth in the art of reading ; to meliorate their language and sentiments; and to inculcate some of the most important principles of piety and virtue. The pieces selected, not only give exercise to a great variety of emotions, and the correspondent tones and variations of voice, but contain ^sentences d observed, in all their parts as well as with respect to one another, will pro- bably have a much greater effect, in properly teaching the art of reading, than is commonly imagined. In such constructions, every thin? is accom- modated to the understanding and the voice ; and the common difficulties in learnirg t^ read well are obviated. When the learner has acquired a habit of reading such sentences with justness and facility, he will readily apply that habit,' ami the improvements he has made, to sentences more complicated and irregular, and of a construction entirely different. ciently important and impressive, and divested of every thing that is either trite or eccentric. The frequent perusal of such composition naturally tuius . to infuse a taste for this species of excellence, and to produce a habit of thinking, and 6f composing, with judgment and accuracy.* That this collection may also serve the purpose of promoting pisty and vir- tue t e Compiler has introduced many extracts, which place religion in the most amiable light ; and which recommend a great variety of moral duties, by the excellence of tiieir nature, and the happy effects they Produce. These subjects are exhibited in a style and manner which are calculated to arrest the attention of youth ; and to make strong and durable impressions on their minds t The Compiler -ias been careful to avoid every expression and sentiment, * The learner, in his progress through this volume and the Sequel to it, will jieet with numerous instances of composition, in strict confornutyto the rules e__ . , n ^<. n :^nmia nnA ol/mrpnt urritinor. Contained in the Aooenuix to ,1iem with ea-ij and dexterity. It is proper further to observe, that the Reader and the Sequel, besides caching to read accurately, and inculcating many important sentiments, may ^e considered as auxiliaries to the Author's English Grammar ; as practioa 1 illustrations of the principles ard rules contained in that work. t In some of the pieces, the Oomr.iler has made a few alterations, chiefly verbal, to adapt tnem the better to the design of his work* FREFACE. O that might gratify a corrupt mind, or, in the least degree, offend the eye 'Ji ear of innocence. This he conceives to be peculiarly incumbent m every person w'io writes for the benefit of youth, ft would indeed be a great and happv improvement in education, jf no \vrilin INTRODUCTION. OBSERVATIONS ON THE PRINCIPLES OF GOOD READING TO read irith propriety is a pleasing and important attainment ; produc- tive of improvement both to the understanding and the heart. It is essential to a complete reader, that he minutely perceive the ideas, and enter into the feelings of the author, whose sentiments he professes to repeat: for how is it possible to represent clearly to others, what we have but fain* or inaccurate conception of ourselves ? Jf there were no other benefits resulting from the art of reading well, than the necessity it lays us under, of precisely ascertain- ing the meaning of what we read ; and the haKt thence acquired, of doing this with facility, both when reading silently and aloud, they would consti- tute; a su.'fi-kmt compensation for all the labour we can bestow upon the sub- ject. But tiie pleasure derived to ourselves and others, from a clear com- munication of ideas and feelinis ; and the strong am 1 durable impressions made therel) y on tle minds of the reader and th i audience, are considerations, which give additional importance to the study of this necessnry and useful art. The perfect attainment of it doubtless requires great attention imd practice, joined to extraordinary natural powers; but as there are many degrees of excellence in the art, the student whose aims fall s'i'Tt of perfection, will find himself amply rewarded for every exerliou lie may think proper to make. To yrive rules for the ni'inaireinent of the voice in readin-7, by which the necessary Causes, emphasis, and tones, may be discovered am! pjt in prac- tice, is not possible. After all tnc directions that can be offered on these points, much will reittain to be taught by the living instructor: much will be attaina- ble by no other means, than the force of example, influencing the imitative powers of t : ie learner. Some rules and principles on these heads will, how- ever, be found useful, to prevent erroneous and vicious modes of utterance to give the yoimj; reader some tast,e for the subject ; air! to assist him in ac- quirinz a ju.-t and accurate mode of delivery. The observations which we have to make, for tnese purposes, may be comprised under the following heads: Proper Lon-lness of Voice; Distinctness; Slowness; Propriety of Pronunciation ; Emphasis; Tones ; Pauses ; and Mode of Reading yens. SECTION I. Proper Loud-ness of Voice. THE first attention of every person who reads to others, doubtless, must be to make nimself heard by all those to whom he reads. He must endea- vour to fill with his voice, the space occupied ly the compan)*. This power of voice, it may be thought, is wholly a natural talent. It is, in a good mea- ture, the aift of n -iture ; but it may receive considerable assistance from art. Much dep- nds, for this purpose, on the proper pitch and management of the voi -e. Every person 'sa^ three pitches in his voice ; tiie high, the middle and tiivi low on The hi ''>, is th'it which he uses in calling a loud to .some per- son at a disUnco. The low, is when he approaches to a wl -isptr. The mP.r.:, is t';it wYic'i lie ;'.mr*iovs in co rmiou eonver.s tion, and which he sho;].id ^enerallv usj n re.idin : to others. For it is a rrreaf. mist ike, to ima- 'iiii. th UK. TMJS is confouudin ; t\vo t'liars w tich are different, to-i.hi ss or sir n th of sound, wit!-, the :ey or note in which \vj speak. There is i v trLtv of sound \vit an the compass cf each key. A speaker may there- &>re render his voice louder, without altering the key ; and we shall always NOTE. For many a' the observations contained in this preliminary tract, &s author s indebted to ,he writings of Dr. Blair, auJ to the Encyclopedia INTRODUCTION. O be able to give roost body, most preserving force of sound, to that pitch of voice to which in conversation we are accustomed. Whereas, by setting onl on our highest pitch or kev, we certainly allow cm-selves less compass, and are iik Iv to strain our voice before we have done. We shall fatijru our- selws, and read witii pain; and whenever a person sptaks with pain to hi sell, he is also heard v/it.i pain by his audience. Let 'b UK lelon- uive the voice fu'l strength and swell of sound ; but alvvrys pitch it on our ordinary peaking key. Itshoaid be n constant rult never to utter a ireat r gu-mtity of voice than we can afford without pain to our."jlvcfi, and without any ex- traordinary effort. As long as we keep within these bounds, the other organs >f soecch wiil be at liberty to discharge their several offices w.'th ease ; and we shall always have our voice under command. But whenever we trans- gress thcsci bounds, we give up the reins, and have no linger any manage- ment nf it. It. is a useful rule, too, H order to be well heard, to cast our e'je on somaof the most distant persons in the company, and to considei ourselves as reading to them. We naturally and mechanically utter our words with such a degree of strength, as to make ourselves he heard by the person whom we address, provided he is within reach ^f our voice. As this is tiiecas in convers.'ition, it will hold also in readin > to otasr-; Rut let us remember, that in reading as well as in conversation, it is possible to olf^nd by speaking too loud. This extreme hurts the ear, by making the voice come upon it in run> blinr, indistinct masses. By the habit of reading, when vounr, in a loud and vehement manner, the voice becomes fixed in a strained and unnatural key ; and is rendered inca- pable of tiiat variety of elev.ition and depression which constitutes the true harmony of utterance, and affords ease to the reader, and pleasure to the au- dience. This unnatural pitch of the voice, and disagreeable monotony, are most observable in persons who were taught to read in large rooms : who were accustomed to stand at. too great a distance, when reading to their tea- chers ; whose instructors were very imperfect in their hearing ; or who were taught ; by persons who considered loud expression as the chief requisite in forming a good reader. These arc circumstances, which demand the seri- ous attention of every one to whom the education of youth is committed. SECTION II. - Distinctness. IN the next place to being well heard and clearly understood, distinctness of articulation contributes more than mere loudness of sound. The quantity of sound necessary to fill even a large space, is smaller than is commonly imagined ; and, with distinct articulation, a person with a weak voice will make it reach further than the strongest voice* can reach without it. To this, therefore, every reader ought to pay great attention. He must give every sound which he utters, its duo proportion ; and make every syllable, and even every letter in the word which he pronounces, be heard distinctly ; withou 1 slurring, whispering, or suppressing, anv of the proper sounds. An accurate knowledge of the simp'e, elementary sounds of the language and a ficrlity in expressing them, are so necessary to distinctness of expres- sion, that if the learner's attainments are, in this respect, imperfect, (and man there are in this situation,) it, will be incumbent on his tea: her to car- ry him back to these primary articulations ; and to suspend his progress, till lie become perfectly master of them. It will be in vain to pr?ss him forward, with the hope of forming a good reader, if he cannot completely articulate every elementary sound of ihe language. SECTION III. Due decree of SUnentss. IN or ler to express ours :1 vex distinctly, moderation is re-]ms!f.e with *" *L to the sjw-d of pronouncm" 1 . Precipitancy of speech confounds ail a:..,. ma tion, and all menniri"-. It is scarcely nrcess iry to observe, mat there nriy be also an extreme on the orjnosilf; side, 't is obvious that, a ^ife'ess, drawling manner of reading, which allows the mhsds of *he hearers to be alw:y& out- running the speaker, must render every such performance insipid and fatigu- ing. But the extreme of readinir too fast is much more common ; and requires tbe more to be- guarded agaimt, because, when it has grownJnto a habit, fear $ INTRODUCTION. Qtmn are more difficult to be corrected. To pronounce with a proper degree of slowness, and wita full and clear articulation, is necessary to be studied by all who wislito become good readers ; ^nd it cannot be too much recommend- ed to them. Such a pronunciation gives weight and dignity to the subject. It is a great assignee to the voice, by the pauses and rests which it allows the reader more easily to makf : and it enables the reader to swell ah hii sounds, both with more force and more harmony. SECTION IV. Propriety uf Pronunciation. AFTEK the fundamental attentions to the pitch and management cf the voice, to distinct articulation, and to a proper degree of slowness of speech, what, the young reader must, in the next place, study, is^ propriety of pro- nunciation ; <:r, riving to every word which he utters, that s>ound wmch the o:>t usage pf the !an -uaue appropriate* loit ; in opposition to broad, vul- gar, or provincial pronunciation. This is requisite bo h Cor reading hiteilipi- biv, and for reading with corrtctn?ss and ease. Instructions concc rnin<. this article may ? ">e best i-iven h\ the tiv.ag teacher. B"t there is one observation, w:>ieh il may not be improper hereto make. In the English hin niaire, every tvoiu yvliich consists of m^ra svlhibies t!i:none, has one accent;. d syllable. The accent rests sometimes on the vowel, sometimes on the consonant. The geuins of the language requires the voice to maik t lat syllable by a stronger pe cussion, anu to -pass mor-- sli.-rhtly ov: r the rest. Now, after we have learned the proper seats of these accents, it is an important rate, to give every worr 1 just the same accent in rcadin r, as in common discourse. Many per- sons err in this respect. When they read to others, and vith solemnity, they pronounce the syllables in a different manner from what they do at other times". They dwell upon them, and protract them ; they mu'tiply accents on the samo words , from a mistaken no!i v.i, that it gives gravity an d importance to their subject, and adds to the energy of their delivery. Whereas this is one of the greatest faults that can be committed in pronunciation ; it makes what is cal!- tu ; pompous or mouthing manner j airl i^ives an artificial, affected air to rcadin -r, which detracts greatly both from its a^reeableuess and its impression. Sheridan and Walker r hdV2* published dictionaries, for ascertaining the true and best pronunciation of the words of our language. By attentively con- tu!tinui-h somi- word or words, on which we design to lav part&ulai, stros^ and to < tow how they affe *t t!e rest of the siiiteuce. Sometime t'ae ( ..nphiitic \vo.\ls must be distinguished bv a particular tone of yoke, as well as by ti par- ti ui-tr stress. On the riiiit rn in a Cement of the cmpha*is depends the lilt: of pronunciation. If no empiiasis be placed on any words, not only is disrourse rend ;red heavy and- lifeless, but tic meaninjr left often ambiajious. li' the emnhasis t. placed wron-jf, \ve pervert and confound the meaninu xvholly. F,:n;h;isis :n--v ha divided .into the superior and the inferior emphasis. " The er.n rior em-crisis d termines the m::;iniiijr of a sentence, with reference to 3ou- - thiJ7 slid b 'for?, pr supposed bv the author as L^OI ral knowledge, or r in-iVN :in unhi -i:ltv, wh:-r.: a piss.ure m - iv have i.iore senses t'cin one. The in " -rior enr> i-ua^s^WiCfi.^ r/''r:^v, md enihens, ! f'rvs not fix, the mean- i?i ' iMk' r> iss i ro. T ii* vrords to \v \l::'\ t sis latter emr)iiasi.i irj /iwn, ;nf. in L r a r >'. s-u-*'i ;s <;v j rn 1 he most import m{ jn the s- nt nr-e, or on other j "counts, to H ri ( i.^ di.'in tion. The following p 4 ia-igc will st-ivc to exemplii'y ti& *i) rio 1 cmp'ianis. i's first :lisoV.div.nc<.v an'! the fj-uit . or'ji-.ld n Ira:, whose ntort.i! t^ste d ,-at i ii.io the world, and all our wo, &c r, heavjji J. Rlusc ! ' * that ori^rinallv njher baiascs >ii4cyi n^ja, had INTRODUCTION. t commands of the Almighty, and that the circumstance were well known to us, there would fall an emphasis upon the word man's in the first line ; and hence it would read thus : " Of tan's first disobedience, and the fruit," &c. But if it were a notorious truth, that mankind had transjnresred in a pecu- liar uianncr more than occe, the emphasis woiud fall on first; and the line be read, " Of man's first disobedience," &c. Again, admitting death (as was realty the case) L" have been an unheard of and dreadful punishment, brought upon man in conse(|uence of his trail*- gression , on tiiat supposition the third line would be read, " Brought der'.h into the world," &c. But if we were to suppose, that mankind knew there was such an evil vi dc.it! in otlirr regions, though the place tney inhahiteit had bsen free fiom it till their transgression, the line would run thus : u Brought death into the world, 11 &c. The superior emphasis .finds place in the following short sentence, which admits of lour distinct meanings, each of which is ascertained Ijy the empha- sis only, " Do you ride to town to-day ?" Tiie following examples illustrate the nature and use of t'ne inferior em- phasis : *' Many persons mistake the love, for the practice of virtue." " Shall 1 reward li is services with Falsehood? Shall I forget him who can- not forget me." " If his principles are/o/se, no apology from himself can make them right g if founded In trulli, no censure from others can make them wrong." " Though deep, yet clear ; though gentle, yet not dutt, " Strong, without rage ; without o'-erflowirig, full. 11 " A friend, exaggerates a man's virtues ; an en~niy, his crimes. 11 " The wise man is happy, when he gains his own approbation ; the fool, when he gains that of others. 11 The superior emphasis, in reading as in speaking, must be determined en- tirely by the sense of the passage, and always made alike; but as to the infe- rior emphasis, taste alone seems to have the right of fixing its situation and quantity. Among the number of persons, who have had proper opportunities of learn- ing to read, in the best manner it is now tausrht, very few could be selected, who, in a given instance, would us': the inferior emphasis alike, cither as to place or quantity. Some 'persons, indeed, use scarcely any degree of it ; anj othf rs do not scruple to carry it far beyond an.y thing to he found in common discourse ; and even sometimes throw it upon words so ve*y trifling in them- selves, that it is' evidently done witn no cither view, than to give a irrc- it r varL'tv to the modulation.* Notwithstanding this diversity o*" practice, there are certainly proper boundaries, within which this emphasis must be res- trained, in ord^r tQ make it meet the approbation of sound ^judgment and cor- rect taste f It will doubtless have different degrees of exertion, according to the jreater or less degree of importance of thd words upon which it operates; and there in iv be very properly some variety in the use of it: but its appli- cation is not arbitrary, depending on the caprice of readers. As emphasis o r tcn fills on words in diffeient parts of tin s;ime sentence, o %. it is t'requ. ntl* rjn is meant, that |>ie.asini variety of voice, which is perceived in uttering a stmunce, and which in its nature, is perfectly distinct fyom em- phasis, and the tones of emotion and passion. The young reader should ha careful to render his modulation correct and easy ; and, for this purpose, form it upon ths modei of the nxw* judicious acd accurate p0alew. INTRODUCTION. ffritin^, represent things^ not words; they exhibit images to the eye, not idea* to the understanding." Some sentences are so full a r d comprehensive, that almost everv word is emohatir ;! : as, il Ye i.rls ai.d LI! *, ye riv- rs, woods, and ^ plain* I "or :h tiie 'luantity cf cur syllabled is fixed, in words separately pronourcelt, yet -t is mutable, whentiu.se worjs arc arranired in .-rut. .noes ; the ioni; brii.-g changed into short, the short inv> long, acccrding to the importance of the woru with regard to meai.,ng. Kinphasis also, in particular cas s. It*.rs tiie seat of the accent Tins is demon. -trable from the following examples : lt Me shall increase, but I shall //ccrease." u There is a difference between giving an.! _ forgiving *' k ' In this spcci'.s of composition, p/rtM.vibility is mach more essrntia 1 than probability.** In these examples, the emphasis re-quirts the accent, to be placed on syllables to which it docs not commonly belong. In order t acquire tiie proper management of the emphasis,' the <.-rent rule to be jiiveii is, that the rcacier tfudy to attain ;. just conception of the force and spirit of the sentiments which he is to pronounce. For to lay the emphasis with exact propriety, is a constant exercise of good sense and- attention. It is far from be^.g an inconsiderable attainment, i!. is one of trie most decisive tria!s of a truj and ju^i taste ; and must anse from feeling delicately ourselves, niiol fro.n judiring accurately of what is fittest to strike trie feelm.'s of others. T/icrc is one error, against vrlueh it is particularly proper to caution the learner; namely, that <>f muil.plyii.g emphatical words too much, and using the emphasis indiscriminately. It is only bv a prudent reserve md distinction in the use of them, that we can give them any weight. If they rccar too oft, a ; if a reader attempts io render every thing he expresses, of high importance, by a multitude of strong emphasis, we soon learn to pay little regard to them. To crowd every sentence with emphatical words, is like crowding aiJ the p"vges of a book with Italic characters : which, as to the effect, is just tiie same as to use no such distinction s at all, SECTION VI. Tones. TONES are different both from emphasis and pauses ; consisting in the iiv tes or variations of sound which we employ, in the expression of our son- tii.y nts. Emphasis affects particular words and phrases, with a degree of tone, or inflexion of voice , but tores, peculiarly so called, affect sentences, paragraphs, an(" some times the whole of a discourse. To s! tow the use and necessity of tones, we need only observe, that the mind, in communicating its ideas, is in a constant state of activity, emotion, or agitation, from the different effects which those ideas produce in the speaker. N \v the end of sucli communication being not merely to lay open the ideas, but aisr, tie different fceliais which they excite in him who utter? them, there mnfl be c.ther sius manner can represent only a similar state of mind, perfectly free !iom all activity and emotion. As t!ie communication of these internal feelings was of much, more consequence in our social intercourse, than tiie \r, .re conveyance of id^as, the Author of our being aid not, -s in thru con- y:\v;m<;c, leave ths invention of the language of emotion to man ; but irn- nr ss;.d it himself upon our nature, in the same manner as he has done with r:.'.::''wi to the i"'st of the animal world ; all of which express their various s, bv v:,rion> tones. Ours, indeed, from the superior rahktJiat we ; old, ar ' in ;v r,i_rh degree n ore comprehensive ; as there is not ;.n aet of the mind, MI i,'\'^rtio;> trf the Faniv, or an enotion of the heart, which has not its pecii- li u ton: 1 , .>r no*c oft'uj ' ? oice, bv wliich it is to be exprcss;d ; and wi.ici- issin't- ed rv.act'v \<> 4*ie tliv r r:-c of !nt-: i rn:il feeling. It is chiefly in Uie prop'-i use of these ta, ; -:s th.it tin: li;e, spirit, beasi'v, and harmony of" detiverv consist. Tiie li.ui's of tais 'im>du"tion do not au-iit of exampl.-.-f, u> iiiunintc- the vanity of tones belonging tr tiie il^fcrcut passions and emotion^. \Ve shall, however, select one, which is extracted from the beautiful lamentation of David over Saul and Jonathan, and which will, in some degree, elucidate what has. been said on this subject. . " The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy fcigb .places ; Iww T&JPG thuj mighty fellon ! Tell it not in Gath ; publish ft ' i INTRODUCTION. ft tot in the streets of Askelon ; lest the daughters of the Philistines rejoice ; lest the daughters of the uncircmcised triumph. Yc mountains of (Jiiboa, ct there be no dew nor ruin upon you, nor fields of offerings : for there tl>c snield of the mighty was vilely cast away ; th? shield of Saul, as though he had not been anointed with oil." The first of these divisions, expresses sor- row and lamentation ; therefore the note is low. The next contains a spirited command, and should be pronounced much higher. The other sentence, in which he makes a pathetic address to the mountains where his friends had been slain, must be expressed in a note quite different from the two former : not so low as the firt, nor so high as the second, but in a manly, firm, and yet plaintive tone. The correct and natural language of the emotions is not so difficult to be at- tained as most readers seem to imagine. If we enter into the spirit of the au- thor's sentiments, as well as into the meaning of his words, we shall not Ojil to deliver the words in properly varied tones. For there are few people , whc speak English without a provincial note, that have not an accurate use of tonc-s, when they utter their sentiments in earnest discourse. And the reason that they have not the same use of them in readinjj aloud the sentiments of others, may be traced to the very defective and erroneous method in which the ait of reading is taught; xvhoreby all the various, natural, expressive tones of speech are suppressed ; and a few artificial, unmeaning reading notes, are substituted for them. But wher we recorrviiend to readers, an attention to the *one and lansruasre of emotions, we must be understood to do it with proper limitation. Modera- tion is necessary in this point, as it is in other things. For when tne rending becomes strictly imitative, it asumes a theatrical manner, and must be high- ly improper, as well as give offence to the hearers ; because it is inconsistent with that delicacy and modesty which are indispensable on such occasions. The speaker who delivers his own emotions, must be supposed to be more vivid and animated than would be proper in the person who relates I. .cm at second hand. We shall conclude this section with the following rule for the tones that indicate the passions and emotions : " In ro.adin >., let all your toi^s of ex- pression be borrowed from those of common speech, butj in some de^roe, more faimly characterized. Let tl.o*e tones which signify any disagreeable passion of the mind, he still more faint than those which indicate uc're- ;shla emotions: and on all occasions preserve yourselves from being so far afflc t< e with the subject, as to be unable to proceed through it, with that easv ;;nd masterly manner, which has its good effects in this, as well as in every otikr art." SECTION VII. Pauses* PAUSES, or rrsts, in speaking or reading, are a total cessation of the voice, during a preceptible, and, in many cases, a measurable space of time. Pauses are equally necessary to the speaker and the hearer. To the speak- er, that he may take breath, without which he cannot proceed fur in dclive- rv ; and that ne may, by these temporary rests, relieve the organs of speech which otherwise would be soon tired by continued action ; to 1 he hearer, that the ear, also, may be relieved from the fatigue which it would otherwise rndtp-e from a continuity of srvim. ; and that the und; rstandin.T may have sufficient tim to m irk- the distinction of sentences, and their s-ivcral members. There are two kinds of piuses: firs', emph ttical p-aises: and next, sivh a mark the distinctions of sr^rse. An emp'iatfcal paus > i* aenonlly m id alter som^t'iiny his been said of peculiar mome.it, and on which \ve desire to fix the hearer's attention. Sometimes, before such a thimr is s-iid, we usher it in with a pause of t 1 is nature. Sue!) pauses have the same, effect as a stron phasis ; and are subj -ct to the same rules ; especially" to the caution of IK>I repeating them too frequently. For as they excite uncommon attention, and of course raise expectation, if the importance of the matter be not fullv au- swerable to such expectation, they occasion disappointment and disgust. But the most frequent and the principal use of pauses, is to mark the rfivi- lions of the sense, and at the same time to allow the reader to draw his breath ; and the proper and delicate adjustment of such pauses, is one of the most nic* 10 INTRODUCTION. and difficult articles of delivery. In all reading, the management of the breath squires a g~od deal of care, so as not to oblige us to divide words from one another, which have so intimate a connexion, that, they oirjht to be pro- nounced witM the srtrne breath, and without the leas! separation. M my a, .>' m nre is mis-'.nbly manrk'd, and the force of the emphasis totally lo-t, l-v divisions being 1 made in the wrong place. To avoid this, every OIK, \v! i! '.(? is roaiiinr, should be very careful to provide a full siipplv of breath for what IK is lo uttiT. It is a great mistake to imagine, that the breath must be drawn only at the end of a period, when the voice is allowed to fall. It mav easily be gatnered at the intervals of the period, when the voice is suspended only for a moment ; and, by this management, one may always have a sufficient stock for carrying on the longest sentence, without improper interruptions. Pauses in reading must generally be formed upn the manner in which we utter ourselves in ordinary, sensible conversation ; and not upon the stiff arti- ficial manner, which is acquired from reading books according to the common punctuation. It will by no means be sufficient to attend to the points used m printng; for these are far from marking all the pauses which ought to be nadc in reading'. A mechanical attention to these resting places, has perhaps jeen one cause of monotony, by leading the reader to a similar tone at ev, i-y >4op, and a uniform cadence at every period. The primary use of points, is jo a.s.>ist the reader in discerning the grammatical construction ; and it is only is a secondary onject, that they regulate his pronunciation. On this hem!, ,he following direction may bo of use : lt Thou rh in reading, gjvat ;>tt ntion ihotiid be pai'l to the stops, yet u greater should be given to the sr.-nso ; ;>wl .ht;ir correspondent times occasionally lengthened beyond what is usual in .:ommon speech. To render pauses pleasing and expressive, they must not only be made in :he ri'jirt place, but also accompanies with a proper tone of voice, by v/hidi the naiure of t!iese pauses is intimated, much more than by the length of them, {vr.ich can seldom be exactly measured. Sometimes it is only a slight and *iiiip|e suspension of voice that is proper ; sometimes a dsgree of cadence in the voice is required ; and sometimes that peculiar tone and cadence which denote the sentence to be finished. In all these cases, we are to regulate our- selves bv attending to the manner in which nature teaches us to speak, when engaged in real and earnest discourse with others. The following sentence exemplifies the suspending and the closing pauses : " Hope, the balm of life, sooths us under every misfortune." The first and second pauses are accom- panied by an inflection of voice, that gives the hearer an expectation of some- thin r further to complete the sense ; the inflection intending the third pause signifies that the sense is completed. The preceding example is an illustration of the suspending pause, in in simple snte : the following instance exhibits that pause with a degree of ca- dence in the voice: "If content cannot remove the disquietudes of mankind, it .will at least alleviate them." The suspending pause is often, in the same sentence, attended with both the rising and i-he falling inflection of voice ; as will be seen in tin's example : " Moderate exercise', and habitual temperance', strengthen the constitution."* As the suspending pause may be thus attended with both the rising and the falling inflection, it is t lie same with regard to the closing pause - } it odmits of both The fal'ing inflection generally accompanies it ; but it is not wi-'Ve- quontly connected with the rising inflection. Interrogative sentences, for in- stance, are often terminated in this manner : as, " Am ^ungrateful'?" " Is he in earnest.'? 7 ^ But where a sentence is begun by an interrogr.tive pronoun or adverb, it n commonly terminated by the falling inflection : as, "What lias he gained by his foil}' ?" "Who will assist him'?" "Where is the messenger^?" " When did h<, arrivc v ?" When two question-si are united in one sentence, and connected by the con- junction or, the first takes the rising, the second the falling inflexion : as, u Does his conduct support discipline', or destroy it v r The rising and falling inflections must not be confounded with emphasia, * The rising inflexion is denoted by the acute ; the falling, by the grar* INTRODUCTION. 11 Though they may often coincide, they are, in their nature, perfectly distinct Emphasis sometimes controls those inflections. The icjrular application of the rising and falling inflections, corfcrs so mrch beauty on expression, and is so necessary to be studied by the young reader, that we shall insert a few mow examples, to induce him to pay greater at- tention to the subject. In these instances, all the inflections are not marked. Such only are distinguished, as are most striking, and will best serve to show the reader t'leir utility and importance. " Manufactures\ trade\ and agriculture', certainly employ more than nine- teen parts in twenty of the human species." " He who resigns the world, has no temptation to envy', hatred\ malice^ anger 7 ; but is in constant possession of a serene mind ; he who follows the pleasures of it, which are, in their very nature, disappointing, is in constant search of care\ solicitude 7 , remorse', and confusionV " To advise the ignorant\ relieve the needy\ comfort the afflicted', are dii ties that fall in our way almost every day of our lives." " Those evil spirits, who, by Ion* custom, have contracted in the body ha* bits of lust' and sensuality x ; malice', and revenge v ; an aversion to every tiling- that is good\ just\ and laudable, are naturally seasoned and prepared for pain and misery." " I am persuaded, that neither death', nor life* ; norangels', nor principali- ties', nor powers^; nor things present', nor things to come v ; nor height', nor depth ',' nor any other creature', shall be able to separate us from the love of GodV The re~adcr who would wish to see a minute and ingenious investigation of the nature of these inflections, pnd the rules by which they are governed, may consult Walker's Elements of Elocution. SECTION VIII. Manner of reading Verse. WHEN we are reading verse, there is a peculiar difficulty in making the pauses justly. The difficulty arises from the melody of verse which dictates to the ear pauses or rests of its own ; and to adjust and compound these pro- perly with the pauses of the sense, so as neither to hurt the ear, nor offend the understanding, is so very nice a matter, that it is no wonder we so .seldom meet with good readers of poetry. There are two kinds of pauses that belong tcr the melody of verse : one is the pause at the end of the line ; and the other, the c&sural pause in or near the middle of it. With regard to the pause at the end of the line, which marks chat strain or verse to be finish- ed, rhyme renders this always sensibh ; and in some measure compels us to observe it in our pronunciation. In respect to blank verse, we oir/ht also to read it so as to make every line sensible to the ear ; for, what is the use of melody, or for what end lias the poet composed in verse, if, in reading his lines, we suppress his numbers, by omitting the final pause ; anJ degrade them, by our pronunciation, into mere prose ? At the same time that we at- tend to this pause, every appearance of sing-song arid tone, must be carefully guarded against. The close of the line where it makes no pause in the mean- ing, ought not to be marked by such atone as is used in finishing a sentence ; but, without either fall or elevation of the voice, it should be denoted only by so slight a susppnsit.r. of sound, as may ('istinguJsh ttie passage from one line to another, without injuring the meaning. The other kind of melodious pause, is that which falls somewhere about the middle of the verse, and divides it into two heinist.ichs ; a pause, not so great aa th;t which belongs to the close of the lin^, but still sensible to an ordinary ear. This, which is called thecaesural pause, may fall, in English heroic verse, after the 4tii, 5th, 6th, or 7th, syllable in the line. Wlr:re the verse is so construct- ed, that this caesura' pause coincides with the slightest pause or division in the ense, the line can be read easily ; as in the two first verses of Pope's Messiah . " Ye nymphs of Solyma" ! begin the song ; " To heav'nly themes v \ sublimer FtrHns belong." But if it should happen mat words which have ~o strict and intimate a coa nexioc, as not to bear even a momentary separation, are divided from one ano 6ier ly ring cv&ural pause, we then feel a sort of rtruggrte fce*wS6D the a&ato* 12 rNTIlODUCTION* and the sound, which renders it difficult to read such lines harmoniously Ti^ rule of proper pronunciation iu such cases, is to regard only the pause Tv.nch the sense forms ; and to read the line accordingly. The neglect of the ctesural pause may make the line sound somewhat unharmoniously ; but the effect would be nwJi worse, if the sense were sacrificed to the sound. For instance, in the following lines of Milton , " What in me is dark, " Illumine ; what is low, raise and support." The sense clearly dictates the pause after illumine, at the end of the 3d sylla- ble, which in reading, ought to be made accordingly though, if the me'lody only wtre to be regarded, illumine snould be connected with what follows, and the pause not made till the fourth or sixth syllable. So in the following line of Pope's Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot. " I sit, with sad civility I read." The ear plainly points out the csesural pause as falling after sid, the 4th syl- lable. But it would be very bad readin7 to make any pause there, so as" to separate ad and civility. The sense admits of no other pause than after the second syllable sit, which therefore must be the only pause made in reading .Iiis part of the sentence. There is another mode of dividing some verses, by introducing what may be called demi-caesuras, which require very slight pauses ; and which the rea- der s'.umld iianage with judgment, or he will be apt to fall into an affected sing-song mode of pronouncing verses of this kind. The following lines ex- emplify the demi-caesura : " Warms' in the sun", refreshes' in the breeze, " Ghvs' in the stars' 7 , and blossoms' in the trees ; " Lives' through all life" ; extends' through all extent, " Spreads' undivided", operates' unspent." Before the conclusion of this introduction, the compiler takes the liberty to recommend to teachers, to exercise their pupils in Jiscovering and explain- ing the emphatic words and the proper tones and par.sos, of every portion a*. ' signed them to read, previously to their being called out to the performance. These preparatory lessons, in whicr. tne* should be regularly examined, will improve their j utement and taste* ^rcvtiu the practice of reading without attention to the subject ; and estaoiisn a. .:aou Oi reaUilv discovering tiie mean- ing, force, and beauty of what tnev THE ENGLISH READER. PARt' I. PIECES IN PROSE. -.ojo*- CHAPTER I. SELECT SENTENCES AND PARAGRAPHS, SECTION I. TTVILIGENCE, industry, and proper improvement time, are material duties of the young. The acquisition of knowledge is one of the most honou able occupations of youth. Whatever useful or engaging endowments we possess, vi tue is requisite, in older to their shining with proper lustre Virtuous youth, gradually brings forward accomplish? and flourishing manhood. Sincerity and truth form the basis of every virtue. L'isappointments and distress are often blessings in d guise. Change and alteration form the very essence of the worl True happiness is of a retired nature and an enemy i * pomp and noise. In order to acquire a capacity for happiness, it must I ; our first study to rectify inward disorders. Whatever purifies, fortifies also the heart. From our eagerness to grasp, we strangle and destrc pleasure. A temperate spirit, and moderate expectations, are excelled : safeguards of the mind, in this uncertain and changing state* There is nothing, except simplicity of intention, ai.-:,;! NOTE. fn the first chapter, the compiler has exibited sentences in a great varlel-y of construction, and in all the diversity of punctuation. If well practised upon, h< i p . snmes they will fully prepare the young reader for the varirps pa.ss, iuflection modulations of voice, which the. succeeding pieces require. The Author's " K-u,'H 5 Exercises." under the head of Punctuation, will afford the learner rddiiiona! r - for improving bimselt io rending aentence 1 ? nnd paragv" 1 14 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. purity of principle, th&t can 'stand the test of rear approach and strict c exarwtfatkm. I'He va>lue w of -any possession is to be chiefly estimated, by the relief whicn it can bring us m the time of our greatest need. No person wbo has once yielded up the government cf hh mind, and given loose rein to his desires and passions, can tell hew far they may carry him. Tranquillity of mJRrl is always most likely to be attained, when the business of the world is tempered with thoujhtful and serious retreat. He wiio would act like a wise man, and build his house on the rock, and not on the sand, should contemplate human life, not only in the sunshine, but in the shade. Let usefulness and beneficence, not ostentation and vanity, direct the train of-your pursuits. To maintain a steady and unbroken mind, amidst all the shocks of the world, marks a great and noble spirit. Patience, by preserving composure within, resists the impression which trouble makes from without. Compassionate affections, even when they draw tears from our eyes for human misery, convey satisfaction to the heart. They who have nothing to give, can often afford relief to others, by imparting what they feel. Our ignorance of what is to come, and of what is really good or evil, should correct anxiety about wordly success. The veil which covers from our sight the events of suc- ceeding years, is a veil woven by the hand of mercy. The best preparation for all the uncertainties of futurity, consists in a well-ordered mind, a good conscience, and a cheerful submission to the will of Heaven. SECTION II. THE chief misfortunes that befall us in life, can be traced to some vices or follies which we have committed. Wer6 we to survey the chambers of sickness and distress, we should often find them peopled with the victims of intem- perance and sensuality, and with the- children of vicious in- dolence and sloth. To be wise in our own eyes, to be wise in the opinion of the worM, and to be wise in the sight of our Creator, are three things so very different, as rarefy to coincide. Man, in his highest earthly glory, is but a reed floating on the stream of time, and forced to follow every f new direction of trie current. :: ei% and the guilty passions of the bad. CHAP. I. SELECT SENTENCES. 15 frustrate the effect of every advdafag6 >vhie.h the world coi> fers on them. The external misfortunes of lify, dfcappom^mpn^pi* and sickness, are light in comparison ofthose inward distresses of mind, occasioned by folly, by passion, and by guilt. No station is so high, no power so great, no character so unblemished, as to exempt men from the attacks of rashness, malice, or envy. Moral and religious instruction derives its efficacy, not so much from what men 'are taught to know, as from what thoy are brought to feel. He who pretends to great sensibility towards men, and yet hns i;O feeling for the high objects of religion, no heart to ad- mire and adore the great Father of the universe, has reason i.o distrust the truth and delicacy of his sensibility. When, upon rational and sober enquiry, we have estab- lished our principles, let us not suffer them to be shaken by 'he scoffs of the licentious, or the cavils of the sceptical. When we observe any tendency to treat religion or i; vith disrespect and levity, let us hold it to be a sure indiea- 'on of a perverted understanding, or a depraved heart. F.yery degree of guilt incurred by yielding to temptation, ' ease and freedom on the mind ; and leaves i* t cpcp tfKCfery yleasktg sensation. "Moderate ?.jad Simple pleasures relish high with the tem- perate: In the midst of his studied refinements, the vckn> luary languishes. Gentleness corrects whatever is offensive in our manners; and, 'by a constant train of humane attentions, studies to a viate the burden of common misery. That gentleness which is the characteristic of a good mar., hor-?. like every other virtue, its seat in the heart ; and, jjia add, nothing except what Hows from the heart, can reii- oven external manners truly pleading. Virtue, to become either vigorous or useful, must be ha- il'} active : not breaking forth occasionally with a trail- 1 lustre, like the blaze of a comet; but regular in its re . like the light of day: not like the aromatic gale, - sometimes feasts the sense; but like the ordinary ;; v vo? e. which purifies the air, and renders it healthfuL The happiness of every man depends more upon the state His own mind, than upon any one external circumstance- nay, more than upon all external things put together. In no station, in. no period, let us think ourselves rsecurt. n the dangers which spring from our passions. Every iH;e, and every station they beset; from youth to gray hairs, and from the peasant to the prjnce. Riches and pleasures are the chief temptations to crimi- nal deeds. Yet those riches, when obtained, may very pos- sibly overwhelm us with unforeseen miseries. Those plea- sures may cut short our health and life. lie who is accustomed to turn asid3 from thp world, and commune with himself in retirement, will, sometimes at least, hear the truths which the multitude do not tell him. A more sound instructer will lift his voice, and awaken with- in the heart those latent suggestions, which the world had overpowered and SMppressed. Amuseme'nt often becomes the business, instead of the re- laxation, of young persons: it is then highly pernicious. Jfe that waits for an opportunity to do much at once, may brevithe out his life in idle wishes; and regret, in the lust hoiir> his useless intentions and barren zeal. The spirit of true religion breathes mi dnesg ad affability it gives a native, unaffected ease to the behaviour. It is &D* cial, kind, and cheerful; far removed fr 3m that -gloomy and illiberal superstition, which clouds the brow, sharpens ihs CHAP. 1. SELECT SENTENCES. 17 temper, dejects the spirit, und teaches men to fit themselves ior another world, by neglecting the concerns of this. Reveal none of the secrets of thy friend. Be faithful to his interests. Forsake him not in danger. Abhor ihe thought of acquiring any advantage by his prejudice. IMan, always prosperous, would be giddy and insolent: always afflicted, would be sullen or despondent. Hopes and fears, joy and sorrow, are, therefore, so blended in his life, as both to give room for worldly pursuits, and to recall, from time to time, the admonitions of .conscience. SECTION JV. i. once past never returns :^ the moment which is [s lost for ever. i-e is nothing o-n earth so stable, as to assure us of un- disturbed rest ; nor so powerful as to afford us constant pro- tection. The house of feasting, too often becomes an avenue to the house of mourning. Short, to the licentious, is the in- terval between them. It is of great importance to us, to form a proper estimate of human life; without either loading it with imaginary evils, or expecting from it r<:- g than it is able to yield , Among all our corrupt pa^kvis, there is a strong and inti mate connexion. When any one of (hem is adopted into our ii?- mily, it seldom quits until it has fathered upon us all its kindred. Charily, like the sun, brightens every object on which i shines; a censorious disposition casts every character intc the darkest shade it will hear. Many men mistake the love, for the practice, of virtue aril are not so much good men, as the friends of goodness. Genuine virtue has a language that speaks to every hear" ughout the world. It is a language which fs understood by all. In every region, every climate, the homage paid to the snrr-e. In no one sentiment Ifvere ever mankin 1 generally agreed. ppcar-uices of our security are frequently deceitful. ' i-jcems ir> \ and serene, in some un- pack cloud in which the rge itself on our head, compared t<3 the ci of the surround!; -:? 5 'he nTan of a : c! timorous spirit, to o !;n: ; the sh shakes, anl wury -ovra. 18 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L Nothing is so inconsistent with self-possession as violent anger. It overpowers reason ; confounds our ideas torts. the appearance, and blackens the colour of every ob- ject. By the storm? tvhich it raises within, and by the nib- chiefs which it occasions without, it generally brings on the passionate and revengeful man, greater misery than he can bring on the object of his resentment. The palace of virtue has, in all ages, been represented as placed on the summit of a hill ; in the ascent of which, labour is requisite, and difficulties are to be surmounted; and where a conductor is >x needed, to direct our way, and -to aid our steps. In judging of others, let us always think the best, and em- ploy the spirit of charity and candour. But in judging ci ourselves, we ought to be exact and severe. Let him who desires to see others happy, make h;v ;;,ire while his gift can be enjoyed; and remember, that every moment of delay takes away something from the value of his 'r'j refaction. And let him who proposes his own happhi-jss :t, that while he forms his purpose, the day rolls on, the. night cometh, when no man can work.." To sensual persons, hardly any thing is what it appears to ; ' : and what flatters most, is always farthest from reality; are voices which sing around them ; but whose strains to ruin. There is a banquet spread, where poison is ;-y dish. There is a couch which invites them io re- but to slumber upon it, is death. Li we would judge whether a man is really happy, it is 'iely to his houses and lands, to hit? equipage- and hiv ue we are to look. Unless we could see farther, i- i what joy, or what bitterness, his heart feels, we CH ounce little concerning him. The book is well written ; and I have perused it with p In- sure and profit. It shows, first, that true devotion is ra- tional and well founded; next, that it is of the highest im- portance to every other part of religion and virtue; and, lastly, that it is most conducive to our happiness. There i? certainly no greater felicity, than to be .able I. look hack on a life usefully and virtuously employed : " Liac? our own progress in existence, by such tokens as ex. L SELECT SENTENCES. 10 SECTION V. WHAT avails the show of external liberty, to one who has lost the government of himself? lie that cannot live well to-day, (says Martial,) will be less qualified to live well to-morrow. Can we esteem that man prosperous, who is raised to a situation which flatters his passions, hut which con upts his principles, disorders his temper, and finally oversets his vir- tue ? What misery does the vicious man secretly endure ! Ad- versity! how blunt are all the arrows of thy quiver, in com* ion with those of guilt ! AVhen we have no pleasure in goodness, we may with cer- tainty conclude the reason to be, that our pleasure is all de- . rived from an opposite quarter. How strangely are the opinions of men altered, by a change in their condition! How many have had reason to be thankful, for being dis- appointed in designs which they earnestly pursued, but which if successfully 'accomplished, they have afterwards seen would have occasioned their ruin! Wliitt are the actions which afford in the remembrance a rational satisfaction? Are they the pursuits of sensual plea- sure, the riots of jollity, or the displays of show and vanity? No: I appeal to your hearts, my friends, if what you recol- lect with most pleasure, are not the innocent, the virtuous, the honourable parts of your past life. The present employment of time should frequently be an object of thought. About what are we now busied? Yv'hst is the ultimate scope of- our present pursuits. and cares? Car, we justify them to ourselves? Are they likely to produce any thing that will survive the moment, and bring forth some fruit for futurity ? Is it not strange, (says an ingenious writer,) that some persons should be so delicate as not to bear a disagreeable picture in the house, and yet, by their behaviour, force every face they see about them, to wear the gloom of uneasi- ness and discontent? If we are now in health, peace, and safety ; without anv .rrJar or uncommon evils to afflict our condition ; ',vlrU more ran we reasonably look for in thb vain and m world ? How iittie can the slr-V? \\iil c.ny futu.c happy: I ' : with so lew causes of r The evil Iz3j in the 20 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1 fortune: and by no alteration of circumstances is likely to be remedied. When the love of unwarrantable pleasures, and of vicious companions, is allowed to amuse young persons, to eii .' c:s^ their time, and to stir up their passions, the day, of ruin, lot them take heed, and beware! the day of irrecoverable ru-u begins to draw nigh. Fortune is squandered; health' is bro- ken ; friends are offended, affronted, estranged ; aged pa- rents, perhaps, sent afflicted and mourning to the dust. On whom does time hang so heavily, as on the sloth (I;! and lazy? To whom are the hours so lingering? W s*o often devoured with spleen, and obliged to_l]y to * expedient, which can help them to get rid of th (i of producing tranquillity, indolence produces < ;ncss of mind; gives rise to cravings Which arc d; nourishes a sickly, effeminate delicacy . sours ancl corrupts every pleasure. SECTION VI. VVE have seen the husbandman scattering his seed upon the furrowed grc'ind! It springs up, is gathered into his barns, >.::! crowns his labours with joy and plenty. Thus .the man ivho distributes his fortune with generosity and prude amply repaid by the gratitude of those whom he oblh. the approbation of his own mind, and by the favour of Temperance, by fortifying the mind and body, leads ro happiness ; intemperance, by enervating them, ends gene- rally in misery. Title and ancestry render a good man more illustrious , but an ill one. more contemptible. Vice is infamous, though in a prince ; and virtue honourable, though in a peasant. An elevated genius, employed in little things, appears (to use. the simile of Longinus) like the sun in his eve^im? de- clination: he remits his splendour, but retains his magJiitu'ie; and pleases more, though he dazzles less. If envious people were to ask themselves, whether in*;;/ uouliJ exchange their entire situations with the perse us ca- vied, (I mean their minds, passions, notions, as well as their persons, fortunes, and dignities,) I presume the self-lovo, common to human nature, would generally make them pre- fV\r their own conuitlon. We have obliged some persons : -very well !- v/nat would vr* have more? Is not the consciousness of doing good, 9 CHAP. f. SELECT SENTENCES. . 21 DC riot hurt yourselves or others, by the pursuit of plea- sure. Consult your whole nature. Consider yourselves not only as sensitive, but as rational beings ; not only as rational, but social ; hot only as social, but immortal. Art .thou poor 1 Show thyself active arid industrious, peaceable anu contented. Art thou wealthy?' Show thy- self beneficent and charitable, condescending and humane. Though religion removes not all the evils of life ; though it promises no continuance of undisturbed prosperity, (which indeed it were not salutary for man always to enjoy,) yet, if it mitigates the evils which necessarily belong to our state, it may justly be said to give "rest to them who labour and are heavy laden." What a smiling aspect does the love of parents and chil- dren, of brothers and sisters, of friends and relations, give 'o every surrounding object, and every returning day ! With f .vhat a lustre does it gild even the small habitation, whei ? Ms placid intercourse dwells! where such scenes of h. 1 felt satisfaction succeed uninterruptedly to one another! How many clear marks of benevolent intention appear -e 1 ?ry where around us! What a profusion 'of beaut v ;ir;! ornament is poured forth on the face ot nature ! Wli " jytagmiicent spectacle presented to the view of man! Vh;,, ; rjnpply contrived for his wants! What a variety of object? jet before him, to gratify his senses, to employ his undel- eting, to entertain his imagination, to cheer and gladden his heart! The hope of future happiness is a perpetual source o! consolation to good men. Under trouble, it soothe, their minds; amidst temptation, it supports their Virtue ; and, in the'r dying moments, enables them to say, "O death! where is thy sting? O grave ! where is thy victory ?" SECTION VII. AGESILAUS, king of Sparta, being asked, "Whnt things he thought most proper for boys to learn," answered, "Those which they ought, to practise when they come to bo mm." A w : jer than Agcsilaus has inculcated the same sentiment: "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it." An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, that " t ; me was his estate." An estate indeed, which will produce no- thing without cultivation; but which will always abundantly repay the labours of industry, and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no purt of it be sniftered to lie waste by negligence* 2-1 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. to be overrun with noxious plants, or laid out for show rather than use. When Aristotle was asked, " What a man could gain h.y u-Tiing a falsehood," he replied, "Not to be credited when he speaks the truth;" L'Estrange, in his Fables, tells us that a number of rolicsome boys were one day watching frogs, at the si y pond; and that, as any of them put their heads abo water, they pelted them down again with stones. the frogs, appealing to the humanity of the boys, rna ; striking observation; "Children, you do not consider, ; ! hough this may be sport to you, it is death to us." ,. Sully, the great statesman of France, always retaL k'x table, in his most prosperous days, the same f* nhloh he hacl been accustomed in early life. Ho urntly reproached, by the courtiers, for his simplicity ; b'iti k<> -used to reply to them, in the words of an ancient philoso- }>her : "If the guests are men of sense, there is sufurie.:! i'ortliem; if they are not, I can very well dispense with i:.i?\r company." Socrates, though primarily attentive to the culture of }-.'* mind, was not negligent of his external appearance. K;-< cleanliness resulted from those ideas of order and decerx*} . which governed all his actions ; and the care which he tool; of his health, from his desire to preserve his mind free and tranquil. Eminently pleasing and honourable was the- friendship between David and Jonathan. " I am distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan," said the plaintive and surviving Da- vid ; "very pleasant hast thou been to me : thy love for ms was wonderful ; passing the love of women." Sir Philip Sidney, at the battle near Zutphen, was wound- ed by a musket ball, which broke the bone of h-s th'^Ii. fie was carried about a mile and a half, to the camp; a;;-! f/eing faint with the loss of blood, and probably parched with thirst through the heat of the weather, he called for drink. It was immediately brought to him; but as he was putting the vessel to his mouth, a poor wounded sol/lie) , who happened at that instant to be carried by him, looked up to it with wishful eyes. The gallant and generous Sidney took the bottle from his mouth, and delivered it to the sol- dier, saying, " Thy necessity is yet greater than mine." Alexander the Great demanded of a pirate, whom he had taken, by what right. he infested the seas? " By the same light," replied he, "that Alexander enslaves the world. CHAP. I. SELECT SENTENCES. But I am called a robber, because .1 have only one small vessel ; and he is styled a conqueror, because he commands great tleets and armies." We too often judge of men by the splendour, and not by the merit of their actions. Antonius Pius, the Roman Emperor, was an amiable and good man. When any of his courtiers attempted to inflame him with a passion for military glory, he used to anwer: "That he more desired the preservation of one 'subject., than the destruction of a thousand enemies. Men are too often ingenious isi making themselves mlsern- avating to their ow.u fancy, beyond bounds, all ' vils vvkich they endure. They compare themselves with .e biJt those whom they imagine to be more happy; and -: plain, that upon them alone has fallen the whole load of h'.imau sorrows. Would they look with a more imp", on the world, they would see themselves surrounded wills -rers; and find that they are only drinking out of th-t mixed cup, which Providence has prepared for ail. "I will restore thy daughter again to life," said an eastern sju;e to a prince who grieved immoderately for the loss of a beloved ! !, "provided thou art able to engrave on her tomb, (I- 1 names of three persons who have never mourned." The prince made inquiry after such persons ; but found the in- quiry vain, and was silent. SECTION VIII. TIE that hath no rule over his own spirit, is like a city that is broken down, and without walls. A soft answer turneth away wrath ; but grievous words stir up anger. Better h a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox, and hatred therewith. Pride goeth before destruction; and a haughty spirit be- fore a fall. Hear counsel, and receive instruction, that thou mayest be truly wise. Faithful are the wounds of a friend ; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful. Open rebuke, is better than secret lo^e. Seest thou a man- wise in his own conceit? There is more 'hope, of a fool than of him. He that is slow to anger, is better than the mighty ; and he that ruleth his spirit, than he that takcth a city. He that hath pity on the poor, leudeth to the Lord ; that which he hath given, will he pay hun again. 24 fHE ENGLISH READER. PART 1 If thine enemy be hungry, give him bread to eat; and it he ue thirsty, give him water to drink. He that planted the ear, shall he not hear? He that formed the eye, shall he not see ? I have been young, and now I am old ; yet have I never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread. It ia.better to be a door-keeper in the house of the Lord, vhan to dwell in the tents of wickedness. I have seen the wicked in great power; and spreading him-- eelf like a green bay-tree. Yet he passed away; I sought aim, but he could not be found. Happy is the man that findeth wisdom. Length of (L vs is in her right hand ; and in her left hand, riches and ho- nour her ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace. How good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unit)' ! It is like precious ointment; like the dew of Her- mon, and the dew that descended upon the mountains of Zion. The sluggard will not plough by reason of the cold;, he shall therefore beg in harvest, and have nothing. I went by the field of the slothful, and by the vineyard of the man void of understanding: and lo! it was all .grown over with thorns ; nettles had covered its face ; and the stone wall was broken down. Then I saw, and considered il well : I looked upon it, and received instruction. Honourable age is not that which standeth in length ot time ; nor that which is measured by number of years : but wisdom is the gray hair to man; and an unspotted life Isold age. Solomon, my son, know thou the God of thy fathers; and serve him with a perfect heart and with a willing mind. If thou seek him, he will be found of thee ; but if thou foi oiikc him, he will cast thee off for ever. SECTION IX. THAT every day has its pains and sorrows is universally experienced, and almost universally confessed. But let ug not attend only to mournful truths: if we look impartially about us, we shall find, that every day has likewise its plea- sures ana its joys. We should cherish sentiments of charity towards all men, The Author ot all good, nourishes much piety and virtue in hearts that are unknown to us; and beholds repentance ready to spring up among many whom- we consider as reprobates. No one ought to consider himself as insignificant in the ?gM of his Creator, lr> our several stations? we are all CHAP. I. SELECT SENTENCES. 25 forth to be labourers in the vineyard of our heavenly Father. Every man has his work allotted, his talent committed to him; by the due improvement of which Le may, in one way or other, serve God, promote virtue, and be useful in the world. The love of praise should be preserved under proper sub- ordination to the principle of duty. In itself, it is a useful mo- tive to action; but when allowed to extend its influence too for, it corrupts the whole character, and produces guilt, dis- grace, and misery. To be entirely destitute of it, is a defect. To be -governed by it, is depravity. The proper adjustment of the several principles of action ni human nature is a mat- ter that deserves our highest attention. For wnen any one of them becomes either too weak or too strong, it endangers both our virtue and our happiness. The desires and passions of a vicious man, having once obtained an unlimited sway, trample him under their feet: They make him feel that he is subject to various, contradic- tory and imperious masters, who often pull him dilferent ways. His soul is rendered, the receptacle of many repi-g- ji ant and jarring dispositions ; and resembles some barbarous country, cantoned out into different principalities, which are Continually waging war on one another. Diseases, poverty, disappointment, and shame, are far from being, in every instance, the unavoidable doom of man. They are much more frequently the offspring of his own mis- guided choice. Intemperance engenders disease, sloth pro- duces poverty, pride creates disappointments, and dishonesty exposes to shame. The ungoverned passions of men be- them into a thousand follies; their follies into' crimes s heir crimes into misfortunes. When we reflect on the many distresses which aoound in human life ; on the scanty prr>portiod as he rose in greatness rising also in guilt ; till at last h completed that whole character of iniquity, which he ancti detested. BLAIR. SECTION III. Haman; or, the misery of pride. AHASUERUS, who is supposed to be the prince 1: among: the Greek historians by the name of Artaxerxrs, [ advanced to the chief dignity in his kingdom, Ham Aniaiekite, who inherited all the ancient enmity of 1 to the Jewish nation. He appears, from what is n , of him, to have been a very wicked minister. Ra : :iess without merit, he employed his power solely for t; :.-, Hcation of his passions. s the honours which he possessed were next to i e was every day fed with that servile homage, v to Asiatic courts ; and all the servants of the l; ; r:< red themselves before him. In the midst of this -ulat'on, one person only stooped not to Hainan. 3 This was Mordecai the Jew; who, knowing this..' to be an enemy to the people of God, and, with virti:- ; Uidiarnation, despising that insolence of prosperity with v^TJch he saw him lifted up, "bowed riot, nor did him r.eve- rt iire.-" On this appearance of disrespect from M orders i. ! 'uman " was iiiil of wrath; but he thought scorn to hy haml i,- :\ 3!ordecai a^ne." Personal revenge was not sufficii : : to sat'siy him. 4 So violent and black were his passions, that he res: ' to exterminaLte*the whole nation to which Mordecai belor-j?. :{. Abusing, for this cruel purpose, the f?.vour of his credulous sovereign, he obtained a decree to be sent forth, that against ; uld be put to the sword. 5 Meanwhile, confident of success, and blind to nppro^h- n;:ri,- he continued exulting in his prosperity. Ltv; /a-; to a royal banquet," which Esther, the f\ M|, >' he wprit forth, that day joyful, arid w : ;'} iitTtrt, 1 ' Hut behold how slight an incident was sulTirij';;t r-> poison his joy! As he went forth, he saw Mordecai in the king's gate ; and observed, that he still refused to do him CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 31 homage. " He stood not up, nor was moved for him ;" al- though he well knew the formidable designs which llaman was preparing to execute. 6 One private man, who despised his 'greatness, and dis- dained submission, while a whole kingdom trembled before him; one spirit, which the utmost stretch of his power could neither subdue nor humble, blasted his triumphs. His whole soul was shaken with a storm of passion. Wra.h, pride, and desire of revenge, rose into fury. With difficulty he restrained himself in public ; but as soon as he came to his own house, he was forced to disclose the agony of his mind. 7 He ^gathered together his friends and family, with Ze- resh his wife. " He told them of the glory of his riches, and the multitude of his children, and of all the things wherein the king had promoted him; and how he had advanced him above the princes and servants of the king. He said, more- over, Yea, Esther the queen, suffered no man to come in with the king, to the 'banquet that she had prepared, but my- self; and to-morrow also am I invited to her with the king." After ail this preamble, what is the conclusion? "Yet all this availeth me nothing, so long as I see Mordecai the Jew sitting at the king's gate." 8 The sequel of Hainan's history I shall not now pursue. It might afford matter for mucji instruction, by the conspicu- ous justice of God in his fall and "punishment. But contem- plating only the singular situation, in which the expressions just quoted present him, and the* violent agitation of his mind which they display, the following reflections .naturally arise: How miserable is vice, when one guilty passion creates so much torment! how unavailing is prosperity, when in the height of it, a single disappointment can destroy the relish of all its pleasures ! how weak is human nature, which, in the absence of real, jg. thus prone to form to itself imaginary woes! > BLAIP.. SECTION IV. Lady Jane Gray. THIS excellent personage was descended from the royal liij of England by both her parents. She was carefully edu- tated in the principles of the reformation; and her wisdom an. I virtue rendered her a shining example to her sex. But it was her lot to continue only a short period on this staa;e ol being; for, in early life, she fell a sacrifice to the wild" am- uitioii of the duke of Northumberland, who promoted a mar- riage between her and his soa. lord Gailford Dudley; and 32 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L raised her to the throne of England, in opposition to the rights oi Mary and Elizabeth. *2 At the time of their marriage, she was only about eigh- teen years of age, and her husband was also very young; a season of life very unequal to oppose the interested views of artful and aspiring men ; who instead of exposing them' to danger, should have been the protectors of their innocence and youth. 3 This extraordinary young person, besides the solid en- dowments of piety and virtue, possessed the most engaging disposition, the most accomplished parts; and being of an equal age with king Edward VI. she had received all her education with him, and seemed even to possess a greater fa- cility in acquiring every part of manly arid classical literature. 4 She had attained a knowledge of the Roman and Greek languages, as well as of several modern tongues ; had passed most of her time in an application to. learning ; and express- ed a great indifference for other occupations and amusements usual with her sex and station. 5 Roger Ascham, tutor to the lady Elizabeth, having at one time paid her a vi3it, found her employed in reading Plato, while the rest of the family were engaged in a party of hunting in the park ; and -upon his admiring the singularity of her choice, she- told him that she " received more plea- sure from that author, than the others could reap from all their sport and gaiety." 6 Her heart, replete with this love of literature and seri- ous studies, and with tenderness towards her husband, who was deserving of her affection, had never opened itself to the flattering allurements of ambition ; and the information of her advancement to the throne was by no means agreeable to her. She even refused to accept the crown ; pleaded the preferable right of the two princesses ; expressed her dread oi' the consequences attending an enterprise so danarerous ' not Ip -say criminal ; and desired to remain in that private station m which she was born. 7 Overcome at last with the entreaties, rather tnan rea- sons, of her father and father-in-law,, and, above all, of i.r husband, she submitted to their will, and was prevailed on to relinquish her own judgment. But her elevation was of very short continuance. The nation declared for queen Mary ; and the lady Jane, after wearing the vain pageantry of a crown during ten days, returned to a private life, with much more satisfaction than she felt when royalty was ten- dered to her. CHAI. IL NARRATIVE PIECES. 33 8 Queen Mary, who appears to have been incapable of generosity or clemency, determined to remove every per- son, from ,whom the least danger could be apprehended. Warning was, therefore, given to lady Jane to prepare for death ; a doom which she had expected, and which the in- nocence of her life, as well as the misfortunes to which she had been exposed, rendered no unwelcome news to her. 9 The queen's bigoted zeal, under colour of tender mercy to the prisoner's soul, induced her to send priests, who mo- lested her with perpetual disputation ; and even a reprieve of three days was granted her, in hopes that she would be per- suaded, during that time, to pay, by a timely conversion to popery, some regard to her eternal welfare. 1 JLady Jane had presence of mind, in those melancholy circumstances, not only to defend her religion by solid argu- ments, but also to write a letter to her sister, in the Greek language, in which, besides sending her a copy of the Scrip- tures in that tongue, she exhorted her to maintain, in every fortune, a like steady perseverance. 11 On the day of her execution, her husband, lord Guil- ford, desired permission to see her ; but she refused her con- sent, and sent him word, that the tenderness of their part- ner, would overcome the fortitude of both; and would too much unbend their minds from that constancy which their approaching end required of them. Their separation, she said, would be only for a moment, and they would soon re- join each other in a scene, where their affections would be ( r united ; and where death, disappointment, and mis- : ; ies, could no longer have access to them, or disturb iernal felicity. \2 It had been intended to execute the lady Jane and lord ! together on the same scaffold, at Tower Hill ; but nmcii, dreading the compassion of the people for their youth, beauty, innocence, and noble birth, changed their orders, and gave directions that she should be beheaded within the verge of the Tower. 13 She saw her husband led to execution : and, having given him from the wimfow some token of her remembrance, she waited with tranquillity till .her own appointed hour should bring her to a like fate. She even saw his headless body car- ried back in a cart; and found herself more cofirmed by the reports which ^sne heard of the constancy of his end> than shaken by so tender and melancholy a spectacle. 14 Sir John Gage, constable of the Tower, when he led fear to execution, desired her to bestow on him some small 34 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. present, which he might keep as a perpetual memorial of her, She gave him her table-book, in which she had just written three sentences, on seeing her husband's dead body; one hi Greek, another in Latin, a third in English. 15 The purport of them -was, " that human justice wns against, bis body, but the Divine Mercy would be favourable to his soul; and that if her fault deserved punishment, her youth, at least, and her imprudence, were worthy of ex-is-; : and that God and posterity, she trusted, would show lie ;- i\ - vour." On the scaffold, she made a speech to the by~st;>;^! era, in which the mildness of her disposition led her to take the blame entirely on herself, without uttering one complaint aglnst the severity with which she had been treated. 16 She said, that her offence was, not that she had laid her hand -upon the crown, but that she had not rejected it with, sufficient constancy ; that she had less erred through ambition than through reverence to her parents, whom she had been taught to love and obey: that she willingly re- ceived death, as the only satisfaction which she could now make to the injured state ; and though her infringement of the laws had been constrained, she would show, by her vol- untary submission to their sentence, that she was desirous to atone for that disobedience, into which too much filial piety had betrayed her : that she had justly deserved this punish- ment, for being made the instrument, though 4 he unwilling instrument, of the ambition of others; and that the story of her life, she hoped, might at least be useful, by proving that iiviocence excuses not great misdeeds, if they tend in any way the destruction of the commonwealth. 17 After uttering these words, she caused herself to be :.'pl)-.*d by her women, and with a steady, serene counte- ice, submitted herself to the executioner. HUME. SECTION V. Ortogrul ; or, the vanity of riches. AS O.'togrul, of Basra, was one day wandering along the street a of hag-lat, musing on the varieties of memmnchsc ivhich the shops opened to his view, and observing the dif- ferent occupations which busied the multitude on every side, he WHS o \vakeurjd from the tranquillity cf meditation, by a crowd tnat obstructed his passage, lie raiseil his eyes, and saw the chief vizier wiio, having returned from the divan, was entering his palace. 2 Ortogrul mingled with the attendants; and, being gup- posed to have some petition for the vizier, was permitted to CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. S3 enter. He surveyed the spaciousness of the apartments, ad- -,-(! the walls hung with golden tapestry, and the floors covered with silken carpets ; and despised the simple neat- ness of his own little habitation. 3 " Surely," said he to himself, " this palace is the seat nl happiness ; where pleasure succeeds to pleasure, and dis- content and sorrow can have no admission. Whatever na- ture has provided for the delight of sense, is here spread forth to be enjoyed. What can mortals hope or imagine, which the master of this palace has not obtained? The dishes of luxury cover his table! the voice of harmony lulls him in his bowers ; he breathes the fragrance of the groves of Java, and sleeps upon the down of the cygnets of the Ganges. 4 lie speaks, and his mandate is obeyed ; he wishes, and his wish is gratified; all whom he sees, obey him, and all whom he hears, flatter' him. How different, 0, Qrtogrul, Is thy condition, who art doomed to the perpetual torments of unsatisfied desire; and who hast no amusement in thy power, that can withhold thee from thy own reflections ! 5 They tell thee thattheu art wise; but what does wisdom avail with poverty ? None will flatter the poor; and the wise have very little power of flattering themselves. That man is surely the most wretched of the sons of wretchedness, who lives with his own faults and follies always before him; and who has none to reconcile him to himself by praise and vene- Fation. I have long sought content, arid have not found it ; I will from this moment endeavour to be rich." 6 Full of his new resolution, he shut himself in his cham- ber for six months, to deliberate how he should grow rich. He sometimes purposed to offer himself as a counsellor to one of the kings of India ; and at others resolved to dig for dia- monds in the mines of Golconda. 7 One day, after some hours passed in violent fluctuation of opinion, sleep insensibly seized him in his chair. He dreamed that he was ranging a desert country, in search of some one that might teach him to grow rich ; and, ^s he stood on the top of a hill, shaded with cypress, in doubt whither to direct his steps, his father appeared on a sudden standing before him. " Ortogrul," said the old man, " I know thy perplexity; listen to thy father: turn thine eyes on the oppo- site mountain." 8 Ortogrul looked, and saw a torrent tumbling down the rocks, roaring with the noise of thunder, and. scattering its foam on the impending woods. "Now," said hu> father, * behold the valley that lies between the bills." Ortogrul THE ENGLISH REAUEK. PART i. eel, and espied a little well, out of which issued a small 'tilet. " Tell me now," said his father, "dost thou wish mid en affluence, that may pour upon thee like the moun- tain torrent; or for a slow and gradual increase, resembling the rill gliding 1 from the well ?" 9 " Let me be quickly rich," said Ortogrul; "let the en stream be quick and violent." " Look around thee, 5 ' a his father, " once again." Ortogrul looked, and per- cei\ ed the channel of the torrent dry and dusty ; but follow- ing the rivulet from the well, he traced it to a wide lake, which the supply, slow and constant, kept always full. "lie awoke, and determined to grow rich by silent profit, and per- severing industry. 10 Having sold .his patrimony, he engaged in merchandise;' *:id in twenty years purchased lands, on which he raised a -.01138, equal in sumptuousness to that of the vizier; to this :sion he invited all the ministers of pleasure, expecting- to <>. ijoy all the felicity which he had imagined riches able to a'fiord. Leisure soon m^de him weary of himself, and he longed to ue persuaded that he was great and happy. He was cour- i.-'Gus and liberal; he gave all that approached him hope* of pleasing him, and all who should please him, hopes cf ; g rewarded. Every art of praise was tried, and every - :.)urce of adulatory fiction was exhausted. 11 Ortogrul heard his flatterers without delight, because he ibirnd himself unable- to believe them. His own heart told : i its frailties; his own understanding reproached hirn his faults. "How long," said he, with a deep sigh', ve 1 been labouring in vain to amass wealth, which ai !> useless! Let no man hereafter wish to be rich, who h Liii-oady too wise to be flattered." DR. JOHT : 3or^ SECTION VL the Hill of Science. IN that season of the year, when the serenity of the sky, the various fruits which cover the ground, the discoloured foliage of the trees; and all the sweet,- but fading graces of inspiring autumn, open the mind to benevolence, and dispose it for contemplation, I was wandering in a beautiful and ro- mantic country, till curiosity began to give way to weariness; and I sat down on the fragment of a rock overgrown with moss ; where the rustling of the falling leaves, the dashing of waters, and the hum of the distant city, soothed my mind into a most perfect tranquillity ; and sleep insensibly stole CHAP. IL NARRATIVE PIECES. 37 upon me, as I was indulging the agreeable reveries, which the objects around me naturally inspired. 2 I immediately found myself in a vast extended plain, hi die middle of which arose a mountain, higher than I had be- fore any conception of. It was covered with a multitude of people, chiefly youth ; many of whom pressed forward with the liveliest expression of ardour in their countenance, though the way was in many places, steep and difficult. 3 I observed those who had but just begun to climb the hill, thought themselves not far from the top; but as they proceeded, new hills were continually rising to their view ; and the summit of the highest they could before discern, seemed but the foot of another, till the mountain at length ap- peared to lose itself in the clouds. 4 As I was gazing on these things with astonishment, a friendly instructer suddenly appeared : " The mountain be- fore thee," said he, " is the Hill of Science. On the top is (lie temple of Truth, whose head is above the clouds, and a veil of pure light covers her face. Observe the progress of her votaries ; be silent and attentive." 5 After I had noticed a variety of objects, I turned my eyes towards the multitudes who were climbing the steep as- cent ; and observed amongst them a youth of a lively look, a piercing eye, and something fiery and irregular in all his mo- lions. His name was Genius. He darted like an eagle up the mountain ; and left his companions gazing after him with envy and admiration : but his progress w r as unequal, and in- terrupted by a thousand caprices. 6 When Pleasure warbled in the valley, he mingled in her train. When Pride beckoned towards the precipice, he ven- tured to the tottering edge. He delighted in devious and untried paths ; and made so many excursions from the road, that his feebler companions often outstripped him. I ob- served that the Muses beheld him with partiality : but Truth often frowned and turned aside her face. 7 While Genius was thus wasting his strength in eccentric flights, I saw a person of very different appearance, named Ap- plication. He crept along with a slow and unremitting pace, his eyes fixed on the top of the mountain, patiently removing every stone that obstructed his way, till he saw most of those below him, who had at first derided his slow and toilsome progress. 8 Indeed, there were few who ascended the hill with equal and uninterrupted steadiness ; for, besides the ditfi- 3* THE ENGLISH HEADER. PART I cullies of the way, they were continually solicited to turn aside by a numerous crowd of Appetites, Passions, and Pleasures, whose importunity, when once complied with, they became less and less able to resist ; and though they often returned to the path, the asperities of the road were more severely feJt ; the hill appeared more steep and rug- ged ; the fruits, which were wholesome and refreshing, semed harsh and ill tasted ; their sight grew dim ; and their feet tript at every little obstruction. 9 I saw, with some surprise, that the Muses, whose bu- siness was to cheer and encourage those who were toiline up the ascent, would often sing in the bowers of Pleasure, and accompany those who were enticed away at the call of the Passions. They accompanied them, however, but a little way ; and always forsook them when they lost sight of the hill. The tyrants then doubled their chains upon the unhappy captives, and led them away, without resistance^ to the cells of Ignorance, or the mansions of Misery. 10 Amongst the innumerable seducers, who were endea- vouring to draw away the votaries of 'Truth from the path of science, there was one, so little formidable in her appear- ance, and so gentle and languid in her attempts, that I should scarcely have taken notice of her, but for the numbers she had imperceptibly loaded with her chains. 11 Indolence, (for so she- was called,) far from proceeding to open hostilities, did not attempt to turn their feet out of the path, but contented herself with retarding their pro- gress ; and the purpose she could not force them to abandon, she persuaded them to delay. Her touch had a power like Chat of the torpedo, which withered the strength of those who came within its influence. Her unhappy captives still turned their faces towards the temple, and always hoped to arrive there ; but the ground seemed to slide from beneath their feet, and they found themselves at the bottom, before they suspected they had changed their place. 12 The placid serenity, which at first appeared in their countenance, changed by degrees into a melancholy languor, which was tinged with deeper and deeper gloom, as they glided down the stream of Insignificance ; a dark and slug- gish water, which is curled by no breeze, and enlivened by no murmur, till it falls into a dead sea, where startled pas- sengers are awakened by the shock, and the next moment buried in the gulf of Oblivion. I? I "~ ~.v ** unhappy deserters from the paths of Science, Cn.vr. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 80 none seemed less able to return than the followers of Indo- lence. The captives of Appetite and Passion would often seize the moment when their tyrants were languid or asleep, to escape from their enchantment ; but the dominion of In-, dolence was constant and unremitted ; and seldom resisted, till resistance was in vain. 14 After contemplating these things, I turned my eye.; towards the top of the mountain, where the air was always pure and exhilirating, the path shaded with laurels and ever- greens, and the effulgence which beamed from the face of Science seemed to shed a glory round her votaries. ITap- py, said I, are they who are permitted to ascend the moun- tain! But while I was pronouncing this exclamation , with uncommon ardour, I saw, standing beside me, a form of di- viner features, and a more benign radiance. 15 " Happier," said she, " are they whom Virtue conducts to the Mansions of Content !" " What," said I, " does Vir- U;c then reside in the vale V' "I am found," said she, "in the vale, and I illuminate the mountain. I cheer the cottager at his toil, and inspire the sage at his meditation. I mingle in the crowd of cities, and bless the hermit in his cell. I have a temple in every heart that owns my influence, and to him that wishes for me, I am already present. Science may raise thee to eminence ; but I alone can guide thee to felicity!" 16 While Virtue was thus speaking, I stretched put my arms towards her, with -a vehemence which broke my slum- ber. The chill dews were falling around me, and the shades of evening stretched over the landscape. I hastened home- ward, and resignad the night to silence and meditation. AIKIN. SECTION vn. The journey of a day ; a picture of human life. OISIDAH, the son of Abensina, left the caravansera early in the morning, and pursued his journey through the plains of Indostan. He was fresh and vigorous with rest ; he was : suited with hope ; he was incited by desire ; he walked swiftly forward over the vallies, and saw the hills gradually rising before him. 2 "As he passed along, his ears were delighted with the morning song of the bird of paradise ; he was fanned by the 1-ast flutters of the sinking breeze, and sprinkled with dew from groves of spices. He sometimes contemplated the towering 40 THE ENGLISH READER. J^ART J. height of the oak, monarch of the hills ; and sometimes caught the gentle fragrance of the primrose, eldest daughter of the spring; all his senses were gratified, and all care was banished from his heart. 3 Thus he went on, till the sun approached his meridhm, and the increasing heat preyed upon his strength ; he then looked round about him for some more commodious path. He saw, on his right hand, a grove that seemed to wave its shades as a sign of invitation ; he entered it, and found the coolness and verdure irresistibly pleasant. 4 He did not, however, forget whither, he was travelling; but found a narrow way, bordered with flowers, which ap- peared to have the same direction with the main road ; and was pleased, that, by this happy experiment, he had found means to unite pleasure with business, and to gain the re- wards of diligence without suffering its fatigues. 5 He, therefore, still continued to .walk for a time, with- out the least remission of his ardour, except that he was sometimes tempted to stop by the music of the birds, which the heat had assembled in the shade ; and sometimes amused himself with plucking the flowers that covered the banks oii each side, or the fruits that hung upon the branches. 6 At last, the green path began to decline from its first tendency, and to wind among hills and thickets, cool-ed with fountains, and murmuring with waterfalls. Here Obidah paused for a time, and began to consider whether it were longer safe to forsake the known and common track ; but remembering that the heat was now in its greatest violence, and that the plain was dusty and uneven, he resolved to pur- . sue the new path, which he supposed only to make a few meanders, in compliance with the varieties of the ground, and to end at last in the common road. 7 Having thus calmed his solicitude, he renewed his pace, though he suspected that he was not gaining ground. This uneasiness of his mind inclined him to lay hold on every new object, and give way to every sensation that might* soothe o~t divert him. He listened to every echo; he mounted every kill for a fresh prospect; he turned aside to e\^ry cascade; and pleased himself with tracing the course of a gentle rivep that rolled among the trees, and watered a large region with innumerable circumvolutions. 8 In these amusements, the. hours passed away unacco^nJs- ed; his deviations had perplexed his memory, and he knew not towards what noint to travel. He stood pensive and CHIP. H. NARRATIVE PIECES. 41 confused, afraid to go forward, lest he should go wrong, yet conscious that the time of loitering was now past. While he ivas thus tortured with uncertainty, the sky was overspread v, -th clouds; the day vanished from before him; and a sud- den tempest gathered round his head. 9 He was now roused by his danger, to a quick and pain- ful remembrance of his folly ; he now saw how happiness is lost when ease is consulted : he lamented the unmanly im- patience that prompted him to seek shelter in the grove ; and despised the petty curiosity that led him on from trifle to tri- fle. While he was thus reflecting, the air grew blacker, and a clap of thunder broke his meditation. 10 He now resolved to do what yet remained in his power, to tread back the ground which he had passed, and try to find some issue where the wood might open into the plain. He prostrated himself on the ground, and recommended his life to the Lord of Nature. Fie rose with confidence and tran- quillity, and pressed on with resolution. The beasts of the desert were in motion, and on every hand were heard the mingled howls of rage and fear, and ravage and expiration. All the horrors of darkness and solitude surrounded him : the wind roared in the woods ; and the torrents tumbled from the hills. 11 Thus forlorn and distressed, he wandered through the wild, without knowing whither he was going, or whether he was every moment drawing nearer to safety, or to destruc- tion. At length, not fear, but labour, began to overcome him ; his breath grew short, and his knees trembled ; and he was on the point of lying down in resignation to his fate, when he beheld, through the brambles, the glimmer of a taper. 12 He advanced towards the light, and finding that it pro- ceeded from the cottage of a hermit, he called humbly at the door, and obtained admission. The old man set before him such provisions as he had collected for himself, on, which Ob id ah fed with eagerness and gratitude. 13 When , the repast was over, "Tell tne,". t said the her- mit, " by what chance thou hast been brought hither? I have been now twenty years an- inhabitant of the wilderness, in which I never saw a mari.before." Obidaii then related the occurrences of his journey, without any concealment or palliation. 14 " Son," said the hermit, " let the errors and follie^ the dangers and escape of this day, sink deep into t^ 42 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. Remember, my son, that human life is the journey of a day. We rise in the morning of youth, full of vigour, and full of expectation; we set forward with spirit and hope, with gaiety and with diligence, and travel on a while in the direct road of piety, towards the mansions of rest. 15 In a short time, we remit our fervour and endeavour to find some mitigation of our duty, and some more easy means of obtaining the same end. We then relax our vi^ gour, and resolve no longer to be terrified with crimes at a distance ; but rely upon our own constancy, and venture to approach what we resolve never to touch. We thus enter the bowers of ease, and repose in the shades of security. 16 Here the heart softens, and vigilance subsides; we are then willing to enquire whether another advance cannot be made, and whether we may not, at least, turn our eyes upon the gardens of pleasure. We approach them with scruple and hesitation; we enter them, but enter timorous and trembling ; and always hope to pass through them without losing the road of virtue, which, for a while, we keep in our sight, and to which we purpose to return. But tempta- tion succeeds temptation, and one compliance prepares us for another; We in time lose the happiness of innocence, and solace our disquiet with sensual gratifications. 17 By degrees, we let fall the remembrance of our original intention, and quit the only adequate object of rational de- sire. We entangle ourselves in business, immerge ourselves in luxury, and rove through the labyrinths of inconstancy ; till the darkness of old age begins to invade as, and disease and anxiety, obstruct our way. We then look back upon our lives with horror, with sorrow, with repentance; and wish, but too often vainly wish, that we had not forsaken the ways of virtue. 18 Happy are they, my son, who shall learn from thy ex- ample, not to despair; but shall remember, that, though the d^y is past, and their strength is wasted, there yet re- mains one effort to be made : that reformation is never hope- less, nor sincere endeavours ever unassisted ; that the wan- derer may at length return, after all his errors ; and that he who implores strength and courage from above, shall find danger and difficulty give way before him. Go no^w, my son, to thy repose ; commit thyself to the care of Omnipo- tence ; and when the morning calls again to toil, begin anew thy journey and thy life." DR. JOHNSON. CHAP. ffL DIDACTIC PIECES. 43 CHAPTER TIL DIDACTIC PIECES. * SECTION I. The importance of a good Education. 1 CONSIDER a human soul, without education, like marble in the quarry : which shows none of its inherent beauties, until the skill of the polisher fetches out the co- lours, makes the surface shine, and discovers every orna- mental cloud, spot, and vein, that runs through the body oi it. Education, after the same manner, when it works upon a noble mmd, draws out to view every latent virtue and per- fection, which, without such helps, are never able to make their appearance. 2 If my reader will give me leave to change the allusion so soon upon him, I shall make use of the same instance to il- lustrate the force of education, which Aristotle has brought to explain his doctrine of substantial forms, when he tells us that a statue lies hid in a block of marble ; and that the art of the statuary only clears away the superfluous matter, and removes the rubbish. The figure is in the stone, and the sculptor only finds it. 3 What sculpture is to a block of marble, education is to a human soul. The philosopher, the saint, or the hero, the wise, the good, or the great man, very often lies hid and concealed in a plebeian, which a proper education might hare disinterred, and brought to light. I am therefore much de- lighted with reading the accounts of savage nations; and with contemplating those virtues which are wild and uncultivated : to see courage exerting itself in fierceness, resolution in obsti- nacy, wisdom in cunning, patience in sullenness and despair. 4 Men's passions operate variously, and appear in different kinds of actions, according as they are more or less rectified and swayed by reason. When one hears of negroes, who, upon the death of their masters, or upon changing their ser- vice, hang themselves upon the next tree, as it sometimes happens in our American plantations, who can forbear ad- miring their fidelity, though it expresses itself in so dreadful a manner ? 5 What might not that savage greatness of soul, which ap- pears in these poor wretches on many occasions, be raised to, were it rightly cultivated ? And what colour of excuse can 44 THE ENGLISH READER. PART. L there be, for the contempt with which we treat this part of our species, that we should not put them upon the common footing of humanity ; that we should only set an insignifi- cant fine upon the man who murders them ; nay, that we should, as much as in us lies, cut them off from the pros- pects of happiness in another world, as well as in this ; and deny them that which we look upon as the proper means for attaining it ? 6 It is therefore an unspeakable blessing, to be born in those parts of the world where wisdom and knowledge flourish ; though, it must be confessed, there are, even in these parts, several poor uninstructed persons, who are but little above the inhabitants of those nations of which I have been here speaking ; as those who have had the advantages of a more liberal education, rise above one another by several different degrees of perfection. 7 For, to return to our statue in the block of marble, we see it sometimes only begun to be chipped, sometimes rough hewn, and but just sketched into a human figure ; some- times we see the man appearing distinctly in all his limbs and features ; sometimes, we find the figure wrought up to great elegancy ; but seldom meet with any to which the hand of a Phidias or a Praxiteles, could not give several , nice touches and finishings. ADDISON. SECTION II. On Gratitude. THERE is not a more pleasing exercise of the mind, than gratitude. It is accompanied with so great inward sa- tisfaction, that the duty is sufficiently rewarded by the per- formance. It is not, like the practice of many other virtues, difficult and painful, but attended with so much pleasure, that were there no positive command which enjoined it, nor any recompense laid up for it hereafter, a gqnerous mind would indulge in it, for the natural gratification which it affords. 2 If gratitude is due from man to man, how much more from man to his Maker? The Supreme Being, does not only confer upn us those bounties which proceed more immediate- ly from his own hand, but even those benefits which are con- veyed to as by others. Every blessing we enjoy, by what means soever it may be conferred upon us, is the gift of HIM who is the great Author of good, and the Father of mercies. 3 If gratitude, when exerted towards one another, natu- i&lly produces a very nleasing sensation in the mind of a CHAP. in. DIDACTIC PIECES. 4* grateful man, it exalts the soul into rapture, when it is em- ployed on this great object of gratitude ; on this beneficent Being, who has 'given us every filing we already possess, and from whom we expect every thing we yet hope for. ADDISON* SECTION III. On Forgiveness. THE most plain and natural sentiments of equity concur ivith divine authority, to enforce the duty of forgiveness. Let him who has never in his life dorte wrong, be allow- ed the privilege of remaining inexorable. But let such as are conscious of frailties and crimes, consider forgiveness as a debt which they owe to others. Common failings are the strongest lesson of mutual forbearance. Were this virtue unknown among men, order and comfort, peace and repose, wtmld be strangers to human life. 2 Injuries retaliated according to the. exorbitant measure which passion prescribes, would excite resentment in return. The injured person would become the injurer ; and thus wrongs, retaliations, and fresh injuries, would circulate in endless succession, till the world was rendered a field ef blood. 3 Of all the passions which invade the human breast, re- venge is the most direful. When allowed to reign with full dominion, it is more than sufficient to poison the few plea- sures which remain to man in his present state. How much soever a person may suffer from injustice, he is always in hazard of suffering more from the prosecution of revenge. The violence of an enemy cannot inflict what is equal to the torment he creates to himself, by means of the fierce and desperate passions which he allows to rage in his soul. 4 Those evil spirits that inhabit the regions of misery, are represented as delighting in revenge and cruelty. But all that is great and good in the universe, is on the side of clem- ency and mercy. The Almighty Ruler of the world, though for ages offended by the unrighteousness, and insulted by the impiety of men, is " long-suffering and slow to anger." 5 His Son, when he appeared in our nature, exhibited, both in his life and his death, the most illustrious example of forgiveness which the world ever beheld. If we look in- to the history of mankind, we shall find that, in every age, thsy who have been respected as worthy, or admired as great have been distinguished for this virtue. 6 Revenge dwells in little minds. A noble and magnani- mous spirit, is always superior to it. It suffers not, from 46 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1 tfie injuries of men those severe shocks which others feeL Collected within itself, it stands unmoved by their impotent assaults ; and, with generous pity, rather than with anger, looks down on their unworthy conduct. It has been truly said, that the greatest man on earth can no sooner commit an injury, than a good man can make himself greater, by for giving it. BLAIR. SECTION IV. Motives to the practice of Gentleness. TO promote the virtue of gentleness, we ought to view our character with an impartial eye ; and to learn, from our own failings, to c;ive that indulgence which in our turn we claim. It is pride which fills the world with so much harshness and seventy. In the fulness of self-estimation, we forget what we are. We claim attentions to which we are not entitled. We Tare rigorous to offences, as if we had never offended; unfeeling to distress, as if we knew not what it was to suffer, m those airy regions of pride and folly, let us descend lo cur proper level. 2 Let us survey the natural equality on which Providence placed man with man, and reflect on the infirmities com- mon to alL If the reflection on natural equality and mutual ofjences, be insufficient to prompt humanity, let us at least remember what we are in the sight of our Creator. Have we none of that forbearance to give one another, which we all so earnestly entreat from heaven 1 Can we look for clemency or gentleness from our Judge, when we are so backward to show it to our own brethren ? 3 Let us also accustom ourselves to reflect on the small moment of those things, which are the usual incentives to dolence and contention. In the ruffled and angry hour, we dew every appearance through a false medium. The most inconsiderable point of interest, or honour, swells into a mo- mentous object; and the slightest attack seems to threaten ini mediate ruin. 4 But after passion or pride has subsided, we look around in vain for the mighty mischiefs we dreaded. The fabric, which our disturbed imagination had reared, totally disap- pears. But though the cause of contention has dwindled away, its consequences remain. We have alienated a friend ; we have imbittered an enemy ; we have sown the seeds of future suspicion, malevolence, or disgust. 5 Let us suspend ouv violence for a moment, when causes CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. of discord occur. Let us anticipate that period of coolm which, of itself, will soon arrive. Let us reflect how littl we have any prospect of gaining by fierce contention; but how much of the true happiness of life we are certain of throw- ing away. Easily, and from the smallest chink, tl>e bitter waters of strife are let forth; but their course cannot be fore- seen ; and he seldom fails of suffering most from their poi- sonous effect, who first allowed them to flow. BLAIR. SECTION V. Jl suspicious Temper the source of Misery to its Possessor. AS a suspicious spirit is the source of many crimes and calamities in the world, so it is the spring of certain misery to the person who indulges it. His friends will be few ; and small will be his comfort in those whom he possesses. Be- lieving others to be his enemies, he will of course make them such. Let his caution be ever so great, the asperity of his thoughts will often break out in his behaviour; arid in return for suspecting and hating, he will incur suspicion and hatred. 2 Besides the external evils which he draws upon himself, arising from alienated friendship, broken confidence, and open enmity, the suspicious temper itself is one of the worst evils which any man can suffer. If "in ail fear there is tor- ment," how miserable must he his state, who, by living in perpetual jealousy, lives in perpetual dread ! 3 Looking upon himself to be surrounded with spies, ene- mies, and designing men, he is a stranger to reliance and trust. He knows not to whom to open himself. He dresses his countenance in forced smiles, while his heart throbs .within from apprehensions of secret treachery. Hence fret- fulness and ill humour, disgust at the world, and all the painful sensations of an irritated arid imbittered mind. 4 So numerous and 'great are the evils arising from a sus- picious disposition, tnat, of the two extremes, it is more eli- gible to expose ourselves to occasional disadvantage from thinking too well of others, than to suffer continual misery by . thinking always ill of them. It is better to be sometimes imposed upon, than never to trust. Safety is purchased at too dear a rate, when, in order to secure it, we are obliged to be always clad in armour, and to live in perpetual hos- lility with our fellows. 5 This is, for the sake of living, to deprive ourselves of tht comfort of life. The man of candour enjoys his situation, whatever it is, with cheerfulrfis and peace. Prudence UJ* 48 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L recta his intercourse with the world; and no black suspicions haunt his hours of rest. Accustomed to view the characters of his neighbours in the most favourable light, he is like one who dwells amidst those beautiful scenes of nature, on which the eye rests with pleasure. 6 Whereas the suspicious man, having his imagination filled with all the shocking forms of human falsehood, de- ceit, and treachery, resembles the traveller in the wilderness, who discerns no objects around him, but such as are either dreary or terrible; caverns that yawn, serpents that hiss, and beasts of prey that howl. BLAIR, SECTION VI. Comforts of Religion. THERE are many who have passed the age of youth and beauty ; who have resigned the pleasures of that smiling sea- son; who begin to decline into the vale of years, impaired in their health, depressed in their fortunes, stript of their friends, their children, and perhaps still more tender con- nexions. What resource can this world afford them'? It presents a dark and dreary waste, through which there does not issue a single ray of comfort. 2 Every delusive prospect of ambition is now at an end ; long experience of mankind, an experience very different from what the open and generous soul of youth had fond!}' dreamt of, has rendered the heart almost inaccessible to new friendships. The principal sources of activity are taken away, when those for whom we labour are cut off from us ; those who animated, and who sweetened all the toils of life. 3 Where then can the soul find refuge, but in the bosom of Religion ? There she is admitted to those prospects of Providence and futurity, which alone can warm and fill the heart. I speak here of such as retain the feelings of hu- manity; whom misfortunes have softened, and perhaps ren- dered more delicately sensible ; not of such as possess that stupid insensibility, which some are pleased to dignify with the name of Philosophy. 4 It might therefore be expected, that those philosophers, who think they stand in no need themselves of the assistance of religion to support their virtue, arJ who never feel the want of its consolations, would yet have the humanity jto consider the very different situation of the rest of mankind $ td not endeavour to deprive them of what habit, at least* CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 19 if they will not allow it to be nature, has made necessary to their morals and to their happiness. 5 It might he expected, that humanity would prevent diem from breaking into the last retreat of the unfortunate, who can no longer be objects of their envy or resentment ; and tearing from them their only remaining comfort. The attempt to ridicule religion may be agreeable to some, by re- lieving them from restraint, upon their pleasures ; and may render others very miserable, by making them doubt those truths, in which they were most deeply interested; but i* can convey real good and happiness to no one individual. GREGORY. SECTION VII. Diffidence of our Abilities, a mark of Wisdom. IT is a sure indication of good sense, to be diffident of it. We then, and not till then, are growing wise, when we be- gin to discern how weak and unwise we are. An absolute perfection of understanding, is impossible : he makes the nearest approaches to it, who has the sense to discern, and the humility to acknowledge, its imperfections. 2 Modesty always sits gracefully upon youth: it covers a multitude of faults, and doubles the lustre of every virtue which it seems to hide : the perfections of men being like those flowers which appear more beautiful, when their leaves are a little contracted and folded up, than when they are full blown, and display themselves, without any reserve, to the view. 3 We are some of us*very fond of knowledge, and apt to value ourselves upon any proficiency in the sciences ; one sci- ence, however, there is, worth more than all the rest;* and that is, the science of living well ; which shall remain, when "tongues shall cease," and "knowledge shall vanish away." 4 As to new notions, and new doctrines, of which this age is very fruitful, the time will come, when we shall have no pleasure in them : nay, the time shall come, when they shall be exploded, and would have been forgotten, if they had not been preserved in those excellent books, which contain a confutation of them; like insects preserved for ages in am- ber, which otherwise would soon have returned to the com- mon mass of things. 5 But a firm belief of Christianity, and a practice suitable to it, will support and invigorate the mind to the last ; and most of all, at last at that important hour, which must de- Jit 50 ENGLISH READER. PART I. cide our hopes and apprehensions ; and the wisdom which, like our Saviour, cometh from above, will, through his merits, bring us thither. All our other studies and pursuits, however different, ought to be subservient to, and centre in, this grand point, the pursuit of eternal happiness, by being good in ourselves, and useful to the world. SEED. SECTION VIII. On the importance of Order in the distribution of our Time. TIME we ought to consider as a sacred trust, committed to us by God : of which we are now the depositories, and are to render an account at the last. That portion of it which he has allotted to us, is intended partly for the concerns of this world, partly for those of the next. Let each of these occupy, in the distribution of our time, that space which properly belongs to it. 2 Let not the hours of hospitality and pleasure interfere with the discharge of our necessary affairs ; and let not what \ve call necessary affairs, encroach upon the time which is due to devotion. To every thing there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heaven. .If we delay till to- morrow what ought to be done to-day, we overcharge the morrow with a burden which belongs not to it. We load the wheels of time, and prevent them from cany ing us along smoothly. 3 He who every morning plans the transactions of the day, and follows out that plan, carries on a thread which will guide him through the labyrinth of the most busy life. The orderly arrangement of his time, is like a ray of light, which darts itself through all his affairs. But where no plan is laid, where the disposal of time is surrendered merely to the chance of incidents, all things lie huddled together in one chaos, which admits neither of distribution nor review. 4 The first requisite for introducing order into the manage- ment of time, is to be impressed with a just sense of its value. Let us consider well how much dependsnipon it, and how fast it flies away. The bulk of men are in nothing more capricious and inconsistent, than in their appreciation of time. When they think of it, as the measure of their continuance on earth, they highly prize it, and with the greatest anxiety, seek to lengthen it out. 5 But when they view it in separate parcels, they appear to hold it in contempt, and squander it with inconsiderate profusion. While they complain that life is short, they are CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 51 often Wishing its different periods at an end. Covetous of every other possession, of time only they are prodigal. They allow every idle man to be master of this property, and make every frivolous occupation welcome that can help them to consume it. 6 Among those who are so careless of time, it is not to be expected that order should be observed in its distribution. But, by this fatal neglect, how many materials of severe and lasting regret are they laying up in store for themselves ! The time which they suffer to pass away in the midst of con- fusion, bitter repentance seeks afterwards in vain to recall. V* hat was omitted to be done at its proper moment, arises to be the torment of some future season. 7 Manhood is disgraced by the consequences of neglected youth. Old age, oppressed by cares that belonged to a for- mer period, labours under a burden not its own. At the close of life, the dying man beholds with anguisii that his (l.iys are finishing, when his preparation for eternity is h?.vd!y commenced. Such are the effects of a disorderly waste of time, through not attending to its value. Every thing in the life of such persons is misplaced. Nothing is performed aright, from not being performed in due season. 8 But he who is orderly in the distribution of his time, takes the proper method of escaping those manifold evils. He is justly said to redeem the time. By proper manage- ment he prolongs it. He lives much in little space; more in a few years, than others do in many. He can live to God and his own soul, and at the same time, attend to all the lawful interests of the present world. He looks back on the past, and provides for the future. 9 He catches and arrests the hours as they fly. They are marked down for useful purposes, and their memory re- mains. Whereas those hours lleet by the man of confusion, like a shadow. His days and years are either blanks, of which he has no remembrance, or they are filled up with so confused and irregular a succession of unfinished transactions , that though he remembers he has been busy, yet he can give no account of the business which has emplo)ed him. BI.AIR. SECTION IX. The dignity of Virtue amidst corrupt Examples. THE most excellent and honourable character which can adorn a man and a Christian, is acquired by resisting the 52 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. torrent of vice, and adhering to the cause of God and virtue, against a corrupted multitude. It will be found to hold in general, that they, who, in any of the great lines of life, have distinguished themselves for thinking profoundly, and acting nobly, have despised popular prejudices ; and depart- ed, in several things, from the common ways of the world. 2 On no occasion is this more requisite for true honour, than where religion and morality are concerned. In tiroes of prevailing licentiousness, to maintain unblemished virtue, and uncorrupted integrity in a public or a private cause ; to stand firm by what is fair and just, amidst discouragements and opposition ; despising groundless censure and reproach ; disdaining all compliance with public manners, when they are vicious and unlawful ; and never ashamed of the punc- tual discharge of every duty towards God and man; this is what shows true greatness of spirit, and will force approba- tion even from the degenerate multitude themselves. 3 " This is the man," (their conscience will oblige them to acknowledge,) " whom we are unable to bend to mean condescensions. We see it in vain either to flatter or to threaten him ; he rests on a principle within, which we can- not shake. To this man we may, on any occasion, safely commit our cause. He is incapable of betraying his trust, or deserting his friend, or denying his faith." 4 It is, accordingly, this steady, inflexible virtue, this re- gard to principle, superior to all custom and opinion, which peculiarly marked the characters of those in any age, who have shone with distinguished lustre ; and has consecrated their memory to all posterity. It was this that obtained to ancient Eno^ch the most singular testimony of honour from heaven. 6 He continued to " walk with God," when the world apostatized from him. He pleased God, and was beloved of him 5 so that living among sinners, he was translated to heaven without seeing death. " Yea, speedily was he taken away, lest wickedness should have altered his understand- ing, or deceit beguiled his soul." 6 When Sodom could net furnish ten righteous men to save it, Lot remained unspotted amidst the contagion. Ha lived like an angel among spirits of darkness ; and the de* stroying flame was not permitted to go forth, till the good man was called away, by a heavenly messenger, from hjs " devoted city. 7 When " all flesh had corrupted their way upon the fiiAr. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 63 e?.rt!v' then lived Noah, a righteous inan, and, a preacher .ess. He stood alone, and was scoHed by the crew. But they, by the delude, were swept away; n him, Providence conferred the immortal honour, of bdnj-r the restorer of a better race, and the father of a new world. Such examples as these, and such honours confer- red by God on them who withstood the multitude of evil. . should often be present to our minds. 8 Let us oppose them to the numbers of low and corrupt oxp.inples, which we beheld around us; and when we are in ird of being swayed by such, let us fortify our virtue, by )i' those, who, in former times, shone like stars in Ine midst of surrounding darkness, and are now shining in the kingdom of heaven, as the brightness of the firmament, for ever and ever. BLAIR SECTION X. The mortifications of Vice greater than those of Virtue. THOUGH no condition of human life is free from unea siriess, yet it must be allowed, that the uneasiness belongin to a sinful course, is far greater than what attends a course of weli-doing. If we are weary of the labours of virtue, we may be assured, that the world, whenever we try the ex change, will lay upon us a much heavier load. 2 It i? the outside only, of a licentious life, which is gay. SIM! smiling. Within, it conceals toil, and trouble, and deadly sorrow. For vice poisons human happiness in the spring, by introducing disorder into the heart. Those pas- sions which it seems to indulge, it only feeds with imperfect gratifications; and thereby strengthens them for preying, in the end, on their unhappy victims. 3 It is a great mistake to imagine, that the pain of self- denial is confined to virtue. He who follows the world, as h as he who follows Christ, must "take up his cross;" u him, assuredly, it will prove a more oppressive bur- iiows all our passions to range uncontrolled; and. where each claims to be superior, it is impossible to The predominant .ilesire jan only le indulged, n?e of its '. yirtuf exrrc'.;:*, are more severe thiiii those whicL a;.viMt!n:i :;on the love of ease, pride upon inters-. s upon vanity. Self- denial, therefore, I ... to vice and virtue; Imt wirb this iicrr.j;' ^oru which v THE ENGLISH READER. PART I virtue requires us to mortify, it tends to weaken ; whereas, those which vice obliges us to deny, it, at the same time, strengthens. The one diminishes the pain of self-denial, by moderating the demands of passions ; the other increases it, by rendering those demands imperious and violent. 5 What distresses that occur in the calm life of virtue, can be compared to those tortures which remorse of conscience inflicts on the wicked ; to those severe humiliations, arising from guilt combined with misfortunes, which sink them to the dust; to those violent agitations of shame and disap- pointment, which sometimes drive them to the most fatal ex- tremities, and make them abhor their existence! How often, in the midst of those disastrous situations, into which their crimes have brought them, have they execrated the seductions of vice; and, with bitter regret, looked back to the day on which they first forsook the path of innocence ! BLAIR. SECTION XI. On Contentment. CONTENTMENT produces, in some measure, all those effects which the alchymist usually ascribes to what he calls the philosopher's stone; and if it does not bring riches, it does the same thing, by banishing the desire of them. If it cannot remove the disquietudes arising from- a man's mind, body, or fortune, it makes him easy under them. It has in- deed a kindly influence on the soul of man, in respect of every being to whom he stands related. 2 It extinguishes all murmur, repining, and ingratitude, towards that Being who has allotted him iiis part to act in this world. It destroys all inordinate ambition, and every tendency to corruption, with regard to the community wherein he is placed. It gives sweetness to his conversation, and a perpetual serenity to all his thoughts. 3 Among the many methods which might be made use of for acnuiring this virtue, I shall mention only the two follow- ing. First of all. a man should always consider how much he has more than he wants ; and secondly, how much more unhappy he might be than he really is. 4 First, a man should always consider how much he has more than he wants. I am wonderfully pleased with the re- ply which Aristippus made to one, who condoled with him upon the loss of a farm: "Why," said he, "I have three farms still, and you have but one ; so that I ought rather to be -afflicted for you, than you for me." CHAP. 111. DIDACTIC PIECES. 65 5 On the contrary, foolish men are more apt to consider what they have lost, than what they possess ; and to fix their eyes upon those who are richer than themselves, rather than those who are under^greater difficulties. All" the real plea- sures and conveniences of life lie in a narrow compass ; but it is the humour of mankind to be always looking forward, and straining after one who has got the start of them in wealth and honour. 6 For this reason, as none can be properly called rich, v ho have riot more than they want, there are few rich men in any of the politer nations, but among the middle sort ot pt i op!o, who keep their wishes within their fortunes, and have more wealth than they know how to enjoy. 7 Persons of a higher rank live in a land of splendid pov- erty; and are perpetually wanting, because, instead of ac- quiescing in the solid pleasures of life, they endeavour to out- vie one another in shadows and appearances. Men of sense have at all times beheld, with a great deal of mirth, this silly game that is playing over their heads; and, by contracting their desires, they enjoy all that secret satisfaction which others are always in quest of. 8 The truth is, this ridiculous chase after imaginary plea- sures cannot be sufficiently exposed, as it is the great source of those evils which generally undo a nation. Let a man's estate be what it may, he is a poor man if he does not live within it; and naturally sets himself to sale to any one that can give him his price. 9 When Pittacus, after the death of his brother, who had left him a good estate, was offered a great sum of money by the king of Lydia, he thanked him for his kindness ; but told him, he had already more by half than he knew what to do with. In short, content is equivalent to wealth, and luxury to poverty ; or, to give the thought a more agreeable turn, 'Content is natural wealth," says Socrates; to which 1 shall add, luxury is artificial poverty. 10 I shall therefore recommend to the consideration of tliose who arc always aiming at superfluous and imaginary enjoyments, and who will not be at the trouble of contracting their desires, an excellent saying of Bion, the philosopher, namely, " That no man has so much care, as he who en- deavours after the most happine^;." 11 In the second place, every one ought to reflect how much more unhappy he might he than he really is. The for- mer consideration took in all these \vho arr sufficiently JfiO- 56 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. -id eel with the means to make themselves easy; this regards euch as actually lie under some pressure or misfortune. These may receive great alleviation, from such a comparison 33 the unhappy person may make between himself and others ; or between the misfortune which he suffers, -and greater misfortunes which might have befallen him. 12 I like the story of the honest Dutchman, who, upon breaking his leg by a fall from the main-mast, told the stand- ers by, it was a great mercy that it was not his neck. Tc which, since I am got into quotations, give me leave to add the saying of an old philosopher, who, after having invited some of his friends to dine with him, was ruffled by a person that came into the room in a passion, and threw down the table that stood before him : " Every one," says he, " has his ca- lamity ; and he is a happy man that has no greater than this." 13 We find an instance to the same purpose, in the life of doctor Hammond, written by bishop Fell. As this ^ood man was troubled with a complication of distempers, when he had the gout upon him, he used to thank God that it was not the stone; and when he had the stone, that. he had not both these distempers on him at the same time. 14 I cannot conclude this essay without observing, that there never was any system besides that of Christianity, which could effectually produce in the mind of man, the vir- tue I have been hitherto speaking of. In order to make us contented with our condition, many of the present philoso- phers tell us, that our discontent only hurts ourselves, with- out being able to make any alteration in our circumstances ; others that whatever evil befalls us is derived to us by a fatal necessity, to which superior beings themselves are subject ; while others, very gravely, tell the man who is miserable, that it is necessary he should be so, to keep up the harmony of the universe; and that the scheme of Providence would be troubled and perverted, were he otherwise. 15 These, and the like considerations, rather silence than satisfy a man. They may show him that his discontent is unreasonable, but they are by no means sufficient to relieve it. They rather give despair than consolation. In a word, a man might reply to one of these comforters, as Augustus did to his friend, who advised him. not to grieve for the death of a person whom he loved, because his grief could not fetoh him again: "It is for that very reason," said the emperor, " that. I grieve." 1 3 On tire co-ntrsiry, religion baarc a msne tandfer CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 57 to human nature. It prescribes to every miserable man the means of bettering his condition: nay, it shows him, that bearing his afflictions as he ought to do, will naturally end in the removal of them. It makes him easy here, because it ran make him happy hereafter. ADDISON. SECTION XII. Rank and Riches afford no ground for Envy. OF all the grounds of envy among men, superiority in rank and fortune is the most general. Hence the malig- nity which the poor commonly bear to the rich, as engross- ing to themselves all the comforts of life. Hence the evil t >ye with which persons of inferior station scrutinize those who are above them in rank ; and if they approach to that rank, their envy is generally strongest against such as are just one step higher than themselves. 2 Alas! my friends, all this envious disquietude, which agitates the world, arises from a deceitful figure which im- poses on the public view. False colours are hung out : the real state of men is not what it seems to be. The order of society requires a distinction of ranks to take place ; but in point of happiness, all men come much nearer to equality than is commonly imagined; and the circumstances which form any material difference of happiness among them, are not of that nature which renders them grounds of envy. 3 The poor man possesses not, it is true, some of the con- veniences and pleasures of the rich ; but, in return, he is free from many embarrassments to which they are subject. By the simplicity and uniformity of his life, he is delivered from that variety of cares, which perplex those v/ho have great affairs to manage, intricate plans to pursue, and many enemies, perhaps, to encounter in the pursuit. 4 In the tranquillity of his small habitation, and private fa- mily, he enjoys a peace which is often unknown at courts. The gratifications of nature, which are always the most satis- factory, are possessed by him to their full extent; and if he be "a stranger to the refined pleasures of the wealthy, he ia unacquainted also with the desire of them, and by conse- quence, feels no want. 5 His plain meal satisfies his appetite, with a relish pro- bably higher than that of the rich man, who sits down to his luxurious banquet. His sleep is more sound; his health more firm ; he knows not what spleen, languor, and listless- ness, are. His accustomed employments or labours are no' 58 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. more oppressive to him, than the labour of attendance on courts and the great, the labours of dress, the fatigue ol amusements, the very weight of idleness, frequently are to the rich. 6 In the mean time, all the beauty of the face of nature, and its great Governor, our common Parent. HARRIS. CHAP. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 67 SECTION III. The Injustice of an Uncharitable Spirit. A SUSPICIOUS, uncharitable spirit, is not only incon- sistent with all social virtue and happiness, but it is also in itself, unreasonable and unjust. In order to form sound opinions concerning characters and actions, two things are especially requisite ; information and impartiality. But such r.s are most forward to decide unfavourably, are commonly destitute of both. Instead of possessing, or even requiring, full information, the grounds on which they proceed are fre- quently the most slight and frivolous. 2 A tale, perhaps, which the idle have indented, the inqui- sitive have listened to, and the credulous have propagated ; or a real incident, which rumour, in carrying it along, has ex- aggerated and disguised, supplies them with materials of con- fident assertion, and decisive judgment. From an action they presently look into the heart, and infer the motive. This supposed motive they conclude to be the ruling principle, and pronounce at once concerning the whole character. 3 Nothing can be more contrary both to equity and to sound reason, than this precipitate judgment. Any man who attends to what passes within himself, may easily discern what a complicated system the human character is ; and what a variety of circumstances must be taken into the account, in order to estimate it truly. No single instance of conduct, \vhatever, is sufficient to determine it. 4 As from one worthy action, it were credulity, not chari- ty, to conclude a person to be free from all vice ; so from one which is censurable, it is perfectly unjust to infer that the author of it is without conscience, and without merit. If we knew all the attending circumstances, it might appear in an excusable light ; nay, perhaps, under a commendable form. The motives of the actor may have been entirely different from those which we ascribe to him ; and where we suppose Llm impelled by bad design, he may have been prompted by i'lice and mistaken principle. 5 Admitting the action to l^ave been in every view crimi he may have been hurried into it through inadvertency surprise. He may have sincerely repented; and the virtuous principle may have now regained its full vigour. Perhaps this w r as the corner of frailty ; the quarter on which he lay open to the incursions of temptation ; while the other avenues of his heart were firmly guarded By conscience. 06 THE ENGLISH READER. PA*T I. 6 It is therefore evident, that no part of the government of temper deserves attention more, than to keep our minds pure from uncharitable prejudices, and open to candour and humanity in judging of others. The worst consequences, both to ourselves and to society, follow from the opposite spirit, BLAIR. SECTION IV. The Misfortunes of Men mostly chargeable on themselves. WE find man placed in a world, where he has by no means the disposal of the events that happen. Calamities some- times befall the worthiest and the best, which it is not in their power to prevent, and where nothing is left them, but to acknowledge, and to submit to the high hand of Heaven. For such visitations of trial, many good and wise reasons can be assigned, which the present subject leads me not to discuss. 2 But though those unavoidable calamities make a part, yet they make not the chief part, of the vexations and sor- rows that distress human life. A multitude of evils beset us, for the source of which we must look to another quarter. No sooner has any thing in the health, or in the circum- stances of men, gone cross to their wish, than they begin to talk of the unequal distribution of the good things of this life ; they envy the condition of others ; they repine at their own lot, and fret against the Ruler of the world. 3 Full of these sentiments, one man pines under a broken constitution. But let us ask him, whether he can, fairly and honestly, assign no cause for this but the unknown decree of heaven? Has he duly valued the blessing of health, and al- ways observed the rules of virtue and sobriety? Has he been moderate in his life, and temperate in all his pleasures 1 Jf . now he is only paying the price of his former, perhaps his forgotten indulgencies, has he any title to complain, as- if he were suffering unjustly ? 4 Were we to survey the chambers of sickness and dis- tress, we should often find them peopled with the victims of hitemperahce and sensuality, and with the children of vicious indolence and sloth. Among the 'thousands who languish there, we should find the proportion of innocent sufferers to be small. We should see faded youth, premature old age, and the prospect of an untimely grave, to be the portion of multitudes, who, in one way or other, have brought those evils on themselves : while ret these martyrs of vice and CHAP. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 69 folly, have the assurance to arraign the hard fate of man, and to ' fret against the Lord." 5 But you, perhaps, complain of hardships of another kind ; of the injustice of the world ; of the poverty which you suffer, and the discouragements under which you la- bour; of the crosses, and disappointments, of which your life has been doomed to be full. Before you give too much scope to your discontent, let me desire you to Deflect impar- tially, upon your past train of life. 6 Have not sloth or pride, ill temper, or* sinful passions, .misled you often from the path of sound and wise conduct? Have you not been wanting to yourselves in improving those opportunities which Providence offered you, for bettering and advancing your state? If you have chosen to indulge your humour, or your taste, in the gratifications of indolence or pleasure, can you complain because others, in preference to you, have obtained tnose advantages which naturally be long to useful labours, and honourable pursuits? 7 Have not the consequences of some false steps, into which your passions, or your pleasures, have betrayed you, pursued you through much of your life; tainted, perhaps, your characters, involved you in embarrassments, or sunk you into neglect? It is an old saying, that every man is the artificer of his own fortune in the world. It is certain, that the world seldom turns wholly against a man, unless through his own fault. "Religion is," in general, "profitable unto all things." 8 Virtue, diligence, and industry, joined with good tem- per, and prudence, have ever been found the surest road to prosperity ; and where men fail of attaining it, their want of success is far oftener owing to their having deviated from that road, than to their having encountered insuperable bars in it. Some, by being too artful, forfeit the reputation of probity. Some, by being too open, are accounted to fail in prudence. Others, by being fickle and changeable, are distrusted by alL 9 The case commonly is, that men seek to ascribe their disappointments to any cause, rather than to their own mis- conduct; and when they can devise no other 3ause, they lay them to the charge of Providence. Their folly leads them into vices; their vices into misfortunes; and in their misfor- tunes they "murmur against Providence." 10 They are doubly unjust towards their Creator. In their prosperity, they are apt to ascribe their success .to their own diligence, rather than to h. ; s blessing ; and in their adversity, 70 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1. they impute their distresses to his providence, not to their own misbehaviour. Whereas, the truth is the very reverse of this. " Every good and every perfect gift cometh from above ;" and of evil and misery, man is the author to himself. 11 When, from the condition of individuals, we' look abroad to the public state of the world, we meet with more proofs of the truth of this assertion. We see great societies of men torn in pieces by intestine dissensions, tumults, and civil commotions. We see mighty armies going forth, in formidable array, against each other, to cover the earth with blood, and to fill the air with the cries of widows and orphans. Sad evils these are, to which this miserable world is exposed. 12 Bft't are these evils, I beseech you, to be imputed to God ? Was it he who sent forth slaughtering armies into the field, or who filled the peaceful city with massacres and blood 1 Are these miseries any other than the bitter fruit of men's violent and disorderly passions ? Are they not clearly to be traced to the ambition and vices of princes, to the quarrels of the great, and to the turbulence of the people? Let us lay them entirely out of the account, in thinking of Providence, and let us think only of the "foolishness of man." 13 Did man control his passions, and form his conduct according to the dictates of wisdom, humanity, and virtue, the earth would no longer be desolated by cruelty ; and human societies would live in order, harmony, and peace. In those scenes of mischief and violence which fill the world, let man behold, with shame, the picture of his vices, his ignorance, and folly. Let him be humbled by the mortifying view oi his own perverseness ; but let not his "heart fret against the Lord." BLAIR. SECTION V. On disinterested Friendship. 1 AM informed that certain Greek writers, (philosophers, it seems, in the opinion of their countrymen,) have advanced some very extraordinary positions relating to friendship ; as, indeed, what subject is there, which these subtle geniuses have not tortured with their sophistry 1 2 The authors to whom I refer, dissuade their disciples from entering into any strong attachments, as unavoidably creating supernumerary disquietudes to those who engage in them; and, as every man has more than sufficient to call torth his solicitude, in the course of his own affairs, it is e CHAP. III. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. weakness, they contend, anxiously to involve himself in t!u. concerns of others. 3 Th&y recommend it also, in all connexions of this kind, to hold the bands of union extremely loose ; so as always to have it in one's power to straiten or relax them, as circum- stances and situations shall render most expedient. They add, as a capital article of their doctrine, that " to live ex- empt from cares, is an essential ingredient to constitute hu- man happiness ; but an ingredient, however, which tie who voluntarily distresses himself with cares, in which he has no necessary and personal interest, mnst never ho.pe to possess." 4 I have been told likewise, that there is another set of pretended philosophers, of the same country, whose tenets concerning this subject, are of a still more illiberal and un- generous cast. The proposition which they attempt to estab- lish, is, that " friendship is. an affair of self-interest entirely ; and that the proper motive for engaging in it, is, not in order to gratify the kind arid benevolent affections, but for the be- nefit of that assistance and support which are to be derived from the connexion." 5 Accordingly they assert, that those persons are most disposed to have recourse to auxiliar} alliances of this kind, who are least qualified by nature, or fortune, to depend upon their own strength and powers ; the weaker sex, for instance, being generally more inclined to engage in friendships than the male part of our species ; and those who are depressed by indigence, or labouring under misfortunes, than the wealthy arid the prosperous. 6 Excellent and obliging sages, these, undoubtedly! To strike out the friendly affections from the moral world, would be like extinguishing the sun in the natural ; each of them being the source of the best and most grateful satisfactions, that Heaven has conferred on the sons of men. But I should be glad to know, what the real value of this boasted exemp- tion from care, which they promise their disciples, justly amounts to 1 an exemption flattering to self-love, I confess ; but which, upon many occurrences in human life, should be rejected with the utmost disdain. 7 For nothing, surely, can be more inconsistent with a well-poised and manly spirit, than to decline engaging in any laudable action, or to be discouraged from persevering in it, by an apprehension of the trouble and solicitude with which it may probably be attended. 72 THE ENGLISH READER. PART !. 8 Virtue herself, indeed, ought to be totally renounced, if it be right to avoid every possible means that may be produc- tive of uneasiness; for who, that is actuated by her princi- ples, can observe the conduct of an opposite character, with-" -out being affected with some degree of secret dissatisfaction] 9 Are not the just, the brave, and the good, necessarily exposed to the disagreeable emotions of dislike and aversion, when they respectively meet with instances of fraud, of cow- ardice, or of villany ? It is an essential property of every well-constituted mind, to be affected with pain, or pleasure, according to the nature of those moral appearances that pie- sent themselves to observation. 10 If sensibility, therefore, be not incompatible with true wisdom, (and it surely is not, unless we suppose that philoso- phy deadens every finer feeling of our nature,) what just rea- son can be assigned, why the sympathetic sufferings which may result from friendship, should be a sufficient inducement for banishing that generous affection from the human breast 1 1 1 Extinguish all emotions of the heart, and what differ- ence will remain, I do not say between man and brute, but between man and a mere inanimate clod? Away, then, with those austere philosophers, who represent virtue as harden- ing the soul against all the softer impressions of humanity I 12 The fact, certainly, is much otherwise. A truly good man, is, upon many occasions, extremely susceptible of ten- der sentiments ; and his heart expands with joy, or shrinks with sorrow, as good or ill fortune accompanies his friend. Upon the whole, then, it may fairly be concluded, that, as iii the case of virtue, so in that of friendship, those painful sensations which may sometimes be produced by the one, as well as by the other, are equally insufficient grounds for ex- cluding either of them from taking possession of our bosoms. 13 They who insist that " utility is the first and prevailing motive, which induces mankind to enter into particular friendships," appear to me to divest the association of its most amiable and engaging principle. For, to a mind rightly dis- posed, it is not so much the benefits received, as the affec- tionate zeal from which they flow, that gives them their best and most valuable recommendation. 14 It is so far indeed from being verified by fact, that a sense of our wants, is the original cause of forming these ami- cable alliances, that on the contrary, it is observable,, that none have been more distinguished in their friendships than those whose power and opulence, but above all, whose supe- CHAP. IV." ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. -7:1 rior virtue, (a much firmer support,) have raised them above every necessity of having recourse to the assistance of others. 15 The true distinction, then, in this question, is, that "al- though friendship is certainly productive of utility, yet utility is not the primary motive of friendship." Those selfish sen- sualists, therefore, who, lulled in the lap of luxury, presume to maintain the reverse, have surely no claim to attention ; as they are neither qualified by reflection, nor experience, to be competent judges of the subject. 16 Is there a man upon the face of the earth, who would deliberately accept of all the wealth, which this world can bestow, if offered to him upon the severe terms of his being unconnected with a single mortal whom he could love, or by whom he should be beloved? This would be to lead the wretched life of a detested tyrant, who, amidst perpetual suspicions, and alarms, passes his miserable days, a stranger to every tender sentiment ; and utterly precluded from the heart-felt satisfactions of friendship. Melmoth's translation of Cicero's Lwlius. SECTION VI. On the Immortality of the SouL 1 WAS yesterday walking alone in one of my friend's woods ; and lost myself in it very agreeably, as I was running over, in my mind, the several arguments that establish this great point ; which is the basis of morality, and the source ol all the pleasing hopes, and secret joys, that can arise in the heart of a reasonable creature. 2 I consider those several proofs drawnFirst, from the nature of the soul itself, and particularly its immateriality j which, though not absolutely necessary to the eternity of its du- ration, has, I think, been evinced almost to a demonstration. 3 Secondly, from its passions and sentiments ; as par- ticularly, from its love of existence ; its horror of annihila- tion ; and its hopes of immortality ; with that secret satis- faction which it finds in the practice of virtue ; and that unea- siness which follows upon the commission of vice. Thirdly, from the nature of the Supreme Being, whose justice, good- ness, wisdom, and veracity, are all concerned in this point. 4 But among these, and other excellent arguments for the immortality of the soul, there is one drawn from the perpetual progress of the soul to its perfection, without a possibility of ever arriving at it ; which is a hint that I do not remember to have seen opened and improved bv others who have written G n THE ENGLISH READER. PART L on this subject, though it seems to me to cany a very great weight with it. 5 How can it enter into the thoughts of man, that the soul, *vhich is capable pf immense perfections, and of receiving new improvements to all eternity, shall fall away into nothing, almost as soon as it is created ? Are such abilities made for no purpose? A brute arrives at a point of perfection, that he can never pass ; in a few years he has all the endowments he is capable of ; and were he to live ten thousand more, would be the same thing he is at present. 6 Were a human soul thus at a stand in her accomplish- ments ; were her faculties to be full blown, and incapable of farther enlargements ; I could imagine she might fail away in- sensibly, and drop at once into a state of annihilation. But can we believe a thinking being, that is in a perpetual progress of improvement, and travelling on from perfection to perfec- tion, after having just looked abroad into the works of her Creator, and made a few discoveries of his infinite goodness, wisdom, and power, must perish at her first setting out, and in the very beginning of her inquiries ? 7 Man, considered only in his present state, seems sent into the world merely to propagate lib kind. He provides limself with a successor, and immediately quits his post to make room for him. He does not seem born to enjoy life, but to deliver it down to others. This is not surprising to consider in animals, which are formed for our use, and which can finish their business in a short life. 8 The silk-worm, after having spun her task, lays her eggs and dies. But a man cannot take in his full measure of knowledge, has not time to subdue his passions, establish his soul in virtue, and come to the perfection of his na- ture, before he is hurried off the stage. Would an infinitely wise Being make such glorious creatures for so mean a pur- pose 1- Can he delight in the production of such abortive in- telligences, such short-lived reasonable beings? Would he give us talents that are not to be exerted ? capacities that are iwer to be gratified ? 9 How can we find that wisdom which shines through all his works, in the formation of man, without looking on this world as only a nursery for the next ; and without believing that the several generations of rational creatures, which rise up and disappear in such quick successions, are only to re- ceive their first rudiments of existence here, and afterwards CHAP. IV. ARGUMENTATIVE PIECES. 7ft to be transplanted iato a more friendly climate, inhere they may spread and flourish to all eternity ? 10 There is not, in my opinion, a more pleasing and tri- umphant consideration in religion, than this of the perpetual progress which the soul makes towards the perfection of its nature, without ever arriving at a period in it. To look upon the soul as going on from strength to strength 5 to con- sider that she is to shine for ever with new accessions of glo- ry, arid brighten to all eternity; that she will be still adding virtue to virtue, and knowledge to knowledge ; carries in it something wonderfully agreeable to that ambition which is natural to the mind of man. Nay, it must be a prospect pleasing to God himself, to see his creation for ever beautify- ing in his eyes; and drawing nearer to him, by greater de- grees of resemblance. 1 1 Methinks this single consideration of the progress of a finite spirit to perfection, will be sufficient to extinguish all envy in inferior natures, and all contempt in superior. That cherub, which now appears as a god to a human soul, knows very well that the period will come about in eternity, when the human soul shall be as perfect as he himself now is ; nay. when she shall look down upon that degree of perfection as much as she now falls short of it. It is true, the higher na- ture still advances, and by that means preserves his distance and superiority in the scale of being ; yet he knows that, I low high soever the station is of which he stands possessed "at present, the inferior nature will, at length, mount up to it, and shine forth in the same degree of glory. 12 With what astonishment and veneration, may we look into our own souls, where there are such hidden stores of vir- tue and knowledge, such inexhausted sources of perfection ! We know not yet what we shall be ; nor will it ever enter into the heart of man, to conceive the glory that will be always in reserve for him. The soul, considered with its Ci eator, is like one of those mathematical lines, that may draw nearer to another for all eternity, without a possibility of touching it: and can there be a thought so transporting, as to consider our- selves in these perpetual approaches to HIM, who is the stand- ard not only of perfection, but of happiness] ADDISON, 76 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I CHAPTER V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. SECTION I. The Seasons. AMONG the great blessings nd wonders of the creation.. may be classed the regularities of times, and seasons. Im- mediately after the flood, the sacred promise was made to man, that seed-time and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, should continue to the very end of all things. Accordingly, in obedience to that promise, the rotation is constantly presenting us with some useful and agreeable alteration ; and all the pleasing novelty of life arises from these natural changes ; nor are we less indebted to them for many of its solid comforts. 2 It has been frequently the task of the moralist and poet, to mark, in polished periods, the particular charms and con- veniences of every change; and, indeed, such discriminate observations upon natural variety, cannot be undelightful ; since the blessing which every mouth brings along with it, is a fresh instance of the wisdom and bounty of that Providence, which regulates the glories of the year. We glow as we contemplate ; we feel a propensity to adore, whilst we enjoy. 3 In the time of seed-sowing, it is the season of confidence : the grain, which the husbandman trusts to the bosom of the earth, shall, haply, yield its seven-fold rewards. Spring presents us with a scene of lively expectation. That which was before sown, begins now to discover signs of successful vegetation. The labourer observes the change, and antici- pates the harvest; he watches the progress of nature, and smiles at her influence ; while the man of contemplation walks forth with the evening, amidst the fragrance of flo\v- ers, and promises of plenty; nor returns to his cottage til! darkness closes the scene upon his eye. Then cometn the harvest, when the large wish is satisfied and the granaries oi nature are loaded with the means of life, even to a luxury of abundance. 4 The powers of language are unequal to the description of this happy season. It is the carnival of nature : sun and shade, coolness and quietude, cheerfulness and melody, love and gratitude, unite to render every scene of summer delightful. The division of light and darkness, is one of the CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 77 kindest efforts of Omnipotent Wisdom. Day and night yield us contrary blessings ; and, at the same time, assist each other, by giving fresh lustre to the delights of both. Amidst the glare of day, and bustle of life, how could we sleep ? Amidst the gloom of darkness, how could we labour? 5 How .wise, how benignant, then, is the proper division! The hours of light are adapted to activity ; and those of darkness, to rest. Ere the day is passed, exercise and na- ture . prepare us for the pillow ; and by the time that the morning returns, we are again able to meet it with a smile. Thus, every season has a charm peculiar to itself; and every moment affords some interesting innovation. MELMOUTH. SECTION II. The Cataract of Niagara, in North America. THIS amazing fall of water is made by the river St. Law- rence, in its passage from lake Erie into the lake Ontario. The St. Lawrence is one of the largest rivers in the world ; and yet the whole of its waters is discharged in this place, by a fall of a hundred and fifty feet perpendicular. It is not easy to bring the imagination to correspond to the greatness of the scene. 2 A river extremely deep and rapid, and that serves to drain the waters of almost all North America into the Atlan- tic Ocean, is here poured precipitately down a ledge of rocks, that rises like a wall, across the whole bed of its stream. The river, a little above, is near three quarters of a mile broad.; and the rocks, where it grows narrower, are four hundred yards ever. 3 Their direction is not straight across, but hollowing in- wards like a horse-shoe : so that the cataract, which bends to the shape of the obstacle, rounding inwards, presents a kind of theatre, the most tremendous in nature. Just in the mid- dle of this circular wall of waters, a little island, that has braved the fury of ihe current, presents one of its points, and divides the stream at top into two parts; but they unite again Before they reach the bottom. 4 The noise of the fall is heard at the ( K sUmce of several leagues: and the fury of the waters, at the termination of their fall, is inconceivable. The dashing produces a mist, that rises to the rery clouds ; and which forms a most beau- tiful rainbow, when the sun shines. It will be readily sup- posed, that such a cataract entirely destrovs the navigation of G 2 7 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. the stream ; and yet some Indians, in their canoes, as it is said, have ventured down it with safety.* GOLDSMITH. SECTION III. The Grotto of Jlntiparos. OF all the subterraneous caverns now known, the grotto of Antiparos is the most remarkable, as well for its extent, as for the beauty of its sparry incrustations. This celebrated cavern was first explored by one Magni, an Italian traveller, about one hundred years ago, at Antiparos, an inconsidera- ble island of the Archipelago. 2 " Having been informed," says he, " by the natives of Paros, that, in the little island of Antiparos, which lies about two miles from the former, a gigantic statue was to be seen at the mouth of a cavern in that place it was resolved that we (the French consul and himself) should pay it a visit. In pursuance of this resolution, after we had landed on the island, and walked about four miles through the midst of beautiful plains, and sloping woodlands, we at length came to a little hill, on the side of which yawned a most horrid cavern, which, by its gloom, at first struck us with terror, and almost repressed curiosity. 3 Recovering the first surprise, however, we entered boldly, and had not proceeded above twenty paces, when the supposed statue of the giant presented itself to our view, We quickly perceived, that what the ignorant natives had been terrified at as ^ giant, was nothing more than a sparry concretion, formed by the water dropping from the roof of the cave, and by degrees hardening into a figure, which their . fears had formed into a monster. 4 Incited by this extraordinary appearance, we were in- duced to proceed still further, in quest of new adventures in this subterranean abode. As we proceeded, new wonders of- fered themselves; the spars, formed into trees and shrubs, presented a kind of petrified grove ; some white, some green ; ind all receding in due perspective. They struck us with the more amazement, as we knew them to be mere productions of nature, who, hitherto in solitude, had, in her playful mo- ments, dressed the scene, as if for her own amusement." * This venturing down in safety^ is a report, bearing upon its front its own refuta- tion : that it ever should have found a place in the brain or the book of the elegant historian, i? a matter of surprise- Canoes and other vessels, with passengers, are, Indeed, sometimes unfortunately drawn down the awful declivity, but seldom a ves- t^geof either is ever afterwards seen. The sturdy mountain oak, and the towering pUe, frequently take the desperate leap, and forever disappear. E dt CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 79 5 " We had as yet seen but a few of the wonders of the place ; and we were introduced only into the portico of this amazing temple. In one corner of this half illuminated re- cess, there appeared an opening of about three feet wide, which seemed to lead to a place totally dark, and which one of the natives assured us contained nothing more than a reser- voir of water. Upon this information, we made an experi- ment, by throwing down some stones, which rumbling along (he sides of the descent for some time, the sound seemed at last quashed in a bed of water. 6 In order, however, to be more certain, we sent in a Le- vantine mariner, who, by the promise of a good reward, ventured, with a flambeau in his hand, into this narrow aper- ture. After continuing within it for about a quarter of an hour, he returned, bearing in his hand some beautiful pieces of white spar, which art could neither equal nor imitate. Upon being informed by him that the place was full of these beautiful incrustations, I ventured in with him, about fifty paces, anxiously and cautiously descending, by a steep and dangerous way. 7 Finding, however, that we came to a precipice which led into a Spacious amphitheatre, (if I may so call it,) still deeper than any other part, we returned, and being provided with a ladder, flambeau, and other things to expedite our de- scent, our whole company, man by man, r ventured into the same opening; and, descending one after another, we at last saw ourselves all together in the most magnificent part of ihe cavern." SECTION IV. The Grotto of Jlntiparos, continued. " OUR candles being now all lighted up, and the whole place completely illuminated, never could the eye be pre- sented with a more glittering, or a more magnificent scene. The whole roof hung with solid icicles, transparent as glass, yet solid as marble. The eye could scarcely reach the lofty and noble ceiling ; the sides were regularly formed with spars; and the whole presented the idea of a magnificent theatre, illuminated with an immense profusion of lights. 2 The floor consisted of solid marble; and, in several places, magnificent columns, thrones, altars, and" other ob- jects, appeared, as if nature had designed to mock the curi- osities of art. Our voices, upon speaking or singing, were 80 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. redoubled to an astonishing loudness ; and upon the firing of a gun, the noise and reverberations were, almost deafening. 3 In the midst oftnis grand amphitheatre rose a concretion of about fifteen feet high, that, in some measure, resembled an altar ; from which, taking the hint, we caused mass . to be celebrated there. The beautiful columns that shot up round the altar, appeared like candlesticks ; and maay other natura 1 objects represented the customary ornaments of this rite. 4 Below even this spacious grotto, there seemed another cavern ; down which I ventured with my former mariner, and descended about fifty paces by means of a rope. I at last arrived at a small spot of level ground, where the bottom appeared different from that of the amphitheatre, being com- posed of soft clay, yielding to the pressure, and into which J thrust a stick to the depth of six feet. In this, however, as above, numbers of the most beautiful crystals were formed ; one of which, in particular, resembled a table. 5 Upon our egress from this amazing cavern, we perceived a Greek inscription upon a rock at the mouth, but so oblitera- ted by time, that we could not read it distinctly. I* seemed to import, that one Antipater. in the time of Alexander, had come hither ; but whether he penetrated into the depths oi the cavern, he does not think fit to inform us." rThis account of so beautiful and striking a scene, may serve to give us some idea of the subterraneous w r onders of nature. GOLDSMITH. SECTION V. Earthquake at Catanea. ONE of the earthquakes most particularly described in his- tory, is that which happened in the year 1693 ; the damages of which were chiefly felt in Sicily, but its motion was per- ceived in Germany, France, and England. It extended to a circumference of two thousand six hundred leagues ; chiefly affecting the sea coasts, and great rivers ; more perceivable also upon the mountains than in the valleys. 2 Its motions were so rapid; that persons who lay at their length, were tossed from side to side, as upon a rolling bil- low. The walls were dashed from their foundations ; and no fewer than fifty-four cities, with an incredible number of villages, were either destroyed of greatly damaged. The citv of Catanea, in particular, was utterly overthrown. A traveller who was on hid way thither, perceived, at the dis- tance of some miles, a black cloud, like night, hanging over the place. CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 81 3 The sea, all of a sudden, began to roar ; mount jEtna, to send forth great spires of flame ; and soon after a shock ensued, with a noise as if all the artillery in the world had been at once discharged. Our traveller being obliged to alight in- stantly, felt himself raised a foot from the ground; and turning his eyes to the city, he with amazement saw nothing but a thick cloud of dust in the air. 4 The birds flew about astonished ; the sun was darkened ; the beasts ran howling from the hills ; and although the shock did not continue above three minutes, yet nearly nineteen thousand of the inhabitants of Sicily, perished in the ruins. Catanea, to which city the describer was travelling, seemed the principal scene of ruin; its place only was to be found ; and not a footstep of its former magnificence was to be seen remaining. GOLDSMITH. SECTION VI. Creation. IN the progress of the Divine works and government, there arrived a period in which this earth was to be called into existence. When the signal moment, predestined from all eternity, was come, the Deity arose in his might, and, with a word, created the world. What an illustrious mo- ment was that, when, from non-existence, there sprang at once into being, this mighty globe, on which so many mil- lions of creatures now dwell! 2 No preparatory measures were required. No long cir- cuit of means was employed. " He spake ; and it was done : he commanded ; and it stood fast. The earth was at first without form, and void ; and darkness was on the face of the deep." The Almighty surveyed the dark abyss; and fixed bounds to the several divisions of nature. He said, "Let there be light; and there was light." 3 Then appeared the sea, and the dry land. The moun- tains rose ; and the rivers flowed. The sun and moon, began their course in the skies. Herbs and plants clothed the ground. The air, the earth, and the waters, werfe stored with their respective inhabitants. At last, man was made after the image of God. 4 He appeared, walking with countenance erect; and re- ceived his Creator's benediction, as the Lord of this new world. The Almighty beheld his work when it was fin^hed, and pronounced it GOOD. Superior beings saw with wonder, this new accession of existence. " The morning stars sang to- gether and all the sons of God shouted for joy." 82 THE ENGLISH READER. PART. I. SECTION VII. Charity. CHARITY is the same with benevolence or love; and is the term uniformly employed in the New Testament, to denote all the good affections which we ought to bear towards one another. It consists not in speculative ideas of general benevolence, floating in the head, and leaving the heart, as speculations too often do, untouched and cold. Neither is it confined to that indolent good nature, which makes us rest satisfied with being'free from inveterate malice or ill-will to our fellow-creatures, without prompting us>to be of service to any. 2 True charity is an active principle. It is not properly a single virtue ; but a disposition residing in the heart, as a fountain whence all the virtues of benignity, candour, for- bearance, generosity, compassion, and liberality flow, as so many native streams. From general good^will to al^ it extends its influence particularly to those with whom we stand in nearest connexion, and who are directly within the sphere of our good offices. 3 From the country or community to which we belong, it descends to the smaller associations of neighbourhood, re- lations, and friends ; and spreads itself over the whole circle of social and domestic life. I mean not that it imports a pro- miscuous undistinguished affection, which gives every man an equal title to our love. Charity, if we should endeavour to carry it so far, would be rendered an impracticable virtue ; and would resolve itself into mere words, without affecting the heart. 4 True charity attempts not to shut our eyes to the dis- tinction between good and bad men; nor to warm our hearts equally to those who befriend, and those who injure us. It reserves our esteem for good men, and our complacency for our friends. Towards our enemies it inspires forgive- ness, humanity, and a solicitude for their welfare. It breathes universal candour, and liberality of sentiment. It forms gentleness of temper, and dictates affability of manners. 5 It prompts corresponding sympathies with them who re- joice, and them who weep. It teaches us to slight and de- spise no man. Charity is the comforter of the afflicted, the protector ojf the oppressed, the reconciler of differences, the intercessor for offenders. It is faithfulness in the friend, public spirit in the magistrate, equity and patience in the CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES S3 judge, moderation in the sovereign, and loyalty in the sub- ject. 6 In parents, it is care and attention ; in children, it is reverence and submission. In a word, it is the soul of socia. Hfe. It is the sun that enlivens and cheers the abodes of men. It is " like the dew of Hermon," says the Psalmis*-, " and the dew that descended on the mountains of Ziou, where the Lord commanded the blessing, even 'life for ever- more." BLAIR. SECTION VIII. Prosperity is redoubled to a good JVLan. NONE but the temperate, the regular, and the virtuous, know how to enjoy prosperity. They bring to its comforts the manly relish of a sound uncorrupted mind. They stop at the proper point, before the enjoyment degenerates into dis-* g-ist, and pleasure rs converted into pain. -They are stran- gers to those complaints which flow from spleen, caprice, and all the fantastical distresses of a vitiated mind. While riotous indulgence enervates both the body and the mind, purity rind virtue heighten all the powers of human fruition. 2 Feeble are all pleasures in which the heart has no share. The selfish gratifications of the bad, are both narrow in their circle, and short in their duration. But prosperity is re- doubled to a-good man, by his generous use of it. It is re- flected back upon him from every one whom he makes hap- py. In the intercourse of domestic affection, in the attach- ment of friends, the gratitude of dependants, the esteem and good-will of all who know him, he sees blessings multiplied round him, on every side. 3- "When the ear heard me, then it blessed me ; and when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me : because I delivered che poor that cried, the fatherless, and him that had none co help him. The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me, and 1 caused the widow's heart to sing with joy. I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame : I was a father to the poor ; and the cause which I knew not, I searched out." 4 Thus, while the righteous man flourishes like a tree planted by the rivers of water, he brings forth also his fruit in its season: and that fruit he brings forth, not fer himself alone. He flourishes, not like a tree in some solitary desert which scatters its blossoms to the wind, and communicates neittibf fruit ftor shade to any living thing; but like a tree in *4 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I; the midst of an inhabited country, which to some affords friendly shelter, to others fruit ; which is not only admired by all for its beauty ; but blessed by the traveller for the shade, and by the hungry for the sustenance it hath given. BLAIR. SECTION IX. .On the beauties of the Psalms. GREATNESS confers no exemption from the cares and sorrows of life; its share of them frequently bears a me- lancholy proportion to its exaltation. This the monarch of Israel experienced. He sought in piety, that peace which he could not find in empire; and alleviated the disquietudes of state, with the exercise of devotion. His invaluable Psalms convey those comforts to others which they afforded to himself. 2 Composed upon particular occasions, yet designed for general use ; delivered out as services for Israelites under the Lawyyet no less adapted to the circumstances of Christians under the Gospel ; they present religion to us in the most engaging dress ; communicating truths which philosophy could never investigate, in a style which poetry can never equal ; while history is made the vehicle of prophecy, and creation lends all its charms to paint the glories of redemption. 3 Calculated alike to profit and to please, they inform the understanding, elevate the affections, and entertain the ima- gination. Indited under the influence of HIM, to whom all hearts are known, and all events foreknown, they suit man- kind in all situations ; grateful as the manna which descend- ed from above, and conformed itself to every palate. 4 The fairest productions of human wit, after a few peru- sals, like gathered flowers, wither in our hands, and lose their fragrancy ; but these unfading plants of paradise become, as we are accustomed to them, still more and more beautiful ; their bloom appears to be daily heightened ; fresh odours are emitted, and new sweets extracted from them. He who has once tasted their excellences, will desire to taste them again; and he who tastes them oftenest, will relish them best. 5 And now, could the author flatter himself, that any one would take half the pleasure in reading his work, which he has taken in writing it, he would not fear the loss of his la- bour. The employment detached him from the bustle and hurry of life, the din of politics, and the noise of folly. Vani- ty and vexation flew away for a season ; care and disquie- tude came not near his dwelling". He arose, fresh as the CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 85 morning, to his task ; the silence of the night invited him to pursue it; and he can truly say, that food and rest were not preferred before it. 6 Every psalm improved infinitely upon his acquaintance with it, and no one gave him uneasiness but the last ; for theit he grieved that his work was done. Happier hours ih;in those which have been spent in these meditations on the sor ( -- of Sion, he *ever expects to see in this world. Very pKx- gantly did they pass ; they moved smoothly and swiftly alonu; for when thus engaged, lie counted no time. They are gone, but they have left a relish and a fragrance upon the mind ; and the remembrance of them is sweet. HORNE. SECTION X. Character of ALFRED, King of England. THE merit of this prince, both in private and public life, may, with advantage, be set in opposition to that of any mo- narch or citizen, which the annals of any age, or any ra- tion, can present to us. He seems, indeed, to be the c plete model of that perfect character, which, under the de- nomination of a sage or wise man, the philosophers have been fond of delineating, rather as a fiction of their imagina- tion, than in hopes of ever seeing it reduced to practice ; ?>j happily were all his virtues tempered together; so justjy were they blended ; and so powerfully did each prevent (Le other from exceeding its proper bounds. 2 He knew how to conciliate the most enterprising spirit, with the coolest moderation ; the most obstinate perseve- rance, with the easiest flexibility ; the most severe justice, with the greatest lenity ; the greatest rigour in command, with the greatest affability of deportment ; the highest capa- city and inclination for science, with the most shining talents for action. 3 Nature also, as if desirous that so bright a production of her skill should be set in the fairest light, had bestowed on him all bodily accomplishments; vigour of limbs, dignity of shape and air, and a pleasant, engaging, and open countenance. By living in that barbarous age, he was deprived of histori- ans worthy to transmit his fame to posterity ; and we wish to see him delineated in more lively colours, and with more particular strokes, that we might at least perceive some oi those small specks and blemishes, from which, as a man, it is impossible he could be entirelv exempted, HC/ME. H *5 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. SECTION XL Character of QUEEN ELIZABETH. THERE are few personages in history, who have been more exposed to the calumny of enemies, and the adulation ot friends, than Queen Elizabeth; and yet there scarcely "is . any whose reputation has been more certainly determined by the unanimous consent of posterity. The unusu&l length i { her administration, and the strong features of her character, were able to overcome, all prejudices ;. and, obliging her de- tractors to abate much of their invectives, and her admirers somewhat of their panegyrics, have, at last, in spite of .poK- tical factions, and what is more, of religious animosities, produced a uniform judgment with regard to her conduct. 2 Her vigour, her constancy, her magnanimity, her -pene- tration, vigilance, and address, are allowed to merit tho high- est praises ; and appear not to have been surpassed by any per- son who ever rilled a throne : a conduct less rigorous, less im- perious, more sincere, more indulgent to her people, would have been requisite to form a perfect character. By the force of her mind, she controlled all her more active, and stronger qualities, and prevented them from running into excess. 3 Her heroism was exempted from ail temerity ; her fru- gality from avarice ; her friendship from partiality ; her enterprise from turbulency and a vain ambition. She guard- ed not herself, with equal care, or equal success, from less infirmities ; the rivalship of beauty, the desire ot admiration, the jealousy of love, and the sallies of anger. 4 Her singular talents for government, were founded equally on her temper and on her capacity. Endowed with a great command over herself, she soon obtained an unco ,- trolled ascendancy over the people. Few sovereigns of Eng- land succeeded to the throne in more difficult circumstances ; and none ever conducted the government with so uniform success and felicity. 5 Though unacquainted with the practice of toleration, the true secret for managing religious factions, she preserved her people, by her superior prudence, from those confusions in which theological controversy had involved all the neigh- bouring; nations ; and though her enemies were the most powerful princes of Europe, the most active, the most en- terprizing, the least scrupulous, she was able, by her vigour, to make deep impressions on their state ; her own greatness meanwhile remaining untouched and unimpaired* CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 8? 6 The wise ministers and brave men who flourished du- ring her reign, share the praise of her success ; but instead of lessening the applause due to her, they make great addi- tion to it. They owed, all of them, their advancement to her choice ; they were supported by her constancy ; and, with all their ability, they were never able to acquire an un- due ascendancy over her. 7 In her family, in her court, in her kingdom, she vemain- ^d equally mistress. The force of the tender passions was . great over her; but the force of her mind was still superior; and the combat which her victory visibly cost her, serves to display the firmness of her resolution, and the loftiness of her ambitious sentiments. 8 The fame of this princess, though it has surmounted the prejudices both of faction and of bigotry, yet lies still exp to another prejudice, which -is more durable, because more natural ; and which, according to the different views In which we survey her, is capable either of exalting lev measure, or diminishing the lustre of her character, prejudice is founded on the consideration of her sex. 9 When we contemplate her as a woman, we are apt t > be struck with the highest admiration of her qualities and ex- tensive capacity; but w r e are also apt to require some m-ne softness of disposition, some greater lenity of temper, some of those amiable weaknesses by which her sex is disliugi ed. But the true method of estimating her merit, is to lay aside all these considerations, and to consider her merely as a rational being, placed in authority, and intrusted with the government of mankind. HUME. SECTION XII. The slavery of Vice. THE slavery produced by vice appears in the depend- ence under which it brings the sinner, to circumstances of external fortune. One of the favourite characters of liber- ty, is the independence it bestows. He who is truly a free- man, is above all servile compliances, and abject subjection. He is able to rest upon himself; and while lit regards his superiors with proper deference, neither debases himself by cringing to them, nor is tempted to purchase their favour by dishonourable means. But the sinner has forfeited every privilege of this nature. 2 His passions arid habits render him an absolute depend- ant on the world, and (he world's favoiir ; on the uncertain 8S THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1 goods of fortune, and the fickle humours of men. For it is by these he subsists, and among these his happiness is sought ; 'according as his passions determine him to pursue pleasures, riches, or preferments. Having no fund within i'iinv;eif whence to draw enjoyment, his only resource is in things without. His hopes and fears all hang upon the world. He partakes in all its vicissitudes ; and is moved and shaken by every wind of fortune. This is to be, in the strictest sense, a slave to the world. 3 Religion and virtue, on the other hand, confer on the rnind principles of noble independence. "The upright man is satisfied from himself." He despises not the advantages of fortune, but he centres riot his happiness in them. With a moderate share of them he can be contented ; and con- tentment is felicity. Happy in his own integrity, conscious of the esteem of good men, reposing firm trust in the provi- dence, and the promises of God, he is exempted from ser- vile dependence on other things. 4 He can wrap himself up in a good conscience, and look forward, without terror, to the change of the world. Let all thmgs fluctuate around him as they please, he believes that, by the Divine ordination, they shall be made to work to- gether in the issue for his good : and, therefore, having much to hope from God, and little to fear from the world, he can be easy in every state. One who possesses within himself such an establishment of rnind, is truly free. 5 But shall I call that man free, who has nothing that is his own, no property assured ; whose very heart is not his own, but rendered the appendage of external things, and the sport of fortune ? Is that man free, let his outward condition be ever so splendid, whom his imperious passions detain at their call, whom they send forth at their pleasure, to drudge and toil, and to beg his only enjoyment from the casualties of the world ? 6 Is he free, who must flatter and lie to compass his ends; who must bear with this man's caprice, and that man's scorn ; must profess friendship where he hates, and respect where he contemns ; who is not at liberty to appear in his own colours, nor to speak his own sentiments ; who dares not be honest, lest he should be poor 1 7 Believe it, no chains lind so hard, no fetters are so hea- vy, as those which fasten the corrupted heart to this treache- rous world ; no dependence is more contemptible than that under which the voluptuous, the covetous., or the ancbitious CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 80 man, lies to the means of pleasure, gain, or power. Yet this is the boasted liberty which vice promises, as the recom- pense of setting us free from the salutary restraints of virtue. BLAIR. SECTION XIII. The man of Integrity. IT will not take much time to delineate the character of the man of integrity, as by its nature it is a plain one, and easily understood. He is one who makes it his constant rule to follow the road of duty, according as the w r ord of God, and nice of his conscience, point it out to him. He is not guided merely by affections, which may sometimes give the colour of virtue to a loose and unstable character. 2 The upright man is guided by a fixed principle of mind, which determines him to esteem nothing but what is honoura- ble ; and to abhor whatever is base or unworthy, in moral con- duct. Hence we find hini ever the same ; at all times,' the trusty friend, the affectionate relation, the conscientious man of bu- siness, the pious worshipper, the public spirited citizen, 3 He assumes no borrowed appearance. He seeks no mask to cover him : for he acts no studied part ; but he is in- deed what he appears to be, full of truth, candour and hu- manity. In all his pursuits, he knows no path but the fair and direct one ; and would much rather fail of success, than attain it by reproachft.il means. 4 He never shows us a smiling countenance, while he me- ditates evil against us in his heart. He never praises us among our friends ; ^and tiien joins in traducing us among our enemies. We shall never find one part of his character at variance with another. In his manners, he is simple and unaf- fected ; in all his proceedings, open and consistent. BLAIR. SECTION XIY. Gentleness. I BEGIN with distinguishing true gentleness from passive tameness of spirit, and from unlimited compliance with the manners of others. That passive tameness, which submits, without opposition, to every emwogtchinent of the violent and p. ling, forms no p:\ duty; but, on the con- trary, is destructive o. Imppincss and order. That i;n!iiiiiU?d con.. y occasion, falls in with the opinions and i. of others, ia so far from being a virtue, that it i3 itself a v'r^, and the p;uent of many vices. 90 THE ENGLISH READER. PAUT 1. 2 It overthrows all steadiness of principle ; and produces that sinful conformity with the world, which taints the whole character. In the present corrupted state of human manners, always to assent, and to comply, is the very worst maxim we can adopt. It is impossible to support the purity and dig- nity of Christian morals, without opposing the world on vari- ous occasions, even though we should stand alone. 3 That gentleness therefore which belongs to virtue, is to he carefully distinguished from the mean spirit of cowards, and the fawning assent of sycophants. It renounces no just rijrht from fear. It gives up no important truth from flattery. It is indeed not only consistent with a firm mind, but it necessarily requires a manly spirit, and a fixed principle, in order to give it any real value. Upon this solid gi-ound only, the polish of gentlenessxcan with advantage be superinduced. 4 It stands opposed, riot to the most determined regard for virtue and truth, but to harshness and seventy, to pride anr. arrogance, to violence and oppression. It is properly, th.- A t part of the great virtue of charity, which makes us unwilling to give pain to any of our brethren. Compassion prompts ir to relieve their wants. Forbearance prevents us from retalia- ting their injuries. Meekness restrains our angry passions ; candour, our severe judgments. 5 Gentleness corrects whatever is offensive in our man- ners ; and by a constant train of humane attentions, studies to alleviate the burden of common misery. Its office, therefore, is extensive. It is not, like some other virtues, called forth only on peculiar emergencies ; but it is continually in action, when we are engaged in intercourse with men. It ought to form our address, to regulate our speech, and to diffuse itself over our whole behaviour. 6 We must not, however, confound this gentle " wisdom which is from above," with that artificial courtesy, that studied smoothness of manners, which is learned in the school of tho world. Such accomplishments, the most frivolous and e'm^v may possess. Too often they are employed by tne artful, as a 3M?.re ; too often affected by the hard and unfeeling, as a cover to the baseness of their minds. We cannot, at the same time, avoid observing the homage, which, even in such In- stances, the world is constrained to pay to virtue. 7 In order to render society agreeable, it is found necessary to assume somewhat, that may at least carry its appearance. Virtue is the universal charm. Even its shadow is courted, when the substance 13 wanting. The imitation of its form CHAP. V. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 01 has been reduced into an art ; and in the commerce of life, (.he first study of all who would either gain the esteem, or win the hearts of others, is to learn the speech, and to adopt tiie manners, of candour, .gentleness, and humanity. 8 Put that gentleness which is the characteristic of a good man, hus, like every other virtue, its seat in the heart ; and, lef me add, nothing except what flows from the heart, can render even external manners truly pleasing. For no assumed behaviour can at all times hide the real character. In th? , unaffected civility which springs from a gentle mind, there even so, with the utmost tranquillity, I submit myself to your - judgment, whether that judgment be life or death: not my will, but thine, O God, be done !" 4 His eloquence and innocence induced those judges tc pity who were the most zealous to condemn him. Th\ king himself went to the house of lords, and spoke for somo time in his defence ; but the spirit of vengeance, which had been chained for eleven years, was now roused; arid nothing but his blood could give the people satisfaction. He was condemned by both houses of parliament .'; and nothing re- mained but for the king to give his consent to the bill of at- tainder. 5 Hut in the present commotions, the consent of the king would very easily be dispensed with; and imminent danger might attend his refusal. Charles, however, who loved StrafTord tenderly, hesitated, and Deemed reluctant ; trying CHAP. VI. PATHETIC PIECES. 93 eveiy expedient to put off so dreadful an office, as that of signing the warrant for his execution. While he continued in this agitation of mind, and state of suspense, his doubts were at last silenced by an act of great magnanimity in the condemned lord. 6 lie received a letter from that unfortunate nobleman, desiring that his life might be made a sacrifice to obtain recon- ciliation between the king and the people ; adding, that he was prepared to die; and that to a willing mind, there could be no injury. This instance of noble generosity was but ill repaid by his master, who complied with his request. He consented to sign the fatal bill by commission; and StrafTord was beheaded on Tower-hill ; behaving with all that com- - posed dignity of resolution, which was expected from his character. GOLDSMITH. SECTION II. Jin eminent instance of true Fortitude. ALL who have been distinguished as servants of God, or benefactors of men ; all who, in perilous situations, have acted their part with such honour as to render their names Il- lustrious through succeeding ages, have been eminent for for- titude of mind. Of this we have one conspicuous example in the apostle Paul, whom it will be instructive for us to view in a remarkable occurrence of his life. 2 After having long acted as the apostle of the Gentiles, his mission called him to go to Jerusalem, where he knew that he was to encounter the utmost violence of his enemies. Just before he set sail, he called together the elders of his favourite church at Ephesus; and, in a pathetic speech, which Joes great honour to his character, gave them his last fare- well. Deeply affected by their knowledge of the certain dangers to which he was exposing himseii, all the assembly were filled with distress, and melted into tears. 3 The circumstances were such, as might have comejed dejection even*mto a resolute mind; and would have totally overwhelmed the feeble. "They all wept sore, and* fell on Paul's neck, and kissed him; sorrowing most of all for the words which he spoke, that they should see his face no more." \\ hat were then the sentiments, what was the lan- guage, of this great and good man? Hear the words which spoke his firm and undaunted mind. 4 " Behold, I go bound in the spirit, to Jerusalem, not knowing the things that shall befall me there ; save that the 94 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. Holy Spirit witnesseth in every city, saying, that bonds and afflictions abide me. But none of these things move me ; neither count I my life dear to myself, so that'l might finish my course with joy, and the ministry which I have received of the Lord Jesus, to testify the gospel of the grace of God." 5 There was uttered the voice, there breathed the spirit, of a brave and virtuous man. Such a man knows not what It is to shrink from danger, when conscience points out his path. In that path he is determined to walk, let the conse- quences be what they may. This was the magnanimous be- haviour of that great apostle, when he had persecution and distress full in view. 6 Attend now to the sentiments of the same excellent man, when the time of his last suffering approached ; and remark the majesty, and the case, with which he looked on death. " I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure b at hand. I have fought the good fight. I have finished my course. I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is b;:l up forme a crown of righteousness." 7 How many years of life does such a dying moment over- ly hnce ! Who would not choose, in this manner, to go off the stage, with such a song of triumph in his mouth, rather Lau prolong his existence through a wretched old age, stain- ed with sin and shame ? BLAIR. SECTION III. The good Man's comfort in Affliction. THE religion of Christ not only arms us with fortitude against the approach of evil; but, supposing evils to fall upon us with their heaviest pressure, it lightens the load, by many consolations to which others are strangers. While, bad men trace, in the calamities with which they are visited, the hand of an offended Sovereign, Christians are taught to view them as the well-intended chastisements of a merciful Fathei* 2 They hear amidst them, that still voice which a good conscience brings to their ear: " Fear not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God." They apply to themselves the comfortable promises with which the gospel abounds. They discover in these the happy issue decreed to their troubles ; and wait with patience till Providence shall have accomplished its great and good designs. 3 In the mean time, devotion opens to them its blessed and holy sanctuary; that sanctuary in which the woundef) heart is he?led, and the weary mind is at rest, where tha CHAP. VI. PATHETIC PIECES. 95 cares of the world are forgotten, where its tumults are hush ed, and its miseries disappear ; where greater objects open to our view than any which the world presents ; where a more serene sky shines, and a sweeter and calmer light beams on the afflicted heart. 4 In those moments of devotion, a pious man, pouring out his wants and sorrows to an Almighty Supporter, feels that he is not left solitary and forsaken in a vale of wo. God is with him ; Christ and the Holy Spirit are with him and though he should be bereaved of every friend on earth, he can look in heaven to a Friend that will never desert him. BLAIR. SECTION IY. The close of Life. 1VHEN we contemplate the close of life; the termination of man's designs and hopes ; the silence that now reigns among those who, a little while ago, were so busy, or so gay; who can avoid being touched with sensations at onco awful ana 1 tender] What heart but then warms with the glow of humanity 1 In whose eye does not the tear gather, on re- volving the fate of passing and short-lived man ? 2 Behold the poor man, who lays down at last the burden of his wearisome life. No more shall he groan under the load of poverty and toil. No move shall he hear the insolent calls of the master, from whom he received his scanty wages. No more shall he bt> raisef Judah. Little knowing to whom he spoke, he paints in all the colours of simple and natural eloquence, the distressed situation of the aged patriarch, hastening to the close of life ; long afflicted for the loss of a favourite son, whom he supposed to have been torn in pieces by a beast of prey ; labouring now under anxious concern about his young- est son, the child of his old age, who alone was left alive of his mother, and whom nothing but the calamities of severe famine could have moved a tender father to send from home, and expose to the dangers of a foreign land. 8 " If we bring him not back with us, we shall bring down the gray hairs of thy servant, our father, with sorrow to the grave. I pray thee therefore let thy servant abide, instead of the young man, a bondman to our lord. For how shall I go up to my father, and Benjamin not with me ? lest I see the evil that shall come on my father." 9 Upon this relation, Joseph could no longer restrain him- self. The tender ideas of his father, and his father's house, of his ancient home, his country, and his kindred, of the distress of his family, and his own exaltation, all rushed too strongly upon his mind to bear any farther concealment. " He cried, Cause every man to go out from me ; and he wept a?oud." 10 The tears which he shed were not the tears of grief, They were the burst of affection. They were the effusion* of a heart oveflowing with all the tender sensibilities of na- ture. Formerly he had been moved in the same manner, when he first saw his brethren before him. " His bowels yearned upon them ; he sought for a place where to weep. He went into his chamber ; and then washed his face and re- turned to them." 11 At that period, his generous plans were not comploi ed< But now, when there was no farther occasion for constrain" himself, he gave free vent .to the strong emotions of his he The first minister to the king of Egypt was not ashamed to show, that he felt as a man and a brother. "He wept aloud ; and the Egyptians, and the house of Phuraoh heard him." 12 The first words which his swelling heart allowed him to pronounce, are the most suitable to such an affecting situation that were ever uttered ; "I am Joseph ; doth my father yet live ?" What could he, what ought he, in that impassioned moment, to have said more ? This is the voice of nature her- self, speaking her own language ; aad it penetrates the heart : 100 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1. no pomp of expression; no parade of kindness; but strong affection hastening to utter what it strongly felt. 13 " Kis brethren .could not answer him ; for they were troubled at. his presence." Their silence is as -expressive of those emotions of repentance and shame, which, on this ama- zing discovery, Slled their breasts, and stopped their utterance, as the few words which Joseph speaks, are expressive of the generous agitations which struggled for vent within him. 14 No painter could seize a more striking moment for dis- playing the characteristical features of the human heart, than what is here presented. , Never was there a situation of more tender and virtuous joy, on the one hand ; nor, on the other, of more overwhelming confusion and conscious guilt. In the' simple narration of the sacred historian, it is set before us with greater energy and higher effect, than if it had been wrought up with all the colouring of the most admired mo- dern eloquence. BLAIR. SECTION VII. ALTAMONT. The following account of an affecting, mournful exit, is relat- ed by Dr. Young, who was present at the melancholy scene, THE sad evening before the death of the noble youth, whose last hours suggested the most solemn and awful re- flections, I was with him. . No one. was present, but his phy- sician, and an intimate whom he loved, and whom he had ruined. At my coming in, he said, " You and the physician, are come too late. I have neither life nor hope. You both aim at miracles. You would raise the dead !" 2 Heaven, I said, was merciful " Or 5 " exclaimed he, " I could not have been thus guilty. What has it not done to bless and to save me ! I have been too strong for Omnipo- tence ! I have plucked down ruin." 1 said, the blessed Redeemer, " Hold ! hold ! you wound me ! That is the ock on which I split : I denied his name !" 3 Refusing to hear any thing from me, or take any thing nom the physician, he lay silent, as far as sudden darts of pain would permit, till the clock struck : Then with vehe- mence he exclaimed, " Oh ! t'one ! time ! it is fit thou shouldst /.bus strike thy murderer to the heart ! Hew art thou fled for ever ! A month ! Oh, for a single w r eek ! I ask not for years ! though an age were too little for the much I have to do." 4 On my saying, we could not do too much : that heaven was a blessed place " So much the worse. >Tis lost ! His lost ! Heaven is to me the severest part of hell I" Soon CukWVL PATHETIC HIiCES. 101 Tvfter, I proposed prayer, " .\1. I cannot pray nor need I. Is not heaven on my side udy ? It closes with my conscience. Its severest strokes Iwt second my own." 5 Observing that hie friend was much touched at this, even to tears (who could forbear ? I could not) with a most af- . mate look, he said, " Keep those tears for thyself. J { : ive undone thee. Dost thou weep for me ? That is cruel. V>"!;at can pain me more?" u Here his friend, too much affected, would have left < No, stay thou still mayst hope ; therefore hear me. flow madly have I talked! How madly hast thou listened believed ! but look on my present state, as a full answer !< thee, and to myself. This body is all weakness and pain ; Licit my soul, as if stung up by torment to greater strength and It, is full powerful to reason ; full mighty to suffer. And which thus triumphs within the jaws of immortality, is, iloiibtlefcs, immortal And, as for a Deity, nothing less thac aa Almighty could inflict what I feel." 7 I was about to congratulate this passive, involuntary con fessor, on his asserting the two prime articles of his creed, pxtorted by the rack of nature, when he thus, very passion- uU'.Iy exclaimed : " No, no ! let me speak on. I have not long to speak. My much injured friend ! my soul, as my bo;!y, lies in ruins; in scattered fragments of broken thought. 8 Remorse for the past, throws my thought on the future. VVorse dread of the future, strikes it back on the.past. I turn, ?vnd turn, and find no ray. Didst thou feel half the mountain that is on me, thou wouldst struggle with the martyr for his stake ; and bless Heaven for the flames! that is not an ever- lasting flame ; that is not an unquenchable fire." 9 How were we struck ! yet soon after, still more. With vdrxt an eye of distraction, what a face of despair, he cried on! ! " My principles have poisoned my friend ; my extrava- jU'-.'.nse has beggared my boy ! my unkindness has murdered \vife ! And is there another hell ? Oh ! thou blasphem- yet indulgent LORD GOD ! Hell itself is a refuge, if it hide me from thy frown !" 10 Soon after, his understanding failed. " His terrified ima- gination uttered horrors not to be repeated, or ever forgotten. And ere the sun (which, I hope, has seen few like him) arose, the gay, young, noble, ingenious, accomplished, and most wretched Altamont, expired ! 11 If this is a man of pleasure, wjbat is a man of paint H0w quick, how total, Is the transit of such persons ! In whaj I 2 102 THE E^LISH READER. PART I. a dfetvik! gittov* tfref- .s&t,ifoF ever ! How, short, alas ! the day of their rejoicing! For a moment, they glitter they dazzle ! In a moment, where are they 1 Oblivion covers their memo- ries. Ah ! would it did ! Infamy snatches them from obli- vion. In the long living annals of infamy, their triumphs are recorded. 12 Thy sufferings, poor Altamont' still bleed in the bosom of the heart-stricken friend for Altamont had a friend. He might have had many. His transient morning might have been the dawn of an immortal day. His name might have been gloriously enrolled in the records of eternity. His memory might have left a sweet fragrance behind it, grateful to the surviving friend, salutary to the succeeding generation. 13 With what capacity was he endowed ! with what ad- vantages, for being greatly good ! But with the talents of an angel, a man may be a fool. If he judges amiss m the su- preme point, judging right in all else, but aggravates his folly ; as it shows him wrong, though blessed with the best capacity of being right. DR. YOUNG CHAPTER VII. DIALOGUES. -* c $ < SECTION I. DEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITUS.* The vices and follies of JWen should excite Compassion rather than Ridicule, Democritus. I FIND it impossible to reconcile myself to a melancholy philosophy. Heraclitus. And I am equally unable to approve of that vain philosophy which teaches men to despise and ridicule one another. To a wise and feeling mind, the world ap- pears in a wretched and painful light. Dem. Thou art too much affected with the state of things ; and this is a source of misery to thee. Her. And I think thou art too little moved by it. Thy mirth and ridicule bespeak the buffoon, rather than the phi- losopher Does it not excite thy compassion to see mankind 50 frail, so blind, so far departed from the rules of virtue ? Dem. I am excited to laughter, when I see so much im- pertinence and folly. Her. And yet, after all, they who are the objects of thy * Domocritus and Keraclitus were two ancient philosophers, the former of whore laughed, and th futtor wept, at tft errors tad folliws of mankind. CHAP. VIL DIALOGUES. 103 ridicule, include, not only mankind in general, but the per- sons with whom thou livest, thy friends, thy family, nay, even thyself. Dem. I care very little for all the silly persons I meet with ; and think I am justifiable in diverting myself with their folly. Her. If they are weak and foolish, it marks neither wis- dom nor humanity, to insult -rather than pity them. Bui is it certain, that thou art not as extravagant as they are ? Dem. I presume that I am not ; since, in every point> my sentiments are the very reverse of theirs. Her. There are follies of different kinds. By constantly amusing thyself with the errors and misconduct of others, thou mayst render thyself equally ridiculous and culpable. Dem. Thou art at liberty to indulge such sentiments ; and to weep over me too, if thi>u hast any tears to spare. For my part, I cannot refrain from pleasing myself with the le- vities and ill conduct of the world about me. Are not all men foolish or irregular in their lives 1 Her. Alas ! there is but too much reason to believe they are so ; and on this ground, I pity and deplore their condi- tion. We agree in this point, that men do not conduct themselves according to reasonable and just principles ; but I, who do not suffer myself to act as they do, must yet re- gard the dictates of my understanding and feelings, which compel me to love them ; and that love fills me with com- passion for their mistakes and irregularities. Canst thou condemn me for pitying my own species, my brethren, per- sons born in the same condition of life, and destined to the same hopes and privileges ? If thou shouldst enter a hospital, where sick and wounded persons reside, would their wounds and distresses excite thy mirth 1 And yet, the evils of the body bear no comparison with those of the mind. Thou wouldst certainly blush at thy barbarity, if thou hadst been so unfeeling as to laugh at, or despise a poor miserable being who had lost one of his legs : and yet thou are so destitute of humanity, as to ridicule those who appear to be deprived of the noble powers of the understanding, by the little regard which they pay to its dictates. Dem. He who has lost a. leg is to be pitied, because the loss is not to be imputed to himself ; but he who rejects the dictates of reason and conscience, voluntarily deprives him- self of their aid. Tl^e loss originates in his own folly. Her. Ah! so much the more is he to be pitied ! A furious maniac who should pluck out his own eyes, would deserve more compassion than an ordinary blind man. 104 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. Dem. Come, let us accommodate the business. There is something to be said on each side of the question. There is every where reason for laughing, and reason for weeping. The world is ridiculous, and I laugh at it ; it is deplorable, and thou lamentest over it. Every person views it in his own way, and according to his own temper. One point is unquestionable ; that mankind are preposterous : to think right, and to act well, we must think and act differently from them. To submit to the authority, arid to follow the example of the greater part of men, would render us foolish and miserable. Her. All this is, indeed, true ; but then thou hast no real love or feeling for th} species. The calamities of mankind excite thy mirth ; and this proves that thou hast no regard for men, nor any true respect for the virtues which they have unhappily abandoned. Fenelon, Archbishop of Cambray. SECTION II. DIONYSIUS, PYTHIAS, AND DAMON. Genuine Virtue commands Respect, even from the Bad. Dionysius. AMAZING! What do I see? It is Pythias just arrived. It is indeed Pythias. I did not think jjji pos- sible. He is come to die, and to redeem his friend ! Pythias. Yes, it is Pythias. I left the place of my con- finement, with no other views, than to pay to heaven the vows I had made ; to settle my family concerns according to the rules of justice ; and to bid adieu to my children, that I might die tranquil and satisfied. Dio. But why dost thou return? Hast thou no fear of death ? Is it not the character of a madman, to seek it thus voluntarily 1 Py. I return to suffer, though I have not deserved death. Every principle of honour and goodness forbids me to al- low my friend to die for me. ^ Dio. Dost thou then love him better than thyself ? Py. No : I love him as myself. But I am persuaded that I ought to suffer death, rather than my friend ; since it was Pythias whom thou hadst decreed to die. It were not just that Damon should suffer, to deliver me from the death which was designed not'ibr him, but for me only. Dio. But thdit supposest that it is as unjust to inflict death upon thee, as upon thy friend. Py. Very true ; we are both perfectly innocent ; and it is equally unjust to make either of us suffer. CHAP. VII. DIALOGUES. 105 DIQ. \JTiy dost thou then assert, that it were injustice to put him to death, instead of thee 1 Py. It is unjust, in the same degree, to inflict death either on Damon or on myself; but Pythias were highly culpable to let Damon suffer that death which the tyrant had* prepar- ed for Pythias only. Dio. Dost thou then return hither, on the day appointed, with no other view than to save the life of a friend by los- ing thy own ? Py. I return in regard to thee, to suffer an act of injus- tice which it is common for tyrants to inflict ; and, with re- spect to Damon, to perform my duty, by rescuing him from the danger he incurred by his generosity to me. . Dio. And now, Damon, let me address myself to thee. Didst thou not really fear that Pythias would never return ; and that thou wouldst be put to death on his account? Da. I was but too well assured that Pythias would punc- tually return ; and that he would be more solicitous to keep his promise, than to preserve his life. Would to heaven that his relations and friends had forcibly detained him ! He would then have lived for the comfort and benefit of good men ; and I should have the satisfaction of dying for him ! Dio. What ! Does life displease thee 1 Da. Yes; it displeases me when Isee and feel the power of a tyrant. Dio. It is well ! Thou shalt see him no more. I will order thee to be put to death immediately. Py. Pardon the feelings of a man who sympathizes with his dying friend. But remember it was Pythias who was devoted by thee to destruction. I come to submit to it, that I may redeem my friend. Do not refuse me this consola- tion in my last hour. Dio. I cannot endure men who despise death, and set my power at defiance. Da. Thou canst not, then, endure virtue. Dio. JFo ; I cannot endure that proud, disdainful vhtue, which contemns life ; which dreads no punishjnent ; and which is insensible to the charms of riches arid pleasure. Da. Thou seest, however, that it is a virtue which is net insensible to the dictates of honour, justice, and friendship. Dio. Guards, take Pythias to execution. We shall see whether Damon will continue to despise my authority. Da. Pythias, by returning to submit himself to thy plea- sure, has merited his life, and deserved thy favour ; but 1 have excited thy indignation, by resigning myself to thy 106 THE ENGLISH READER. PAJRT L power, in order "to save him ; be satisfied, then, with this sacrifice, and put me to death. Py. Hold, Dionysius ! remember it tvas Pythias alone who offended thee ; Damon could not - Dio t . Alas ! what do I see and hear! where am 1 1 How miserable ; and how worthy to be so! I have hitherto known nothing of true virtue. I have spent my life in darkness and error, All my power and honours are insufficient to produce love. I cannot boast of having acquired a single friend in the course of a reign of thirty years. And yet these two persons, in a private condition, love one another tender- ly, unreservedly confide in each other, are mutually happy, and ready to die for each other's preservation. Py. How couldst thou, who hast never loved any person, expect to have friends ? If thou hadst loved and respected men, thou wouldst have secured their love and respect. Tho.u hast feared mankind, and they fear thee; they detest thee. Dio. Damon, Pythias, condescend to admit me as a third friend, in a connexion so perfect. I give you your lives, and I will load you with riches. Da. We have no desire to be enriched by thee ; and, in regard to thy friendship, we cannot accept or enjoy it, till thou become good and just. Without these qualities, thou canst be connected with none but trembling slaves, and base flatterers. To be loved and esteemed by men of free and generous minds, thou must be virtuous, affectionate, dis- interested, beneficent ; and know how to live in a sort oi . equality with those who share and deserve thy friendship. Fenelon, Archbishop of Cambray. SECTION III. LOCKE AND BAYLE. Christianity defended against the cavils of Scepticism. Bayle. YES, we both were philosophers ; but my philo sophy was the deepest. You dogmatized; I doubted. Locke. Do you make doubting a proof of depth in philoso phy ? It may be a good beginning of it ; but it is a bad end, Bayle. No : the more profound our searches are into the nature of things, the more uncertainty we shall find ; and the most subtle minds, see objections and difficulties in every system, which are overlooked or undiscovered by or- dinary understandings. Locke. It would be better then to be no philosopher, and to continue in the vulgar herd of mankind, that one nm have the convenience of thinking that one knows something CHAP. TIL DIALOGUES. 107 I find that the eyes which nature has given me, see many things very clearly, though some are out of their reach, or discerned out dimly. What opinion ought I to have of a physician, who should offer rne an eye-water, the use of which would at first so sharpen my sight, as to carry it far- ther than ordinary vision ; but would in the end put them out 1 Your philosophy is to the eyes of the mind, what I have supposed the doctor's nostrum to be to those of the body. It actually brought your own excellent understanding, which was by nature quick-sighted, and rendered more so by art and a subtility of logic peculiar to yourself it brought, I sav > your very acute understanding fo see nothing clearly ; and enveloped all the great truths of reason and religion in mists of doubt. Bayle. I own it did ; but your comparison is not just. I did not see well, before I used my philosophic eye-water ; I only supposed I saw well ; but I was in an error, with all the rest of mankind. The blindness was real, the percep- tions were imaginary. I cured myself first of those false ima- ginations, and then I laudably endeavoured to cure other men. Locke. A great cure indeed ! and do not you think that, in return for the service you did them, they ought to erect you a statue ? Bayle. Yes ; it is good for human nature to know its own weakness. When we arrogantly presume on a strength we have not, we are always in great danger of hurting our- selves, or at least of deserving ridicule and contempt, by vain and idle efforts. Locke. I agree with you, that human nature should know its own weakness ; but it should also feel its strength, and try to improve it. This was my employment as a philoso- pher. I endeavoured to discover the real powers of the mind, to see what it could do, and what it could not ; to re- strain it from efforts beyond its ability ; but to teach it how to advance as far as the faculties given to it by nature, with the utmost exertion and most proper culture of them, would allow it to go. In the vast ocean of philosophy, I had the line and the plummet always in my hands. Many of its depths I found myself unable to fathom ; but, by caution in sounding, and the careful observations I made in the course of my voyage, I found out some truths of so much use to man- kind, that they acknowledge me to have heen their benefactor. Bayle. Their ignorance makes them think so. Some other philosopher will come hereafter, and show those truths to be falsehoods. He will pretend to discover other truths of 108 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L equal importance. A later sage will arise, perhaps among me~h now barbarous and unlearned, whose sagacious disco- veries will discredit the. opinions of his admired predecessor. In philosophy, as in nature, all changes its form, and one thing exists by the destruction of another. Locke. Opinicns taken up without a patient investigation, depending on terms not accurately defined, and principles begged without proof, like theories to explain the phaenome- na of nature, built on suppositions instead of experiments, must perpetually change- and destroy one another. But some opinions there are, even in matters not obvious to the com- mon sense of mankind, which the mind has received on such rational grounds of assent, that they are as immoveable as the pillars of heaven ; or (to speak philosophically) as the great laws of Nature, by which, under God, the universe is sus- tained. Can you seriously think, that because the hypothe- sis of your countryman, Descartes, which was nothing but an ingenious, well-imagined romance, has been lately exploded, the system of Newton, which is built on experiments and geometry, the two most certain methods of discovering truth, will ever fail ; or that, because the whims of fanatics and the divinity of the schoolmen, cannot now be supported, the doctrines of that religion, which I, the declared enemy of all enthusiasm and false reasoning, firmly believed and main- tained, will ever be shaken ? Bayle. If you had asked Descartes, while he was in the height of his vogue, whether his system would ever be con- futed by any other philosophers, as that of Aristotle had been by his, what answer do you suppose he would have returned ? Locke. Come, come, you yourself know the difference be- tween the foundations on which the credit of those systems, and that, of Newton, is placed. Your scepticism is more af- fected than real. You found it a shorter way to a great re- putation (the only wish of your heart,) to object, than to de- fend ; to pull down, than to set up. And your talents were admirable for that kind of work. Then your huddling to- gether in a Critical Dictionary, a pleasant tale, or obscene jest, and a grave argument against the Christian religion, a witty confutation of some absurd author, and an artful sophism to impeach some respectable truth, was particularly commo- dious to all our young smarts and smatterers in free-think- ing. But what mischief have you not done to human societj You have endeavoured, and with some degree of success, to shake those foundations on which the whole moral world, and tke great fabric of social happiness, entirely rest How CHAP. VII. DIALOGUES. 109 could you, as a philosopher, in the sober hours of reflection, answer for this to your conscience, even supposing you had doubts of the truth of a system which gives to virtue its sweet- est hopes, to impenitent vice its greatest fears, and to true penitence its best consolations ; which restrains even the least approaches to guilt, and yet makes those allowances for the infirmities of our nature, which the Stoic pride denied to it ; but which its real imperfection, and the goodness of its infi- nitely benevolent Creator, so evidently require? Bayle. The mind is free; and it loves to exert its free- dom. Any restraint upon it is a violence done to its nature, and a tyranny, against which it has a right to rebel. Locke. The mind, though free, has a governor within it- self, which may and ought to limit the exercise of its free- dom. That governor is reason. Bayle. Yes: but reason, like other governors, has a policy more dependent upon uncertain caprice, than upon any fixed laws. And if that reason, which rules my mind or yours, has happened to set up a favourite notion, it not only submits implicitly to it, but desires that the same respect should be paid to it by all the rest of mankind. Now I hold that any man may lawfully oppose this desire in another, and that if he is wise, he will use his utmost endeavours to check it in himself. Locke. Is there not also a weakness of a contrary nature to this you are now ridiculing! Do we not often take a plea- sure in showing our own power, and gratifying our own pride, by degrading the notions set up by other men, and generally respected] Bayle. I believe we do ; and by this means it often hap- pens, that, if one man builds and consecrates a temple to fol- ly, another pulls it down. Locke. Do you think it beneficial to human society, to have all temples pulled down? Bayle. I cannot say that I do. Locke. Yet I find not in your writings any mark of dis- tinction, to show us whiclTyou mean to save. Bayle. A true philosopher, like an impartial historian, must be of no sect. Locke. Is there no medium between the blind zeal of a sectary, and a total indifference to all religion ? Bayle. With regard to morality, I was not indifferent, Locke. How could you then be indifferent with regard to the sanctions religion gives to morality? How could you pub- lish what tends so directlv and apparently to weaken in man K 110 THE ENGLISH HEADER. PART I. kind the belief of those sanctions ? Was not this sacrificing the great interests of virtue to the little motives of vanity? Bayle. A man may act indiscreetly, but he cannot do wrong, by declaring that, which, on a full discussion of the question, he sincerely thinks to be true. Locke. An enthusiast, who advances doctrines prejudicial to society, or opposes any that are useful to it, has the strength of opinion, and the heat of a disturbed imagination, to plead in alleviation of his fault. But your cool head and sound judgment can have no such excuse. I know very weL there are passages in all your, works, and those not few, where you talk like a rigid moralist. I have also heard that your charac- ter was irreproachably good. But when, in the most laboured parts of your writings, you sap the surest foundations of all moral duties, what avails it that in others, or in the conduct of your life, you appeared to respect them ? How many, who have stronger passions than you had, and are desirous to get rid of the curb that restrains them, will lay hold of your scepticism, to set themselves loose from all obligations of vir- tue ! What a misfortune is it to have made such a use of such talents ! It would have been better for you and for mankind, if you had been one of the dullest of Dutch theologians, or the most credulous monk in a Portuguese convent. The * riches of the mind, like those of fortune, may be employed so perversely, as to become a nuisance and pest, instead of an ornament and support to society. Bayle. You are very severe upon me. -But do you count it no merit, no service to mankind, to deliver them from the frauds and fetters of priestcraft, from the deliriums of fanati- cism, and from the terrors and follies of superstition? Con- sider how much mischief these have done to the world! Even in the last age, what massacres, what civil wars, what convulsions of government, what confusion in society, did they produce! Nay, in that we both lived in, though much more enlightened than the former, did I not see them occa- sion a violent persecution in my own country ? and can you blame me for striking at the root of these evils? Locke. The root of these evils, you well knew, was false religion; but you struck at the true. Heaven and hell are not more different, than the system of faith I defended, and that which produced the horrors of which you speak. Why would you so fallaciously confound them together in some of your writings, that it requires much more judgment, and a more diligent attention, than ordinary readers have, to sepa- rate thenTagam, and to make the proper distinctions? This, CHAP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. Ill indeed, is the great art of the most celebrated free-thinkers They recommend themselves to warm and ingenuous minds, by lively strokes of wit, and by arguments really strong, against superstition, enthusiasm, and priestcraft. But, at the same time, they insidiously throw the colours of these upon the fair face of true religion ; and dress her out in their garb, with a malignant intention to render her odious or despicable to those who have not penetration enough to discern the im- pious fraud. Some of them may have thus deceived them- selves, as well as others. Yet it is certain, no book that ever was written by the most acute of these gentlemen-, is so re- pugnant to priestcraft, to spiritual tyranny, to all absurd superstitions, to all that can tend to disturb or injure society, as that gospel they so much affect to despise. Bayle. Mankind are so made, that, when they have been over-heated, they cannot be brought to a proper tempeivagain. till they have been over-cooled. My scepticism might be ne- cessary to abate the fever and phrenzy of false religion. Locke. A wise prescription, indeed, to bring on a paraly- tical state of the mind, (for such a scepticism -as yours is a palsy, which deprives the mind of all vigour, and deadens its natural and vital powers,) in order to take off a fever, which temperance, and the milk of the evangelical doctrines, would probably cure ! Bayle. I acknowledge that those medicines have a great power. But few doctors apply them untainted with the mix- ture of some harsher drugs, or some unsafe and ridiculous nostrums of their own. Locke. What you now say is too true. God has given us a most excellent physic for the soul, in all its diseases ; but bad and interested 'physicians, or ignorant and conceited quacks, administer it so ill to the rest of mankind, that much of the benefit of it is unhappily lost. LORD LYTTLETON. CHAPTER VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. <**- SECTION I. CICERO against VEIT.RES. THE time is come, fathers, when that which has long- been wished for, towards allaying the envy your order has been subject to, and removing the imputation against trials, is effectually put in your power. An opinion has long pre- vailed, not only here at. home, but likewise in foreign coun- jia THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. tries, both dangerous to you, and pernicious to the state that, in prosecutions, men of wealth are always safe, how- ever clearly convicted. 2 There is now to be brought upon his trial before you, to the confusion, I hope, of the propagators of this slanderous imputation, one whose life and actions condemn him in the opinion of impartial persons ; but who, according to his own reckoning, and declared dependence upon his riches, is already acquitted ; I mean Caius Yerres. I demand justice of you, fathers, upon the robber of the public treasury, the oppressor of Asia Minor and Pamphylia, the invader of the rights and privileges of Romans, the scourge and curse of Sicily. 3 If that sentence is passed upon him which his crimes de- serve, your authority, fathers, will be venerable and sacred in the eyes of the public: but if his great riches should bias you in his favour, I shall still gain one point to make it apparent to all the world, that what was wanting in this case, was not a criminal nor a prosecutor, but justice and adequate punish- ment. 4 To pass over the shameful irregularities of his youth, what does his qusestorship, the first public employment he held, what does it exhibit, but one continued scene of villa- nies I Cneius Carbo, plundered of the public money by his own treasurer, a consul stripped and betrayed, aa army de- serted and reduced tc want, a province robbed, the civil and religious rights of a people violated. 5 The employment he held in Asia Minor and Pamph^Ka, what did it produce but the ruin of those countries ? In which houses, cities, and temples, were robbed by him. What was his conduct in his praetorship here at home? Let the plundered temples, and public works neglected, that h? might embezzle the money intended for carrying them on, bear witness. How did he discharge the office of a judge I Let those who suffered by his injustice answer. 6 But his praetorship in Sicily crowns all his works of wick- edness, and furnishes a lasting monument to his infamy. The mischiefs done by him in that unhappy country, during the three years of his iniquitous administration, are such, that many years, under the wisest and best of praetors, will not be suffi- cient to restore things to the condition in which he found them . for it is notorious, that, during the time of his tyranny, the Si- cilians neither enjoyed the protection of their own original ' laws ; of the regulations made for their benefit by the Roman senate, upon their coming under the protection of the com- monwealth ; nor of th* natural and unaiienable rights of men. CHAP. VIIL PUBLIC SPEECHES. 1ft 7 His nod has decided all causes in Sicily for these three years. And his decisions have broken all law, all prece- dent, all right. The sums he has, by arbitrary taxes and unheard of impositions, extorted from the industrious poor. are not to be computed. 8 The most faithful allies of the commonwealth have been treated as enemies. Roman citizens have, like slaves, been put to death with tortures. The most atrocious criminals, fcr money, have been exempted from the deserved punishments ; and men of the most unexceptionable characters, condemned and banished unheard. 9 The harbours, though sufficiently fortified, and the gates of strong towns, have been opened to pirates and ravagers. The soldiery and sailors, belonging to a province under the protection of the commonwealth, have been starved to death ; whole fleets, to the -great detriment of the province, suffered to perish. The ancient monuments of either Sicilian or Ro- man greatness, the statues of heroes and princes, have been carried off; and the temples stripped of their images. 10 Having by his iniquitous sentences, filled the prisons with the most industrious and deserving of the people, he then proceeded to order numbers of Roman citizens to be strangled in the gaols; so that the exclamation, " I am a citi- zen of Rome !" which has often, in the most distant regions and among the most barbarous people, been a protection, was of no service to them ; but, on the contrary, brought a speedier and a more severe punishment upon them. Ill ask now, Yerres, what thou hast to advance against this charge? Wilt thou pretend to deny it? Wilt thou pre- tend that any thing false, that even any thing aggravated, is alleged against thee? Had any prince, or any state, commit- ted the same outrage against the privilege of Roman citizens, should we not think we had sufficient ground for demanding satisfaction ? 12 What punishment ought, then, to be inflicted upon a tyrannical and wicked prsetor, who dared, at no greater dis- tance than Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast, to put to the infamous death of crucifixion, that unfortunate and inno- cent citizen Publius Gavius Cosanus, only for his having as- serted his privilege of citizenship, arid declared his intention of appealing to the justice of his country, against the cruel oppressor, who had unjustly confined him in prison at Syra- cuse, whence he had just made his escape ? 13 The unhappy man, arrested as he was going to embark lor his native country, is brought before the wicked praetor. K 2 114 THE ENGLISH READER, FART I. With eyes darting- fury, and a countenance distorted with cruelty, he orders the helpless victim of his rage to he strip- ped, and rods to be brought ; accusing him, but without the least shadow of evidence, or even of suspicion, of having come to Sicily as a spy. 14 Tt was in vain that the unhappy man cried out, " I am a Roman citizen; I have served under Lucius Pretius, who is now at Panormus, and will attest my innocence." The blood-thirsty pra3tor, deaf to all he could urge in his own de- fence, ordered the infamous punishment to be inflicted. 15 Thus, fathers, was an innocent Roman citizen publicly mangled with scourging ; whilst the only words he uttered, amidst his cruel sufferings, were, " I un a Roman citizen !" With these he hoped to defend himself from violence and infa- my. But of so little service was this privilege to him, that, while he was thus asserting his citizenship, the order was given for his execution for his execution upon the cross,! 16 O liberty ! O sound once delightful to every Roman ear! O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship ! once sacred ! now trampled upon ! But what then? Is it come to this? Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor, who holds his whole power of the Roman people, in a Roman province, within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture with fire and red-hot plates of iron, and at last put to the infamous death of the cross, a Roman, citizen ? 17 Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony, nor the tears of pitying spectators, nor the majesty of the Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice of his "country, restrain the licentious and wanton cruelty of a mon- ster, who, in confidence of his riches, strikes at the root of liberty, and sets mankind at defiance? 18 I conclude with expressing my hopes, that your wis- dom and justice, fathers, will not, by suffering the atro- cious and unexampled Insolence of Caius Verres to escape due punishment, leave room to apprehend the danger of a total subversion of authority, and the introduction of general anarchy and confusion, CICERO'S ORATIONS. SECTION II. Speech O/ADHERBAL to the Roman Senate, imploring their protection against JUGURTHA, FATHERS! IT is known to you, that king Micipsa, my father, on his death-bed, left in charge to Jugurtha, his adopted son, con- jpaetly with my unfortunate brother Hiempsal and myself, CHAP, VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 115 the children of his own body, the adminstration of the king- dom of Numidia, directing us to consider the senate and peo- <>f Rome as proprietors of it. He charged us to use our best endeavours to be serviceable to the Roman com- m on wealth; assuring us, that your protection would prove n defence against all enemies; and would be instead of ar- mies, fortifications, and treasures. 2 While my brother and I were thinking of 'nothing but how to' regulate ourselves according to the directions of our de- ceased father Jugurtha the most infamous of mankind ! breaking through all ties of gratitude and of common hu- manity, and trampling on the authority of the Roman com- monwealth, procured the murder of my unfortunate brother; and bus driven me from my throne and native country, though lie knows I inherit, from my grandfather Massinissa, and my father Micipsa, the friendship and alliance of the Romans. 3 For a prince to be reduced, by villany, to my distress- ful circumstances, is calamity enough ; but my misfortunes are heightened by the consideration that I find myself ob r -d to solicit your assistance, fathers, for the services douo you by my ancestors, not for any I have been able to render you in my own person. Jugurtha has put it out of my power to deserve any thing at your hands; and has forced me to be burdensome, before I could be useful to you. 4 And yet, if I had no plea, but my undeserved misery a once powerful prince, the descendant of a race of illustrious monarchs, now, without any fault of my own, destitute ot every support, and reduced to the necessity of* begging fo- reign assistance, against an enemy who has seized my throne and my kingdom if my unequalled distresses were all I had to plead it would become the greatness of the Roman com- monwealth, to protect the injured, and to check the triumph of daring wickedness over helpless innocence. 5 But, to provoke your resentment to the utmost, Jugur- tha has driven me from the very dominions which the se- nate and people of Rome gave to my ancestors; and from which my grandfather, and my father, under your umbrage, expelled Syphax and the Carthagenians. Thus^ fathers, your kindness to our family is defeated; and Jugurtha, in injuring me, throws contempt upon you. 6 O wretched prince ! Oh cruel reverse of fortune ! Oh father Micipsa! Is this the consequence of thy generosity; that he whom thy goodness raised to an equality with thy own rnildren, should be the nurderer of thy children! Must, 116 THE ENGLISH HEADER. PART L then, the royal house of Numidia always be a scene of havoc and blood? 7 While Carthage remained, we suffered, as was to be expected, all sorts of hardships from their hostile attacks ; our enemy near ; our only powerful ally, the Roman com- monwealth, at a distance. When that scourge of Africa was no more, we congratulated ourselves on the prospect of es- tablished peace. But, 'instead of peace, behold the king- dom of Numidia drenched with royal blood! and the only surviving son of its late king, flying from an adopted mur- derer, and seeking that safety in foreign parts, which he cannot command in his own kingdom. 8 Whither Oh! whither shall I fly? If I return to the royal palace of my ancestors, my father's throne is seized by the murderer of my brother. What can I there expect, but that Jugurtha should hasten to imbrue, in my blood, taose hands which are now reeking with my brother's 1 If I were to fly for refuge, or for assistance to any other court, from what prince can I hope for" protection, if the Roman com- monwealth give me up ? From my own family or friends I have no expectations. 9 My royal father is.no more. He is beyond the reach of violence, and out of hearing of the complaints of his un- happy son. Were my brother alive, our. mutual sympathy vvould be some alleviation. But he is hurried out of life, in iiis early youth, by the very hand which should have been the last to injure any of the royal family of Numidia, 10 The bloody Jugurtha has butchered all whom he sus- pected to be in my interest. Some have been destroyed by the lingering torment of the cross. Others have been given a prey to wild beasts ; and their anguish made the sport of men more cruel than wild beasts. If there be any yet alive, they are shut up in' dungeons, there to drag put a life more intolerable than death itself. 11 Look down, illustrious senators of Rome! from that height of power to which you are raised, on the unexampled distresses of a prince, who is, by the cruelty of a wicked in- truder, become an outcast from all mankind. Let not the crafty insinuations of him who returns murder for adoption, prejudice your judgment. Do not listen to the wretch \v ho has butchered the son and relations of a king, who gave him power to sit on the same throne with his own sons. 12 I have been informed that he labours by his emissaries to prevent your determining any tning against him in his ab *ence ; pretending that I magnify my distress, and might, . CHAP. VIIL PUBLIC SPEECHES. 117 for him, have staid in peace in my own kingdom. But, if ever the time comes, when the due vengeance from above ?hall overtake him, he will then dissemble as I do. Then he who, now hardened in wickedness, triumphs over those whom his violence has laid low, will, in his turn, feel dis- tress, and suffer for his impious ingratitude to my father, and his blood-thirsty cruelty to my brother. 13 Oh murdered, butchered brother! Oh, dearest to m\ heart now gone for ever from my sight ! but why should I lament his death ? He is, indeed, deprived of the blessed light of heaven, of life, and kingdom, at once, by the very person who ought to have been the first to hazard his own life, in defence of any one 6f Micipsa's family. But, as things are, my brother is not so much deprived of these com- forts, *as delivered from terror, from flight, from exile, and the endless train of miseries which render life to me a burden. 14 He lies full low, gored with wounds, and festering in his own blood. But he lies in peace. He feels none ol the miseries which rend my soul with agony and distraction, while I am set up a spectacle to -all mankind, of the uncer- tainty of human affairs. So far from having it in my power to punish his murderer, I am not master of the means of se- curing my own life. So far from being in a condition to de- fend my kingdom from the violence of the usurper, I am ob- liged to apply for foreign protection for my own person. 15 Fathers! .Senators of Rome! the arbiters of nations ! to you I fly for refuge from the murderous fury of Jugur- tha. By your affection for your children ; by your love for your country ; by your own virtues ; by the majesty of the Roman commonwealth ; by all that is sacred, and all that is dear to you deliver a wretched prince from undeserved, unprovoked injury; and save, the kingdom of Numidia, which is your own property, from being the prey of violence, usurpation, and cruelty. SALLUST. SECTION III. TJie APOSTLE PAUL'S defence before FESTUS and AGRIPPA AGRIPPA said unto Paul, thou art permitted to speak Tor thyself. Then Paul stretched forth his hand, an 1 answered for himself. I think myself happy, king Agnppa, because I shall answer for myself this day before thee, concerning all the things whereof I am accused by the Jews ; esp tcial- ly, as I know thee to be expert in all customs and questions which are among the Jews. Wherefore I beseech thee to hear me patiently. 118 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. > 2 My manner of life from my youth, which was at the first among my own nation at Jerusalem, know all the Jews, who knew me from the beginning, (if they would testify,) that after the straitest sect of our religion, I lived a Pharisee. And now I stand and am judged for the hope of the promise made by God to our fathers ; to which promise our twelve tribes, continually serving God day and night, hope to come ; and, for this hope's sake, king Agrippa, I am ac- cused by the Jews. ? Why should it be thought a thing incredible with you, that God should raise the dead 1 I verily thought with my- self, that I ought to do many things contrary to the name of Jesus of Nazareth ; and this I did in Jerusalem. Many of the saints I shut up in prison, having received authority from the chief priests ; and when they were put to death, I gave my voice against them. And I often punished them in every synagogue, and compelled them to blaspheme ; and being exceedingly mad against them, I persecuted them even unto strange cities. 4 But as I went to Damascus, with authority and com- mission from the chief priests, at mid-day, O king ! I saw in the way a light from heaven, above the brightness of the sun, shining round about me, and them who journeyed with me. And when we were all fallen to the earth, I heard a voice speaking to me and saying, in the Hebrew tongue, . Haul, Saul, why persecutest thou me ? It is hard for thee to kick against the pricks. And I said, who art thou, Lord 1 And he replied, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest. 5 But rise, and stand upon thy feet: for I have appeared to thee for this purpose, to make thee a minister, and a wit- ness both of these things which thou hast seen, and of- those things in which I will appear to thee ; delivering thee from the people, and from the Gentiles, to whom I now send thee, to open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God; that they may receive forgiveness of sins, and inheritance amongst them who are sanctified by faith that is in me. 6 Whereupon, king Agrippa ! I was not disobedient to the heavenly vision ; but showed first to them of Damascus, and at Jerusalem, and through all the coasts of Judea, and then to the Gentiles, that they should repent, and turn to God, and do works meet for repentance. For these causes, the Jews caught me in the temple, and went about to kill me. Having, however, obtained help from God, I con- tinue to this day, witnessing both to small and great, saying CHAP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES 1 1 no other things than those which the prophets and Mosea declared should come : that Christ should suffer ; that he would be the first who should rise from the dead ; and that he would show light to the people, and to the Gentiles. 7 And as he thus spoke for himself, Festus said, with a loud voice, " Paul, thou art beside thyself; much learning hath made thee mad." But he replied, I am not mad, most noble Festus ; but speak the words of truth and sober- ness. For the king knoweth these things, before whom I also speak freely. I am persuaded that none of these things are hidden from him ; for this thing was not done in a cor- ner. King Agrippa, believest thou the prophets 1 I know that thou believest. Then Agrippa said to Paul, " Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian." And Paul replied " I would to God, that not only thou, but also all that hear me this day, were both almost, and altogether, such as I am, except these bonds."* ACTS xxvi. SECTION IV. LORD MANSFIELD'S Speech in the House of Peers, 1770, on the BUI for preventing' the delays of Justice, by claiming the Privilege of Parliament. MY LORDS, WHEN I consider the importance of this bill to your lord- ships, I am not surprised it has taken up so much of your consideration. It is a bill, indeed, of no common magni- tude ; it is no less than to take away from two thirds of the legislative body of this great kingdom, certain privileges and immunities of which they have been long possessed. Per- haps there is no situation the human mind can be placed in, that is so difficult and so trying, as when it is made a judge in its own cause. 2 There is something implanted in the breast of man so attached to self, so tenacious of privileges once obtained, that in such a situation, either to discuss with impartiality, or decide with justice, has ever been held the summit of all human virtue. The bill now in question puts your lord- ships in this very predicament; and I have no doubt the wis- dom of your decision will convince the world, that where self-interest and justice, are in opposite scales, the latter will ever preponderate with your lordships. * How happy was this great Apostto, even in tbo most perilous circumstances. Though under bonds and oppression, his mind was free, and raised above every fear of man. With what dignity and composure does he defend himself, and the noble cause he had espoused ; whilst he displays the most compassionate and generous feel- tag*, for those who were strangers to the subiuuc rdij-ion by which he was animated, 120 THE ENGLISH READER. 3 Privileges have been granted to legislators in all aiyes, and in all countries. The practice is founded in wisdom ; and, indeed, it is peculiarly essential to the constitution of this country, that the members of both houses should be free in their persons, in cases of civil suits : for there may ccn;e a time when the safety and welfare of this whole empire may depend upon their attendance in parliament. I am leu* from advising any measure that would in future endanger the state: but the bill before your lordships has, I am confident, no such tendency ; for it expressly secures the persons oi members of either house in all civil suits. 4 This being the case, I confess, when I see many noble lords, for whose judgment I have a very great respect, stand- ing up to oppose a bill which is calculated merely to facili- tate the recovery of just and legal debts, I am astonished and amazed. They, I doubt not, oppose the bill upon public principles : I would not wish to insinuate that private interest had the least weight in their determination. 5 The bill has been frequently proposed, and as frequent- ly has miscarried : but it was always lost in the lower house. Little did I think, when it had passed the Commons, that it possibly could have met with such opposition here. Shall it be said, that you, my lords, the grand council of the nation, the highest judicial and legislative body of the realm, en- deavour to evade, by privilege, those very laws which you enforce on your fellow-subjects ? Forbid it justice ! I am sure, were the noble lords as well acquainted as I am, with but half the difficulties and delays occasioned in the courts of justice, under pretence of privilege, they would not, nay, they could not, oppose this bill. 6 I have waited with patience to hear what arguments might be urged against the bill ; but I have waited in vain: the truth is, there is no argument that can weigh against it. The justice and expediency of the bill are such as render it 8elf-evident. It is a proposition of that nature, which can neither be weakened by argument, nor entangled with soph- istry. Much, indeed, has been said by some noble lords, on the wisdom of our ancestors, and how differently they thought from us. They not only decreed, that privilege should prevent all civil suits from proceeding during the sit- ting of parliament, but likewise granted protection to the very servants of members. I shall say nothing on the wis- dom of our ancestors ; it might perhaps appear invidious > that is not necessary in the present case. CHAP. Vin. PUBLIC SPEECHES. 121 7 I shall only say, that the noble lords who flatter them- elves with the weight of that reflection, should remember, that as circumstances alter, things themselves should alter. Formerly, it was not so fashionable either for misters, or servants, to run in debt, as it is at present. Formerly, we were not that great commercial nation we are at present; nor formerly were merchants and manufacturers members of iainent as at present. The case is now. very difTe rent ; ho'h merchants and manufacturers are, with great proprie- ted members of the lower house. S Commerce having thus got into the legislative body of ;'ngdom, privilege must be done away. We all laiou* die very soul and essence of trade are regular pay- its ; and sad experience teaches us, that there are men, will not make their regular payments without the com- p;j!;-ive power of the laws.. The law, then, ought to be equally rp. :i to all. Any exemption to particular men, or parti- cv r ranks of men, is, in a free and commercial country, oism of the grossest nature. 9 But I will not trouble your lordships with arguments for ihat which is sufficiently evident without any. I shall only say a few words to some noble lords, who foresee much in- convenience, from the persons of their servants being liable to be arrested. One noble lord observes, that the coach - man of a peer may be arrested, while he is driving his master to the House, and that, consequently, he will not be able to aitcnd bis duty in parliament. If this were actually to hap- pen, there arc so many methods by which the member mistfit still get to the House, that I can hardly think the noble lord is serious in his objection. 10 Another noble peer said, that, by this bill, one might lose iiis most valuable and honest servants. This I htild to be a contradiction in terms : for he can neither be a valuable servant, nor an honest man, who gets into debt which he is neither able nor willing to pay, till compelled by the law. I f my servant, by unforeseen accidents, has got into debt, and I stijl wish to retain him, I certainly would pay the de- mand. But upon no principle of liberal legislation what- ever, can my servant have a title to set his creditors at defi- ance, while, for forty shillings only, the honest tradesman may be torn from his family, and locked up in a gaol. It is monstrous injustice ! I flatter myself, however, the de- termination of this day will entirely put an end to all these partial proceedings for the future, by passing into a law the bill now under your lordships' considerate u, 42 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. Ill now come to speak upon what, indeed, I would have gladly avoided, had I not been particularly pointed at, for the ipart I have taken in this bill. It has been said, by a noble lord on my left hand, that I likewise am running the race of popularity. If the noble lord means by popularity, that ap- plause bestowed by after ages on good and virtuous actions, I have long been struggling in that race : to what purpose, all-trying time can alone determine. 12 But if the noble lord means that mushroom popularity, which is raised without merit, and lost without a crime, he is much mistaken in his opinion. I defy the noble lord to point out a single action of my life, in which the popularity of tlic times ever had the smallest influence on my determinations. I thank God I have a more permanent and a:eady rule for rny conduct -the dictates of my own breast. 13 Those who have foregone that pleasing adviser, and given up their mind to be the slave of every popular impulse, t sincerely pity : I pity them still more, if their vanity leads them to mistake the shouts of a mob for the trumpet of fame. Experience might inform them, that many, who have been saluted with the huzzas of a crowd one day, have received their execrations the next; and many, who, by the popular- ity of their times, have been held up as spotless patriots, have, nevertheless, appeared upon the historian's page, when truth nas triumphed over delusion, the assassins of liberty. 14 Why thenithe noble lord can think I am ambitious of present popularity, that echo of folly, and th .Jo ! ,v of renown, I am at a loss to determine. Besides, I do not know that the bill now before your lordships will be popular : it depends much upon the caprice of the day. It may not be popular to compel people to pay their debts ; and, in that case, the pre- sent must be a very unpopular bill. 15 It may not be popular either to take away any of the pri- vileges of parliament ; for I very well re JH ember, and many of your lordships may remember, that, rot long ago, the po- pular cry was for the extension of privilege ; and so far did they carry it at that time, that it was said, the privilege pro- tected members even in criminal actions ; nay, such was the power of popular prejudices over weak minds, that the very decisions of some of the courts were tinctured with that doc- trine. It was undoubtedly an abominable doctrine. I thought so then, and I think so still: but, nevertheless, it was a po- pular doctrine, and came immediately from those who are called the friends of liberty ; how deservedly, time will show. V 16 True liberty, in my opinion, can only exist when jus- CHAP. VIII. PUBLIC SPEECHES. K 123 tice is equally administered to all ; to the king and to the beg- gar. Where is the justice then, or where is the law, that protects a member of parliament, more than any other man, from the punishment due to his crimes? The laws of this coun- try allow of no place, nor any employment, to be a sanctuary for crimes ; arid where I have the honour to sit as judge, neither royal favour, nor popular applause, shall protect the guilty. 171 have now only to beg pardon for having employed so much of your lordships' time ; and I am sorry a bill, fraught with so many good consequences, has not met with an abler advocate : but I doubt not your lordships' determination will convince the world, that a bill, calculated to contribute so much to the equal distribution of justice as the present, re- quired with your lordships but very little support. SECTION V. An Address to Young Persons. 1 INTEND, in this address, to show you the importance of beginning early to give serious attention to your conduct. As soon as you are capable of reflection, you must perceive that there is a right and a wrong in human actions. You see, that those who are born with the same advantages of fortune, ?v*e not ail equally prosperous in the course of life. While some of them, by wise and steady conduct, attain distinction in the world, and pass their days with comfort and honour ; others, of the same rank, by mean and vicious behaviour, forfeit tke ad- vantages of their birth; involve themselves in much misery ; and end in being a disgrace to their friends, and a burden on. society. 2 Early, then, may you learn, that it is not on the external condition in which you find yourselves placed, but on the part which you are to act, that your welfare or unhappiness, your honour or infamy, depends. Now, when beginning to act that part, what can be of greater moment than to regulate your plan of conduct with the most serious attention, before you have yet committed any fatal or irretrievable errors ? 3 If, instead of exerting reflection for this valuable purpose you deliver yourselves up, at so critical a time, to sloth anri pleasures ; if you refuse to listen to any counsellor but hu mour, or to attend to any pursuit except that of amusement; if you allow yourselves to float loose and careless on the tide of life, ready to receive any direction which the current of fashion may chance to give you ; what can you expect to follow from such beginning's i 4 While so many around you are undergoing the sad con* sequences of a like indiscretion, for what reason shall not tbo , 124 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. consequences extend to you 1 Shall you attain success with- out that preparation, and escape dangers without that precau- tion, which are required of others ? Shall happiness grow up to you, of its own accord, and solicit your acceptance, when, to the rest of mankind, it is the fruit of long cultivation, and the acquisition of labour and care 1 5 Deceive not yourselves with those arrogant hopes.-What- ever be your rank, Providence will not, for your sake, reverse its established order. The Author of your being hath enjoin- ed you to "take heed to your ways ; to ponder the paths of your feet; to remember your Creator in the days of your youth." 6 He hath decreed, that they only " who seek after wisdom, shall find it ; that fools shall be afflicted, because of their transgressions ; and that whoever refuseth instruction, shall -^iroy liis own soul." By listening to these admonitions, and tempering the vivacity of youth with a proper mixture of seri- lus Lhought, you may ensure cheerfulness for the rest of life; :;! by delivering yourselves up at present to giddiness and , you lay the foundation of lasting heaviness of heart. 7 When you look forward to those plans of life, which -. ! ;or your circumstances have suggested, or your friends have nosed, you will not hesitate to acknowledge, that in order pursue them with advantage, some previous discipline is re- j.iisite. Be assured, that whatever is to be your profession, no education is more necessary to your success, than the ac- quirement of virtuous dispositions and habits. This is the uni- versal preparation for every character, and every station in life. 8 Bad as the world is, respect is always paid to virtue. In the usual course of human affairs, it will be found, that a plain understanding, joined with acknowledged worth, contributes more to prosperity, than the brightest parts without probity or honour. Whether science or business, or public life, be your aim, virtue still enters for a principal share, into all those great departments of society. It is connected with eminence in every liberal art ; with reputation, in every branch of fair and useful business ; witlvdistinction, in every public station. 9 The vigour which it gives the mind, and the weight which it adds to character; the generous sentiments which it breathes ; the undaunted spirit which it inspires ; the ardour of diligence which ft quickens ; the freedom which it procures from per- nicious and dishonourable avocations ; are the foundations of all that is highly honourable, or greatiy successful among men. 10 Whatever ornamental or engaging endowments you now possess, virtue is a necessary requisite, in order to their shin- ing with proper lustre Feeble are the attractions of the fair- HA?. Till. FTTBL1C SPEECHES. 125 est form, if it be suspected that nothing within corresponds to the pleasing appearance without. Short are the triumphs of wit, when it is supposed to be the vehicle of malice. 1 1 By whatever means you may at first attract the atten- tion, you can hold the esteem, and secure the hearts of others, only by amiable dispositions, and the accomplishments of the mind. These are the qualities w: ; influence will last, when the lustre of all that onon sparkled and dazzled has passed way. l^ Lot riot ilien the season of youth be barren of improve- ments, so essential to your future felicity and honour. Now !' (lie seed-time of life; arrl according to "what you sow, you shall reap." Your character is now, under Divine As- nce, of your own forming ; your fate is in some measure, put into your own hands. 13 Your nature is as yet pliant and soft. Habits have not established their dominion. Prejudices have not pre-occupied your understanding. The world has not had time to contract and debase your affections. Ally our powers are more vigorous, disembarrassed, and free, than they will be at any future period. 14 Whatever impulse you now give to your desires and passions, the direction is likely to continue. It will form the channel in which your life is to ran ; nay, it may determine its everlasting issue. Consider then the employment of this important period, as the highest trust which shall ever be com- mitted to you ; as in a great measure, decisive of your happi- ness, in time, and in eternity. 15 As in the succession of the seasons, each, by the invari- able laws of nature, affects the productions of what is next in course ; so, in Jiuman lifo, every period of our age, according as it rs well or ill spent, influences the happiness of that which is to follow. Virtuous youth gradually brings forward ac- complished and flourishing manhood ; and such manhood, parses of itself, without uneasiness, into respectable and tran- quil old age. 16 But when nature is turned out of its regular course, dis- order takes place in the moral, just as in v the vegetable world, If the. spring put forth no blossoms, in summer there will be beauty, and in autumn, no iroit : so, if youth be trifled y without improvement, manhooa will probably be con- ; SMe, arid old age miserable. If the beginnings of life - been " vanity," its latter end can scarcely be any other than a vexation of spirit." 17 I shall finish this address, with calling your attention to lhat dependence on the blessing of Heaven, which, amidst all f26 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I, your endeftvonrs after improvement, you ought continually to preserve, it is too common with the young, even when they resolve to tread ttie path of virtue and honour, to set out with presumptuous confidence in themselves. 18 Trusting to tneir own abilities for carrying them success- fully through lire* they are careless of applying to God, or of deriving any assistance from what they are apt to reckon the gloomy discipline of religion. Alas! how little do they knou the dangers which await them? Neither human wisdom, nor human virtue, unsupported hy religion, is equal to the trying situations which onen occur in life. 19 By the shock of temptation, how frequently have the most virtuous intentions been overthrown? Under the pressure of disaster, how often has the greatest constancy sunk? "Every good, and every perfect gift, is from above." Wisdom and virtue, as well as ** riches and honour, come from God." Des- titute of his favour, you are in no better situation, with ail your boasted abilities, than orphans left to wander in a track- less desert, without any guide to conduct them, or any shelter to cover them from the gathering storm. 20 Ccrrect, then, this ill-founded arrogance.; Expect not, that your happiness can be independent of Him who' made yon. By faith and repentance, apply to the Redeemer of the world. By piety and prayer seek the protection of the God of heaven. 21 I conclude with the solemn words, in which a great prince delivered his dying charge to his son ; words, which every young person ought, to consider as addressed to himself, and to engrave deeply on his heart : " Solomon, my son, know , tbt a the God of thy fathers ; and serve him with a perfect h^art, and with a willing mind. For the Lord searcheth ail hearts, and understandeth all the imaginations of the thoughts. If thou seek him, he will be ibunJ of thee ; but if thou forsake him, he i* 111 cast thee off forever. " BLA in. CHAPTER IX PROMISCUOUS PIECES. -~io_ SECTION I. Earthquake at Calabria, in the year 1 &38. AN account of this dreadful earthquake, is given by the celebrated father Kircher. It happened whilst he was on hi* journey to visit mount JEtna, and the rest of the wonders that lie towards the South of Italy Kireh.er is conwda^d^ b^ CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 127 scholars, as one of the greatest prodigies of learning. "Having hired a boat, in company with four more, (two friars of the order of St. Francis, and two seculars,) we launched from the of Messfna, in Sicily; and arrived, the same day, at the promontory of Pelorus. Our destination was for the city of Kuphaemia, in Calabria, where we had some business to transact, arid where we designed to tarry for =:me time. 2 *' However, Providence seemed willing to cross our de- sign ; for we were obliged to continue three days at Pelorus, <~n account of the weather; and though we often put out to ??a. yet were as often driven hack. At length, wearied with [lie delay, we resolved to prosecute our voyage ; and, although en seemed more than usually agitated, we ventured forward. 3 " The gulf of Charybdis, which we approached, seemed whirled round in such a manner, as to form a vast hollow, Vertc'ini? to a point in the centre. Proceeding onward, and turning my eyes to JEtna, I saw it cast forth large volumes' of smoke, of mountainous sizes, which entirely covered the inland, and blotted out the very shores from my view. This, ;o^( ther with the dreadful noise, and the sulphurous stench- inch was strongly perceived, filled me with apprehensions, ; : t some more dreadful calamity was impending. 1 " The sea itself seemed to wear a very unusual appear- .i'-e: they who have seen a lake in a violent shower of rain, covered all over with bubbles, will conceive some idea of its agitations. My surprise was still increased, by the calmness and serenity of the weather ; not a breeze, not a cloud, which might be supposed to put all nature thus into motion. . I there- fore warned my companions, that an earthquake was approach- ing; and, after some time, making for the sHore with all ihle diligence, we landed at Tropaga, happy and thankful ving escaped the threatening danger* of the sea. -5 " Hut our triumphs at land were of short duration ; for w<* had scarcely arrived tit the Jesuits' College, in that city, when our ears were stunned with a horrid sound, resembling that of an infinite number of chariots, driven fiercely forward , the wheels rattling, and the thongs cracking. Soon after this, a most dltead ful earthquake ensued ; the whole tract upon which we stood' seemed to vibrate, as if we were in the scale of a ba :e that continued wavonni;. This motion, however,- .soor< re violeMi : er a';'e to keep my Ic^s Hvn pro.-:;. .rround. In the meantime, . rsa.l't Lisa ruiiiid me . I my amazement. 6 " The crash of falling liou3i..s,tLc tottering of towers, and the groans of One iyinjj, all contribut-fid to rn?sf> my terror 128 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. and despair, On every side of me, I saw nothing but a scene of ruin ; and danger threatening wherever I should fly. 1 recommended myself to God, as my last great refuge. 7 " At that hour, O how vain was every sublunary happi- ness ! Wealth, honour, empire, wisdom, all mere useless sounds, and as empty as the bubbles of the deep ! Just stand- ing on the threshold of eternity, nothing but God was my plea- sure ; and the nearer I approached, I only loved him the more. 8 " After some time, however, finding that I remained un- hurt, amidst the general concussion, I resolved to venture for safety ; and running as fast as I could, I reached the shore, but almost terrified out of my reason. I did not search long here, till I found the boat in which I had landed, and ray companions also, whose terrors were even greater than mine. Our meeting was not of that kind, where every one is desirous of telling his own happy escape ; it was all silence, and a gloomy dread of impending terrors. 9 " Leaving this seat of desolation, we prosecuted our voy- age along the coast ; and the next day came to Rochetta, where we landed, although the earth still continued in violent agitations. But we had scarcely arrived at our inn, when we were once more obliged to return to the boat ; and, in about half an hour, we saw the greater part of the town, and the inn at which we had put up, dashed to the ground, and burying the inhabitants beneath the ruins. 10 "In this manner, proceeding onward in our little ves- sel, finding no safety at land, and yet, from the smallness of our boat, having but a very dangerous continuance at sea, we at length landed at Lopizium, a castle midway between Tro- paea and Euphaemia, the city to which, as I said before, we were bound. Here, wherever I turned my eyes, nothing but scenes of ruin and horror appeared ; towns and castles levelled to the ground ; Strpmboli, though at sixty miles dis- tance, belching forth flames in an unusual manner, and with a noise which I could distinctly hear. 11 " But my attention was quickly turned from more re- mote, to contiguous danger. The rumbling sound of an ap- proaching earthquake, which we by this time were grown acquainted with, alarmed us for the consequences ; it every- moment seemed to grow louder, and to approach nearer. The place on which we stood now began to shake most dread- fully: so that being unable to stand, my companions and I caught hold of whatever shrub grew next to us, and support- ed ourselves in that manner. 12 <* Aft*** some time* this violent parexssam erasing, we CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 120 again stood up, in order to prosecute our voyage to Euphse- mia, which lay within sight. In the mean time, while \ve were preparing for this purpose, I turned my eyes towards the city, but could see only a frightful dark cloud, that seemed to rest upon the place. This the more surprised us, as the weather was so very serene. 13 " We waited, therefore, till the cloud had passed away ; then turning to look for the city, it was totally sunk. Won- derful to tell ! nothing but a dismal and putrid lake was seen where it stood. We looked about to find some one that could tell us of its sad catastrophe, but could see no person. All was become a melancholy solitude ; a scene of hideous desolation. 14 u Thus proceeding pensively along, in quest of some nu man being that could give us a little information, we at length saw a boy sitting by the shore, and appearing stupified with terror. Of him, therefore, we enquired concerning the fate of the city ; but he could not be prevailed on to give us an answer. 1 5 " We entreated him, with every expression ojftende^n^ss and pity, to tell us; but his senses were quite wrapt up in the contemplation of the danger he had escaped. We offered him some victuals, but he seemed to loath the sight. We still persisted in our offices of kindness; but he only pointed to the place of the city, like one out of his senses ; and then, running up into the woods, was never heard of after. Such was the fate of the city of Euphaemia. 16 " As we continued our melancholy course along the shore, the whole coast, for the space of two hundred miles, presented nothing but the remains of cities; and men scatter- ed, without a habitation, over the fields. Proceeding thus along, we at length ended our distressful voyage by arriving at Naples, after having escaped a thousand dangers both at sea and land." GOLDSMITH. SECTION II. Letter from PLINV to GEMINIUS. DO we not sometimes observe a sort of people, who though they are themselves under the abject dominion of every V'K e, show a kind of malicious resentment againsfr^Hfe errors . of others, and are most severe upon those whom they most resemble? yet, surely a lenity of disposition, even in persons who have the lea&t occasion for clemency themselves, is of al! virtues the most becoming. 2 The highest of all characters, in my estimation, is his, who is as ready to pardon the errors of mankind, as if he were day guilty of H.:.-mp hnnsr-l!': a^f, r:t the same time, as 130 THE ENGLISH HEADER. PART L cautious of committing a fault, as if he never forgave one. it is a rule, then, which we should, upon all occasions, both private and public, most religiously observe : "to be inexo- rable to our own failings, while we treat those of the rest of the world with tenderness ; not excepting even such as forgive none but themselves." 3 I shall, perhaps, be asked, who it is that has given occa- sion to these reflections. Know then that a certain person lately but of that when we meet though, upon second thoughts, not even then; lest, whilst I condemn and expose his conduct, I shall act counter to that maxim I particularly recommend. Whoever, therefore, and whatever he is, shall remain in silence: for though there may be some use, per- haps, in setting a mark upon the man, for the sake of exam- ple, there will be more, however, in sparing him for the sake of humanity. Farewell. MELMOTH'S PLINY. SECTION III. Letter from PLINY to MARC ELLIN us on the death of an amiable young Woman. 1 WRITE this under the utmost oppression of sorrow : the youngest daughter of my friend Fundanus, is dead ! Never, surely, was there a more agreeable, and more amiable young person; or one who better deserved to have enjoyed a long, J fiad almost said, an immortal life ! She had all the wisdom of age, and discretion of a matron, joined with youthful sweet- ness and virgin modesty. 2 With what an engaging fondness did she behave to her father ! How kindly and respectfully receive his friends ! How affectionately treat all those who, in their respective offices, * had the care and education of her! She employed much of her time in reading, in which she discovered great strength of judgment ; she indulged herself in few diversions, and those with much caution. With what forbearance, with what pa- tience, with what courage did she endure her last illness ! 3 She complied with all the directions of her physicians ; she encouraged her sister, and her father; and, when all her strength of body was exhausted, supported herself by the sin- gle vigour of her mind. That, indeed, continued, even to her last moments, unbroken by the pain of a long illness, or the terrors of approaching death; and it is a reflection which makes the loss of her so much the more to be lamented, A loss infnitely severe! and more severe by the particular con- juncture in which it happened ! 4 She was contracted to a most worthy youth ; the wed- ding day \v,x-i n;t;ed, and we were all invited. How sad a CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PILCE9. 131 change, from the highest joy to the deepest sorrow ! How shall I express the wound that pierced rny heart, when I heard Fundanus himself, (as grief is ever finding out circum- stances to aggravate its afflictions,) ordering the money he had designed to lay cut upon clothes and jewels for her mar- riage, to be employed in myrrh and spices for her funeral ! 5 He is a man of great learning and good sense, who has applied himself, from his earliest youth, to the noblest and most elevated studies: but all the maxims of fortitude which lie has received from books, or advanced himself, he now ab- solutely rejects; and every other virtue of his heart gives place to all a parent's tenderness. We shall excuse, we shall even approve his sorrows when we consider what he has lost. He lias lost a daughter, who resembled him in his manners, as well as his person; and exactly copied out all her father. 6 If his friend Marcellinus shall think proper to write to him, upon the subject of so reasonable a grief, let me remind him not to use the rougher arguments of consolation, and such as seem to carry a sort of reproof with them ; but tho^e of kind and sympathizing humanity. 7 Time *viU render him more open to the dictates of reason , for as a fresh wound shrinks back from the hand of the sur- geon, but by degrees submits to, and even requires the means ot its cure ; so a mind, under the first impressions of a mis- fortune, shuns and rejects all arguments of consolation ; but at length, if applied with tenderness, calmly and willingly acquiesces in them. Farewell. MELMOTH'S PLINY. SECTION IT. On Discretion^ 1 HAVE often thought, if the minds of men were laid open, we should see but little difference between that of a wise man, and that of a fool. There are infinite reveries, numberless extravagances, and a succession of vanities, which pass through both. The great difference is, that the first knows how to pick and cull his thoughts for conversation, by sup- pressing some, and communicating others ; whereas the other lets them all indifferently fly out in words. This sort of dis- cretion, however, has no place in private conversation be- tween intimate friends. On such occasions, the wisest men very often talk like the weakest ; for, indeed, talking with a friend is nothing else than thinking aloud. 2 Tully has therefore very justly exposed a precept, deliver- ed by some ancient writers, That a man should live with his enemy in such a manner, as might leave him room to become bis friend ; and with his friend in such n manner, thai, if 132 THE ENGLISH READER. PAIIT 1. he became his enemy, it should not be in his power to hurt him. The first part of this rule, which regards our behaviour towards an enemy, is indeed very reasonable, a$ well as very prudential ; but the latter part of it, which regards our be- haviour towards a friend, savours more of cunning than of dis- cretion ; and would cut a man off from the greatest pleasures of life, which are the freedoms of conversation with abosom friend. Besides that, when a friend is turned into an enemy, the world is just enough to accuse the perfidiousness of the friend, ra- ther than the indiscretion of the person who confided in him. 3 Discretion does not only show itself in words, but in nil the circumstances of action ; and is like an under-agent ill' Providence, to guide and direct us in the ordinary concr-r ^ of life. There are many more shining qualities in the n;'. . i of man, but there is none so useful as discretion, tt is this, indeed, which gives a value to all the rest ; which sets them at work in their proper times and places ; and turns them to the advantage of the person who is possessed of them. With- out it, learning is pedantry, and wit impertinence ; virtue it- self looks like weakness ; the best parts only qualify a u. : ? be more sprightly in errors, and active to his own prejudice. 4 Discretion does not only make a man the master of his own parts, but of other men's. The discreet man finds out the talents of those he converses with, and knows how to apply them to proper uses. Accordingly, if we look into particular communities and divisions of men, we may observe, that it is the discreet man, not the witty, nor the learned, nor the brave, who guides the conversation, and gives measures to society. A man with great talents, but void of discretion, is like Po- ' lyphemus in the fable, strong and blind ; endued with an ir- resistible force, which, for want of sight, is of no use to him. 5 Though a man has all other perfections, yet if he wants discretion, he will be of no great consequence in the world ; on the contrary, if he has this single talent in perfection, and but a common share of others, he may do what he pleases in his particular station of life. 6 At the same time that I think discretion the most useful talent a man can be master of, I look upon cunning to be the accomplishment of little, mean, ungenerous minds. Discre- tion points out the noblest ends to us, and pursues the most proper and laudable methods of attaining them : cunning has only private, selfish aims, and sticks at nothing which may make them succeed. 7 Discretion haf %rge and extended views ; and, like a well-formed eye, command* a whols horizon : cunning is a CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 133 kind of short-sightedness, that discovers the minutest objects which are near at hand, but is not able to discern things at a distance. Discretion, the more it is discovered, gives a greater authority to the person who possesses it : cunning, when it is once detected, loses its force, and makes a man incapable of bringing about even those events which he might have done, had he passed only for a plain man. 8 Discretion is the perfection of reason, and a guide to us in all the duties of life : cunning is a kind of instinct, that only looks out after our immediate interest and welfare. Dis- cretion is only found in men of strong sense and good un- derstandings : cunning is often to be met with in brutes them- selves ; and in persons who are but the fewest removes from them. In short, cunning is only the mimic of discretion ; and it may pass upon weak men, in the same manner as viva- city is often mistaken for wit, and gravity for wisdom. 9 The cast of mind which,. iis natural to a discreet man, makes him look forward into futurity, and consider what will be his condition millions of ages hence, as well as what it is at present. He knows that the misery or happiness which is reserved for him in another world, loses nothing of its real- ity by being placed at so great a distance from him. The objects do not appear little to him because they are remote. He considers, that those pleasures and pains- which lie hid in eternity, approach nearer to him every moment ; and will be present with him in their full weight and measure, as much as those pains and pleasures which he feels at this very in- stant. For this reason, he is careful to secure to himself that which is the proper happiness of his nature, and the ultimate design of his being. 10 He carries his thoughts to the end of every action, and considers the most distant, as well as the most immediate ef- fects of it. He supersedes every little prospect of gain and advantage which offers itself here, if he does not find it con- sistent with his views of an hereafter. In a word, his hopes are full of immortality ; his schemes are large and glorious ; and his conduct suitable to one who knows his true interest, and how to pursue it by proper methods. ADDISON. SECTION V. On the Government of our Thoughts. A MULTITUDE of cases occur, in which we are no less accountable for what we think, than for what we do. As, first, when the introduction of any train of thought depends upon ourselves, and is our voluntary act, by turning our attention towards such objects, awakening such passions, or engaging in J3* THE ENGLISH READER PART I. such employments, as we know must give a peculiar determin- ation to our thoughts. Next, when thoughts, by whatever ac- cident they may have been originally suggested, are indulged with deliberation and complacency. 2 Though the mind has been passive in their reception, and, therefore, free from blame ; yet, if it be active in their continu- ance, the guilt becomes its own. They may have intruded at first, like unbidden guests; but if, when entered, they are made welcome, and kindly entertained, the case is the same as if they had been invited from the beginning. 3 If we are thus accountable to God for thoughts, either voluntarily introduced, or deliberately indulged, we are no less so, in the last place, for those which nrid admittance into otu* hearts from supine negligence, from total relaxation of attention, from allowing our imagination to rove with entire license, "like the eyes of the fool, towards the ends of the earth." 4 Our minds are, in this case, thrown open to folly and van- ity. They are prostituted to every evil thing which pleases to take possession. The consequences must all be charged to our account; and in vain we plead excuse from human infirmity. Hence it appears, that the great object at which we are to aim in governing our thoughts, is, to take the most effectual mea- sures for preventing the introduction of such as are sinful ; and for hastening their expulsion, if they shall have introduced themselves without consent of the will. 5 But when we descend into our breasts, and examine how far we have studied to keep this object in view, who can tell " how oft he hath offended ?" In no article of religion or mo- rals are men more culpably remiss, than in the unrestrained indulgence they give to fancy; and that, too, for the most part, without remorse. Since the time that reason began to exert her powers, thought, during our waking hours, has been ac- tive in every breast, without a moment's suspension or pause, 6 The current of ideas has been always flowing. The wheels of the spiritual engine have circulated with perpetual motion. Let me ask, what has been the fruit of this incessant activity, with the greater part of mankind? Of the innumerable hours that have been employed in thought, how few are marked with any permanent or useful effect? How many have either passed away in idle dreams ; or have been abandoned to anxious discontented musings, to unsocial and malignant passions, or to irregular and criminal desires? 7 Had I power to lay open that storehouse of iniquity, which the hearts of too many conceal ; could I draw out and read to them a list ->f all the imaginations they have devised, and all the CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 135 passions they have indulged in secret ; what a picturfc of men should I present to themselves ! What crimes would they ap- pear to have perpetrated in secrecy, which, to their most in- timate companions, they durst not reveal ! 8 Even when men imagine their thoughts to be innocently employed, they too commonly suffer them to run out into ex travagant imaginations, and chimerical plans of what they would wish to attain, or choose to be, if they could frame the course of things according to their desire. Though such em- ployments of fancy come not under the same description with those which are plainly criminal, yet wholly unblamable they seldom are. Besides the waste of time which they occasion, and the misapplication which they indicate of those intellectual powers that were given to us for much nobler purposes, such romantic speculations lead us always into the neighbourhood of forbidden regions. 9 They place us on dangerous ground. They are for the most part connected with some one bad passion ; and they al- ways nourish a giddy and frivolous turn of thought. They un- fit the mind for applying with vigour to rational pursuits, or for acquiescing in sober plans of conduct. From that ideal world in which it allows itself to dwell, it returns to the com- merce of men, unbent and relaxed, sickly and tainted, averse to discharging the duties, and sometimes disqualified even for relishing the pleasures, of ordinary life. SECTION VI. On the evils which flow from unrestrained Passions. WHEN man revolted from his Maker, his passions rebelled against himself; and from being originally the ministers of reason, have become the tyrants of the soul. Hence, in treating of this subject, two things may be assumed as princi- ples: first, that through the present weakness of the under- standing, our passions are often directed towards improper objects; and next, that even when their direction is just, and their objects are innocent, they perpetually tend to run into excess; they always hurry us towards their gratification, with a blind and dangerous impetuosity. On these two poir.ts, then, turns the whole government of our passions : first, to ascertain the proper objects of their pursuit; and next, to restrain them in that pursuit, when they would carry us lie- yond the bounds of reason. 2 If there is any passion which intrudes itself unseasonably into our mind, which darkens and troubles our judgment, or habitually discomposes our temper ; which unfits us for pro- perly discharging the duties, or disqualifies us for cheerfully 136 THE ENGLISH READER, PART 1. enjoying the comforts of life, we may certainly conclude it to have gained a dangerous ascendant. The great object which we ought to propose to ourselves, is, to acquire a firm and steadfast mind, which the infatuation of passion shall riot se- duce, nor its violence shake ; which, resting on fixed princi- ples, shall, in the midst of contending emotions, remain free, and master of itself; able to listen calmly to the voice of con- science, and prepared to obey its dictates without hesitation. 3 To obtain, if possible, such command of passion, is one of the highest attainments of the rational nature. Arguments to show its importance crowd upon us from every quarter. If there be any fertile source of mischief to human life, it is, beyond doubt, the misrule of passion. It is this which poi- sons the enjoyment of individuals, overturns the order of so- ciety, and strews the path of life with so many miseries, as to render it indeed the vale of tears. 4 All those great scenes of public calamity, which we be- hold with astonishment and horror, have originated from the source of violent passions. These have overspread the earth with bloodshed. These have pointed the assassin's dagger, and filled the poisoned bowl. These, in every age, have furnished too copious materials for the orator's pathetic decla- mation, and for the poet's tragical song. When from public life we descend to private conduct, though passion operates not there in so wide and destructive a sphere, we shall find its influence to be no less baneful. 5 I need not mention the black and fierce passions, such as envy, Jealousy, and revenge, whose effects are obviously noxious, and whose agitations are immediate misery; but take any of the licentious and sensual kind : suppose it to have unlimited scope ; trace it throughout its course, and we shall find that gradually, as it rises, it taints the soundness, and troubles the peace, of his mind over whom it reigns ; that, in its progress, it engages him in pursuits which are marked either with danger, or with shame : that, in the end, it wastes his fortune, destroys his health, or debases his character; and aggravates all the miseries in which it has involved him, with the concluding pangs of bitter remorse. Through all the stages of this fatal course, how many have heretofore run ? What multitudes do we daily behold pursuing it, with blind and headlong steps? BLAIK. SECTION VII. On the proper state of our Temper with respect to one another. IT is evident, in the general, that if we consult either pub- lic welfare or private happiness, Christian charity ought to CHAF. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 137 regulate our disposition in mutual intercourse. But as this great principle admits of several diversified appearances, let us consider some of the chief forms under which it ought to show itself in the usual tenor of life. 2 What first presents itself to be recommended, is a cable temper; a disposition averse to give offence and ,-ous of cultivating harmony, and amicable intercourse in ! v. This supposes yielding and condescending manners, iUingness to contend with others about trifles, and, in -Is that are unavoidable, proper moderation of spirit. 3 Such a temper is the first principle of self-enjoyment. It he basis of all order and happiness among mankind. The live and contentious, the rude and quarrelsome, are the te of society. They seem destined to blast the small share of comfort which nature has here allotted to man. But they cannot disturb the peace of others, more than they break their own. The hurricane rages first in their own bosom, before it is let forth upon the world. In the tempests which they raise, they are always tost ; and frequently it is their lot to perish. 4 A peaceable temper must be supported by a candid one, or a disposition to view the conduct of others with fairness and impartiality. This stands opposed to a jealous and suspicious temper which ascribes every action to the worst motive, and throws a black shade over every character. If we would be hap- py in ourselves, or in our connexions with others, let us guard rgiinst this malignant spirit. Letus study that charity " which thinketh no evii ;" that temper which, without degenerating i'ito credulity will dispose us to be just; and which can al- low us to observe an error, without imputing it as a crime. Thus we shall be kept free from that continual irritation, which imaginary injuries raise in a suspicious breast ; and shall walk among men as our brethren, not as our enemies. 5 But to be peaceable, and to be candid, is not all that is required of a good man. He must cultivate a kind, gene- rous and sympathizing temper, which feels for distress, wherever it is beheld ; which enters into the concerns of his friends with ardour ; and to all with whom he has intercourse, is gentle, obliging, and humane. How amiable appears such a disposition, when contrasted with a malicious or envi- ous temper, which wraps itself up in its own narrow interest, looks with an evil eye on the success of others, and, with an unnatural satisfaction, feeds on their disappointments or miseries! How little does he know of the true happiness of life, who is a stranger to that intercourse of good offices and 138 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1. kind affections, which ? by a pleasing -charm, attaches men to one another, and circulates joy from heart to heart ! 6 We are not to imagine that a benevolent temper finds no exercise, unless when opportunities offer of performing actions of high generosity, or of extensive utility. These seldom occur. The condition of the greater part of mankind in a good measure, precludes them. But, in the ordinary round of human affairs, many occasions daily present themselves of miti- gating the vexations which others suffer; of soothing their minds; of aiding their interest ; of promoting their cheerfulness, or ease. Such occasions may relate to the smaller incidents of life. 7 But let us remember, that of small incidents the system of hujnan life is chiefly composed. The attentions which re- spect these, when suggested by real benignity of temper, are often more material to the happiness of those around us, than actions which carry the appearance of. greater dignity and splendour. No wise or good man, ought to account any rules of behaviour as below his regard which tend to cement the great brotherhood of mankind in comfortable union. Par- ticularly amidst that familiar intercourse which belongs to domestic life, all the virtues >of temper find an ample range. 8 It is very unfortunate, that within that circle, men too often think themselves at liberty to give unrestrained vent to the caprice of passion and humour. Whereas there, on the contrary, more than any where else, it concerns them to at- tend to the government of their hea-rt ; to check what is violent in their tempers, and to soften what is hursh in their manners. For there the temper is formed. There the real character displays itself. The forms of the world, dis- guise men when abroad . But within his own family, every man is known to be what he 'truly is. 9 In all our intercourse then with others, particularly in that which is closest and most intimate let us cultivate a peaceable, a candid, a gentle, and friendly temper. This is the temper to which, by repeated injunctions, our holy re- ligion seeks" to form us. This was the temper of Christ. This is the temper of Heaven. BLAIR. SECTION VIII. Excellence of the Holy Scriptures. IS it bigotry to believe the sublime truths of the Gospel, with full assurance of faith? I glory in such bigotry. I would not part with it for a thousand worlds. I congratulate the man who is possessed of it ; for amidst all the vicissitudes and ealamitie* t: T tbs present state, that man enjoys an inexhauati- CHAP. IJL PROMISCUOUS PIECES 139 61e fund of consolation, of which it is not in the power of fortune to deprive him. 2 There b not a book on earth so favourable to all the' kind, and all the sublime affections ; or so unfriendly to hatred and persecution, to tyranny, to injustice, and every sort of malevolence, as the Gospel. It breathes nothing throughout, but mercy, benevolence, and peace. 3 Poetry is sublime, when it awakens in the mind any great and good affection, as piety or patriotism. This is one of the noblest effects of the art. The Psalms are remarkable, beyond all other writings, for thefr power of inspiring devout emotions. But it is not in this respect only, that they are sublime. Of the divine nature, they contain the most magnificent descrip- tions, that the soul of man can comprehend. The hundred and fourth Psalm, in particular, displays the power and goodness of Providence, in creating and preserving the world, and the vari- ous tribes of animals in it, with such majestic brevity and beau- ty, as it is vain to look for in any human composition. 4 Such of the doctrines of the Gospel as are level to human capacity, appear to be agreeable to the purest truth, and the soundest morality. All the genius and learning of the heathen world; all. the penetration of Pythagoras, Socrates, and Aris- totle, had never been able to produce such a system of mor>l duty, and so rational an account of Providence and of man, as are to be found in the New Testament. Compared, indeed, with this, all other moral and theological wisdom "Loses, discountenanc'd, and like folly shows". BEATTIE. SECTION IX. Reflections occasioned by a review of the Blessings pronounced by Christ on his Disciples, in his Sermon on the Mount. WHAT abundant .reason have we to thank God, that this large and instructive discourse of our blessed Redeemer, is so particularly recorded by the sacred historian. Let every one that " hath ears to hear," attend to it : for surely no maa ever spoke as our Lord did on this occasion. Let us fix oui minds in a posture of humble attention, that we may " re ceive the law from his mouth." 2 He opened it with blessings, repeated and most important blessings. But on whom are they pronounced? and whom are we taught to think the happiest of mankind? The meek and the humble ; the penitent arid the merciful ; the peaceful and the pure; those that hunger and thirst after righteousness ; those that labour, but faint not, under persecution! Lord! how dif- ferent are thy maxims from tho.-p of the children of this world \ 140 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L 3 They call the proud happy ; and admire the gay, the rich, the powerful, and the victorious. But let a vain world take its gaudy trifles, and dress up the foolish creatures that pursue them. May our souls share in that happiness which the Son of God came to recommend and to procure ! May we obtain mercy of the Lord; may we be owned as his children; enjoy his presence ; and inherit his kingdom ! With these enjoyments, and these hopes, we will cheerfully welcome the lowest, or the most painful circumstances. 4 Let us be animated to cultivate those amiable virtues which are here recommended to us; this humility and meek- ness; this penitent sense of sin; this ardent desire after right- eousness; this compassion and purity; this peacefulness and fortitude of soul; and, in a word, this universal good- ness which becomes us, as we sustain the character of " the salt of the earth," and "the light of the world." 5 Is there not reason to lament, that we answer the cha- racter no better? Is there not reason to exclaim with a good man in former times : " Blessed Lord! either these are not thy words, or we are not Christians !" Oh, season our hearts more effectually with thy grace ! Pour forth that divine oil on our lamps! Then shall the flame brighten; then shall the ancient honours of thy religion be revived ; and multitudes be awakened and animated, by the lustre of it, " to glorify our Father in heaven." DODDRIDGE. SECTION X. Schemes of Life often illusory. OMAR, the son of Hassan, had passed seventy-five years in honour and prosperity. The favour of three successive califs had filled his house with gold and silver ; and whenever he appeared, the benedictions of the people proclaimed his passage. 2 Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. The bright- ness of the flame is wasting its fuel ; the fragrant flower is passing away in its own odours. The vigour of Omar began to fail ; the curls of beauty fell from his head ; strength de- parted from his hands ; and agility from his feet. He gave back to the calif the keys of trust, and the seals of secrecy ; and sought no other pleasure for the remains of life, than the con- verse of the wise, and the gratitude of the good. 3 The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. His cham- ber was filled by visitants, eager to catch the dictates of expe- rience, and officious to pay the tribute of admiration. Caied, the son of the viceroy of Egypt, entered every day early, and re- tired late. He was beautiful and eloquent: Omar admired his wit, and loved his docility. Tell me," said Caled, " thou to CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 141 whose voice nations have listened, and whose wisdom is known to the extremities of Asia, tell me how I may resemble Omar the prudent. The arts by which thou hast gained power and preserved it, are to thee no longer necessary or useful ; impart to me the secret of thy conduct, and teach me the plan upon which thy wisdom has built thy fortune." 4 " Young man," said Omar," it is of little use to form plans of life. When I took my first survey of the world, in my twen- r tieth year, having considered the various conditions of mankind, in the hour of solitude I said thus to myself, leaning against a cedar, which spread its branches over my head : " Seventy years are allowed to man ; I have yet fifty remaining. 5 " Ten years I will allot to the attainment of knowledge, and ten I will pass in foreign countries ; I shall be learned, and therefore shall be honoured ; every city will shout at my arrival, and every student will solicit my friendship. Twenty years thus passed, will store my rnind with images, which I shall be busy, through the rest of my life, in combining and comparing. I shall revel in inexhaustible accumulations of intellectual riches ; I shall find new pleasures for every mo- ment, and shall never more be weary of myself. 6 " I will not, however, deviate too far from the beaten track % of life ; but will try what can be found in female delicacy. I will marry a wife beautiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide ; with her I will live twenty years within the suburbs of Bagdat, in every pleasure that wealth can purchase, and fancy can invent. 7 " I will then retire to a rural dwelling ; pass my days in obscurity and contemplation ; and lie silently down on the bed of death. Through my life it shall be my settled resolution, that I will never depend upon the smile of princes ; that I will never stand exposed to the artifices of courts ; I will never pant for public honours, nor disturb my quiet with the affairs of state." Such was my scheme of life, which I impressed indelibly upon my memory. 8 * ' The first part of my ensuing time was to be spent in search of knowledge, and I know not how I was diverted from my de- sign. I had no visible impediments without, nor any ungovern- able passions within. I regarded knowledge as the highest ho- nour, and the most engaging pleasure ; yet day stole upon day, and month glided after month, till I found that seven years of the first ten had vanished, and left nothing behind them. 9 " I now postponed my purpose of travelling ; for why should I go abroad, while so much remained to be learned at home ? I immured myself for four years, and studied the laws of the empire. The fame of my skill reached the judges : I 142 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. was found able to speak upon doubtful questions ; and was commanded to stand at the footstool of the calif. I was heard with attention ; I was consulted with confidence ; and the love of praise fastened on my heart. - 10 " I still wished to see distant countries ; listened with rapture to "the relations of travellers ; and resolved some time to ask my dismission, that I might feast my soul with novelty ; but my presence was always necessary; and the stream of business hurried me along. Sometimes I was afraid lest I should be charged with ingratitude ; but I still proposed to travel, and therefore would not confine myself by marriage. 11 "In my fiftieth year, I began to suspect that the time of travelling was past ; and thought it best to lay hold on the fe- licity yet in my power, and indulge myself in domestic plea- sures. But at fifty no man easily fiads a woman beautiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide. I inquired and rejected, consulted and deliberated, till the sixty-second year made me ashamed of wishing to marry. I had now nothing left but retirement ; and for retirement I never found a time till dis- ease forced me from public employment. 12 " Such was my scheme, and such has been its conse- quence. With an insatiable thirst for knowledge, I trifled away the years of improvement ; with a restless desire of see- ing different countries, I have always resided in the same city ; with the highest expectation of connubial felicity, I have lived unmarried ; and with unalterable resolutions of con- templative retirement, I am going to die within the walls of Bagdnt." DR. JOHNSON. SECTION XL The Pleasures of virtuous Sensibility. THE good effects of true sensibility, on general virtue and happiness, admit of no dispute. Let us consider its effect on the happiness of him who possesses it, and the various plea- sures to which it gives him access. If he is master of riches or influence, it affords him the means of increasing his own en- joyment, by relieving the wants, or increasing the comforts of others. If he commands not these advantages, yet all the com- forts which he sees in the possession of the deserving, become in some sort his, by his rejoicing in the good which they enjoy. 2 Even the face of nature, yields a satisfaction to him which the insensible can never know. The profusion of goodness, which he beholdspoured forth on the universe, dilates his heart with the thought, that innumerable multitudes around him are blest and happy. When he sees the labours of men appearing to prosper, and views a country flourishing in wealth and i> CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 143 dustry ; when he beholds the spring coming forth in its beau- ty, and reviving the decayed face of nature ; or in autumn beholds the fields loaded with' plenty, and the year crowned with all its fruits ; he lifts his affections with gratitude to tho great Father of all, and rejoices in the general felicity and joy. 3 It may, indeed, be objected, that the same sensibility lay? open the heart to be pierced with many wounds, from the dis tresses which abound in the world ; exposes us to frequent suf fering from the participation which it communicates of the sor rows, as well as of the joys of friendship. But let it be consi- dered, that the tender melancholy of sympathy is accompanied with a sensation which they who feel it would not exchange for the gratifications of the selfish. When the heart is strongly moved by any of the kind affections, even when it pours itself forth in virtuous sorrow, a secret attractive charm mingles with the painful emotion ; there is a joy in the midst of grief. 4 Let it be farther considered, that the griefs which sensi- bility introduces, are counterbalanced by pleasures which flow iromthe same source. Sensibility heightens in general the hu- man powers, and is connected with acuteness in all our feel- ings. If it make us more alive to some painful sensations, in return, it renders the pleasing ones more vivid and animated. 5 The selfish man languishes in his narrow circle of plea- sures. They are confined to what affects his own interest. He is obliged to repeat the same gratifications, till they become in- sipid. But the man of virtuous sensibility moves in a wider sphere of felicity. His powers are much more frequently called forth into occupations of pleasing activity. Number- less occasions open to him of indulging his favourite taste, by conveying satisfaction to others. Often it is in his power, in one way or other, to sooth the afflicted heart, to carry some consolation into the house of wo. 6 In the scenes of ordinary life, in the domestic and so- cial intercourses of men, the cordiality of his affections cheers and gladdens him. Every appearance, every description of innocent happiness, is enjoyed by him. Every native ex- pression of kindness and affection among others, is felt by him, even though he be not the object of it. In a circle of friends enjoying one another, he is as happy as the happiest. 7 In a word, he lives in a different sort of world, from what the selfish man inhabits. He possesses a new sense, that enables him to behold objects which* the selfish cannot see. At the same time, his enjoyments are not of that kind which remain merely on the surface of the mind. They penetrate the heart. They enlarge and elt^ate, they refine 144 THE ENGLISH READER. PART i and ennoble it. To all the pleasing emotions of affection, they add the dignified consciousness of virtue. 8 Children of men ! men formed by nature to live and to feel as brethren ! how long will ye continue to estrange your- selves from one another by competitions and jealousies, when in cordial union ye might be so much more blest ? How long will ye seek your happiness in selfish gratifications alone, neg- lecting those purer and better sources of joy which flow from the affections and the heart ? BLAIR. SECTION XII. On the true Honour of Man. THE proper honour of man arises not from some of those splendid actions and abilities which excite high admiration.. Courage and prowess, military renown, signal victories and conquests, may render the name of a man famous without rendering his character truly honourable. To many brave men, to many heroes renowned in story, we look up with wonder. Their exploits are recorded. Their praises are sung. They stand, as on an eminence, above the rest of ..man- kind. Their eminence, nevertheless, may not be of that sort before which we bow with inward esteem and respect. Some- thing more is wanted for that purpose, than the conquering arm, and the intrepid mind. 2 The laurels of the warrior must at all times be dyed in blood, and bedewed with the tears of the widow and the orphan. But if they have been stained by rapine and inhumanity ; if sordid avarice has marked his character; or low and gross sensuality has degraded his life; the great hero sinks into a little man. What,, at a distance, or on a superficial view, we admired, be- comes mean, perhaps odious, when we examine it more close- ly. It is like the Colossal statue, whose immense size struck the spectator afar off with astonishment ; but when nearly viewed, it appears disproportioned, unshapely, and rude. 3 Observations of the same kind may be applied to all the reputation derived from civil accomplishments ; from the re- fined politics of the statesman, or the literary efforts of genius and erudition. These bestow, and within certain bounds ought to bestow, eminence and distinction on men. They discover talents which in themselves are shining ; and which become highly valuable, when employed in advancing the good of man- kind. Hence they frequently give rise to fame. But a dis- tinction is to be made between fame and true honour. 4 The statesman, the orator, or the poet, may be famous ; 7fet *&te man himsfcl.f is far from being hoixvnre J V\V CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS VIECES. 1*5 envy his abilities. We wish to rival them. But we would not choose to be classed with him who possesses them. In- stances of this sort are too often found in every record of an- cient or modern history. 5 From all this it follows, that in order to discern where man's true honour lies, we must look, not to any adventitious , circumstances of fortune; not to any single sparkling quality ; but to the whole of what forms a man ; what entitles him as such, to rank high among that class of beings to which he be- longs ; in a word, we must look to the mind arid the soul. 6 A mind superior to fear, to selfish interest and corruption ; a mind governed by the principles of uniform rectitude and in- tegrity ; the same in prosperity and adversity; which no bribe can seduce, nor terror overawe; neither by pleasure melted into effeminacy, nor by distress sunk into dejection : such is the mind which forms the distinction and eminence of man. 7 One who, in no situation of life, is either ashamed or afraid of discharging his duty, and acting his proper part with firm- ness and constancy ; true to the God whom he worships, and true to the faith in which he professes to believe ; full of af- fection to his brethren of mankind; faithful to his friends, gen- erous to his enemies, warm with compassion to the unfortu- nate ; self-denying to little private interests and pleasures, but zealous for public interest and happiness; magnanimous, with- out being proud ; humble, without being mean ; just, without being harsh ; simple in his manners, but manly in his feel- ings ; on whose word we can entirely rely ; whose counten- ance never deceives us ; whose professions of kindness are the effusions of his heart : one, in fine, whom, independently of any views of advantage, we should choose for a superior, could trust in as a friend, and could love as a brother this is the man, whom, in our heart, above all others, we do, we must honour. BLAIR. SECTION XIII. Thf influence of Devotion on th? happiness of Life. Wf I A rfcVER promotes and strengthens virtue, whatever calms and regulates the temper, is a source of happiness. De- votion produces these effects in a remarkable degree. It in- spires composure of spirit, mildness, and benignity; weakens the painful, and cherishes the pleasing emotions; and, by there means, carries on the life of a pious man in a smooth and plaric! tenor. 2 Besides exerting this habitual influence on the mind, de- votion opens a field of enjoyments, to which the vicious are e strangers ; enjoyments the more valuable, as they pecu H6 * THE ENGLISH READER, PART I. liarly belong to retirement, when the world leaves us; and to adversity, when it becomes our foe. These are the two sea- sons for which every wise man would most wish to provide some hidden store of comfort. 3 For let him be placed in the most favourable situation which the human state admits, the world can neither alroiys amuse him, nor always shield him from distress. There will be manj hours of vacuity, and many of dejection, in his life. If he be a stranger to God, and to devotion, how dreary will the gloom of solitude often prove! With what oppressive weight will sickness, disappointment, or old age, fall upon his spirits! 4 But for those pensive periods, the pious man has a relief prepared. From the tiresome repetition of the common vani- ties of life, or from the painful corrosion of its cares and sor- rows, devotion transports him into a new region; and surrounds him there with such objects, as are the most fitted to cheer the dejection, to calm the tumults, and to heal the wounds of his heart. 5 If the world has been empty and delusive, it gladdens him with the prospect of a higher and better order of things, about to arise. If men have been ungrateful and base, it displays before him the faithfulness of that Supreme Being, who, though every other friend fail, will never forsake him. 6 Let us consult our experience, and we shall find, that the two greatest sources of inward joy, are, the exemse of love directed towards a deserving object, and the exercise of hope terminating on some high and assured happiness. Both these are supplied by devotion ; arid, therefore, we have no reason to be surprised, if, on some occasions, it fills the hearts of good men with a satisfaction not to be expressed. 7 The refined pleasures of a pious mind are, in many re- spects, superior to the coarse gratifications of sense. They are pleasures which belong to the highest powers and best affec- tions of the soul ; whereas the gratifications of sense reside in the lowest region of our nature. To the latter, the soul stoops below its native dignity. The former, raise it above itself. Th'e latter, leave always a comfortless, often a mortifying, remem- brance behind them. The former are reviewed with applause and delight. 8 The pleasures of sense resemble a foaming torrent, which, after a disorderly course, speedily runs out, and leaves au empty and offensive channel. But the pleasures of devotion resemble the equable current of a pure river, which enlivens the fields through which it passes, and diffuses verdure and fer- tility along its banks. CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. J47 9 To thee, Devotion! we owe the highest improvement of our nature, and much of the enjoyment of our life. Thou srt the support of our virtue, and the rest of our souls, hi this turbulent world. Thou composest the thoughts. Thou calmest the passions. Thou exaltest the heart. Thy communications, ami thine only, are imparted to the low, no less than to the hi :>-h ; to the poor, as well as to the rich. 10 In thy presence worldly distinctions cease ; and, under thy influence, worldly sorrows are forgotten. Thou art the balm of the wounded mind. Thy sanctuary is ever open to the miserable; inaccessible only to the unrighteous and impure. Thou beginnest on earth the temper of hea/en. In thee the hosts of angels and blessed spirits eternally rejoice. BLAIR. SECTION XIV. The planetary and terrestrial Worlds comparatively considered. TO us, who dwell on its surface, the earth is by far the most extensive orb that our eyes can any where behold : it is also clothed with verdure, distinguished by trees, and adorned with a variety of beautiful decorations ; whereas, to a specta- tor placed on one of the planets, it wears a uniform aspect ; looks all luminous ; and no larger than a spot. To beings who. dwell at still greater distances, it entirely disappears. 2 That which we call alternately the morning and the even- ing star, (as in one part of the orbitshe rides foremost in the procession of night, in the other ushers in and anticipates the dawn,) is a planetary world. This planet, and the four others that so wonderfully vary their mystic dance, are in themselves dark bodies, and shine only by reflection ; have fields, and seas, and skies of their own ; are furnished with all accom- modations for animal subsistence, and are supposed to be the abodes of intellectual life ; all which, together with our earth- ly habitation, are dependent on that grand dispenser of Divine munificence, the sun ; receive their light from the distribution of his rays, and derive their comfort from his benign agency. 3 The sun, which seems to perform its daily stages through the sky, is, in this respect, fixed and immoveable : it is the great axle of heaven, about which the globe we inhabit, a&4 other more spacious orbs, wheel their stated courses. The sun, though seemingly smaller than the dial it illuminates, ig more than a million tiroes larger than this whole earth, on which so many lofty mountains rise, and such vast oceans roll. A line extending from side to side through the centre of that resplendent orb, would measure more than eight hundred tHou* sand miles: a girdle formed to o vouad its circumference* 148 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L would require a length of miUiorie. Were its solid contents to be estimated, the account would overwhelm our understand- ing, and be almost beyond the power of language to express. Ars we startled at these reports of philosophy ! 4 Are we ready to cry out in a transport of surprise, " How mighty is the Being who kindled so prodigious a fire ; and keeps alive, from age to age, so enormous a mass of flarnti '" Jet us attend our philosophical guides, and we shall be brought acquainted with speculations more enlarged and more "in- flaming. 5 This sun, with all its attendant planets, is but a very little part of the grand machine of the universe: every star, though in appearance no bigger than the diamond that glitters upoi. a lady's ring, is really a vast globe, like the sun in size and -n glcry ; no less spacious, no less luminous, than the radiant source of day. So that every star, is not barely a worl/i, but the centre of a magnificent system ; has a retinue of worlds, irradiated by its beams, and revolving round its attractive in- fluence, aft which are lost to our sight in unmeasurable wilds of ether. 6 That the stars appear like so many diminutive, and scarce- ly distinguishable points, is owing to their immense and incon- ceivable distance. Immense and inconceivable indeed it i , since a ball shot from the loaded cannon, and flying with un- abated rapidity, must travel, at this impetuous rate, almost seven hundred thousand years, before it could reach the near- est of these twinkling luminaries. 7 While beholding this vast expanse, I learn my own ex- treme meanness, I would also discover the abject littleness of all terrestrial things. What is the earth, with all her ostenta- tious scenes, compared with this astonishing grand furniture of the skies ? What, but a dim speck, hardly perceivable in the map of the universe, 8 It is observed by a very judicious writer, that if the sun himself, which enlightens this part of the creation, were ex tinguished, and all the host of planetary worlds, which move about him, were annihilated, they would not be missed by au eye that can take in the whole compass of nature, any more than a grain of sand upon the sea-shore. The bulk of which they consist, and the space which they occupy, are so exceed - ingly tittle in comparison of the \vhole, that their loss would scarcely leave a blank in the immensity of GoJ's works. 9 If then, not our globe only, but this whole system, be BO very diminutive, what is a kingdom, or a country 1 What are a few lordships, or the SQ much admired patrimonies oi CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 149 those who are styled wealthy ? When I measure them with my own little pittance, they swell into proud and blotted di- mensions: but when 1 take the universe for my standard, how scanty is their size! how contemptible their figure! Tf.ey shrink into pompous nothings. ADDISON. SECTION XV. On the power of Custom, and the uses tb which it may be applied. THERE is not a common saying, which has a better turn of sense in it, than what we often hear in the mouths of the vulgar, that " Custom is a second nature." It is indeed able to form the man anew ; and give him inclinations and capacities* altogether different from those he was born with. 2 A person who is addicted to play or gaming, though he took but little delight in it at first, by degrees contracts so strong an inclination towards it, and gives himself up so entirely to it, that it seems the only end of his being. The love of a retired or busy life will grow upon a man insensibly, as he is conver- sant in the one or the other, till he is utterly unqualified for re- lishing that to which he has been for some time disused. 3 Nay, a man may smoke, or drink, or take snuff, till he is unable to paas away his time without it; not to mention how our delight in any particular stud)', art, or science, rises am* improves, in proportion to the application which we bestow upon it. Thus, what was at first an exercise, becomes at length an entertainment. Our employments are changed into diver- sions. The mind grows fond of those actions it is accustomed to ; and is drawn with reluctancy from those paths in which it* has been used to walk. 4 If we attentively consider this property of human nature, :t may instruct us in very fine moralities. In the first place, I would have no man discouraged with that kind of life, or series of action, In which the choice of others, or his own necessities, may have engaged him. It may, perhaps, be very disagreeable to him. at first ; but use and application will certainly rendei ij not only less painful, but pleasing and satisfactory. 5 In the second place, I would recommend to every one, t T \e admirable precept, which Pythagoras is said to have given t > his disciples, and which that philosopher must have drawn from the observation \ have enlarged upon; " Pitch upon that course of life which is the most excellent, and custom will ren- der it the most delightful." 6 Men, whoSe circumstances will permit them to choo.;e their own wi\y of life, are inexcusable if they do not pursue that whichtheir judgment tells them is the most laudable* Tha N 2 150 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L roice of reason is more to be regarded, than the bent of any present inclination ; since by the rule above mentioned, inclina- tion will at length come over to reason, though we can nevei force reason to comply with inclination. 7 In the third place, this observation may -teach the most sensual and irreligious man, to overlook those hardships and difficulties which are apt to discourage him from the prosecu tior: of a virtuous life. " The gods," said Ilesiod, "have placed labour before virtue; the way to her is at first rough and diffi- cult, but grows more smooth and easy the farther we advance in it." The man who proceeds in it with steadiness and reso- lution, will, in a little time, find that " her ways are ways of pleasantness, and that all her paths are peace," 8 To enforce this consideration, we may further observe, that the practice of religion will not only be attended with that pleasure which naturally accompanies those actions to which we are habituated, but with those supernumerary joys of heart, that rise from the consciousness of such a pleasure ; from the satisfaction of acting up to the dictates of reason; arid from the prospect of a happy immortality. 9 In th6 fourth place, we may learn from this observation, which we have made on the mind of man, to take particular care, when we are once settled in a regular course of life, how we too frequently indulge ourselves in even the most innocent diversions and entertainments; since the mind may insensibly fall off from the relish of virtuous actions, and by degrees, ex- change that pleasure which it takes in the performance of its duty, for delights of a much inferior arid an unprofitable nature. 10 The last usetrhich I shall make of this remarkable pro perty in human natvtre, of being delighted with those actions to which it is accustomed, is, to show how absolutely necessary it is for us to gain habits, of virtue in this life, if we would eiijov the pleasures of the next. The state of bliss we call heaven, will not be capable of affecting those minds which are not thus qualified for it; we must, in this world, gain a relish for truth and virtue, if we would be able to taste that knowledge and perfec- tion; which are to make us happy in the next. The seeds of those spiritual joys and raptures, which are to rise up and flourish in the *oul to ali eternity, mustbe planted iiiit during 'this its present state of probation. In short, heaven is not to be looked upon only as the reward, but as the natural effect of a religious life. SECTION XVI. The pleasures resulting from a proper use of our Faculties. HAPPY that man, who^ unembarrassed 'by vulgar cares, srtds bis Hmo i CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 151 making himaelf wiser ; and his fortune, in making ntl e? (and therefore himself ^ happier; who, as the will a.d u>s- derstandingare the two ennobling faculties of the soul, tlii--!,. himself not complete, till his understanding is beautified wdh the valuable furniture of knowledge, as well as his will en- .^d with every virtue ; who has furnished himself wii the advantages to relish solitude, and 'enliven conversation : who, when serious, is not sullen; and when cheerful, mil indiscreetly gay ; whose ambition is not to be admired for a ialse gla^re of greatness, but to be beloved for the gentlt* ':}\\J sober lustre of his wisdom and goodness. 2 The greatest minister of state has not more business ((.. do, in a public capacity, than he, and indeed every oth*--- inan may find in the retired and still scenes of life. K - in his private walks, everything that is visible convinces h!irj, there is present a Being invisible. Aided by natural philoso- phy, he reads plain, legible traces of the Divinity in every thing he meets: he sees the Deity in- every tree, as we!! a-- Moses did in the burning bush, though not in so glaring n manner : and when he sees him, he adores him with the tri- bute of a grateful heart. SEED. SECTION XVII. Description of Candour. TRUE candour is altogether different from that guarded, inoffensive language, and that studied openness of behaviour which we so frequently meet with among men of ttie wory. Smiling, very often, is the aspect, and smooth are the words of those, who, inwardly, are the most ready to think evil of others. That candour which is a Christian virtue, consists, not in fairness of speech, but in fairness of heart. 2 it may, want the blandishment of external courtesy, but lies its place with a humane and generous liberality of sen- timent. Its manners are unaffected, and its professions cor- dial. Exempt, on one hand, from the dark jealousy of a suspicious mind, it is no less removed, on the other, from that easy credulity which is imposed on by every specious pretence. It is perfectly consistent with extensive knowledge of the world, and with due attention to our own safety. 3 In that various intercourse, which we are obliged to carry on with persons of every duTerent character, suspicion, to a certain degree, is a necessary guard. It is only when it ex- reeds the bounds of prudent caution, that it degenerates into Vice. There is a proper mean between undistinguished cre- el ulilj, and universal jealousy, which a sound understanding 152 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L discerns, and which the man of candour studies to pre- serve. 4 He makes allowance for the mixture of evil wjth oou, j'hich is to he fouad in every human character. He expects none to be faultless, and he is Unwilling to believe that there is any without some commendable qualities. In the' midst of many defects, he can discover a virtue. Under the influence of personal resentment, he can be just to the merit of an enemy. 5 lie rievtr lends an open ear to those defamatory reports and dark suggestions, which, among the tribes of the censo- rious, circulate with so much rapidity, arid meet with so ready acceptance, lie is not hasty to judge ; and he requires full evidence before he will condemn. 6 As lonsc as an action can be ascribed to different motives, he holds it as no mark of sagacity to impute it always to the worst. Where there is just ground for doubt, he keeps his judgment undecided ; and, tlurxig the period of suspense, leans to the most charitable construction which an action can bear. When he must condemn, he condemns with regret ; and without those aggravations which the severity of others adds to the crime. He listens calmly to the apology of the of- fender, and readily admits every extenuating circumstance, which equity can suggest. 7 How mucn soever he may blame the principles of any sect or party, he never confounds, under one general censure, all who belong to that party*or sect. He charges them not with such consequences of their tenets, as they refuse and disavow. From one wrong opinion, he does not infer the' subversion of all sound principles ; nor from one bad action conclude that all regard to conscience is overthrown. 8 When he " beholds the mote in his brother's eye," he remembers " the beam in his o\vn." He commiserates hu- man frailty, and judges of others according to the principles, by which he would think it reasonable that they should judge of him. in a word, he views men and actions in the clear sunshine of charity and good nature; and not in that dark and sullen shade which jealousy and party spirit throw over all characters. BLAIR. SECTION XVIII. On the imperfection of that Happiness which rests solely on worldly Pleasures. THE vanity of human pleasures, is a topic which might be embellished with the pomp of much description. But I shall Studiously avoid exaggeration, and only point out a threefold CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 153 vanity in human life, which every impartial ohserver cannot bu' admit; disappointment in pursuit, dissatisfaction in enjoyment, uncertainty in possession. 2 First, disappointment in pursuit. When we look around us on the world, we every where behold a busy multitude, in- tent on the prosecution of various designs, vvnich their wants or desires have suggested. We behold them employing every method which ingenuity can devise ; some the patience of in dustry, some the boldness of enterprise, others the dexterity ot stratagem, in order to compass their ends. 3 Of this incessant stir and activity, what is the fruit? in comparison of the crowd who have toiled in vain, how small is the number of the successful ! Or rather, where is the ni'?n **'ho will declare thai in every point he has completed his p'a and attained his utmost wish ? 4 No extent of human abilities has been able to disr.ovtv path whichj in any line of life, leads unerringly, to suecr " The race is not always to the swift, rior the battle to th- strong, nor riches to men of understanding." We may for our plans with the most profound sagacity, and with the r vigilant caution may guard against dangers on every side. F some unforeseen occurrence comes across, which baffli s an wisdom, and lays our labours in the dust. % 5 Were such disappointments confined to those who a r at engrossing the'higher departments of life, the misfortii: . would be less. The humiliation^' the mighty, and the tali o ambition from .its towering height, littlt* concern the bulk o mankind. These are objects on which, as on distant m< - teors, they gaze from afar, without drawing personal instr'.!* - tion from events so much above them. 6 But alas ! when we descend into the regions of private- life, we find disappointment and blasted hope equally prevalent there. Neither the moderation of our views, nor the justice of our pretensions, can ensure success. But " time and chance happen to all." Against the stream of events both the worthy and the undeserving are obliged to struggle; and both are fre- quently overborne alike by the. current. 7 Besides disappointment in pursuit, dissatisfaction in enjoy, merit is a farther vanity, to which the human stofe is su!>j. ct. This is the severest of all mortifications; after having !>'M uc- cessful in the pursuit, to be baffled in the e.-jov^ient itself Yet ths is found to be an evil still more ireiuTal than the farmer. Some may be so fortunate as to attain what they have pursued;but none are rendered completely happy by wbat they have attained. 8 Disappointed hope is misery ; and yet successful hope k 154 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. r.::'y imperfect bliss. Look through all the ranks of mankind, r.xaiiiine the condition of those \vho appear most prosperous; and you will find that they are never just what they desire to be. If retired, they languish for action ; if busy, they coni- piain of fatigue. If in* middle life, they are impatient for dis- tinction : if in high stations, they sigh after freedom and ease. Something is slill u anting to that plenitude of satisfaction, which they expected to acquire. Together with every wish iiiitt. is gratified, a new demand arises. One void opens in the heart, as another is filled. On wishes, wishes grow ; and to u ; ;e Supreme Being. At the same time that he reflects upon .Is own weakness and imperfection, he comforts himself with 1 e contemplation of those divine attributes, which are em- l^vcd for his safety, and his welfare. He finds his want of 'ivsight made up, by the omniscience of him who is his sup- lort. He is not sensible of his own want of strength, when < Knows that his helper is Almighty. 5 In short, the person who has a firm trust in the Supreme -ehiH. is powerful in his power, wise by his wisdom, happy by I. is happiness, lie reaps the benefit of every divine aUri- bute; arid loses his own insufficiency in the fullness of infinite perfection. To make our lives more easy to us, we are com- manded to put our trust in him, who is thus able to relieve and succour us; the. Divine Goodness having made sucfi a reliance a duty, notwithstanding we should have been miserable, had it been forbidden us. 6 Among several motives, which might be made use of to recommend this duty to us, f shall only take notice of those that follow. The first and strongest is, that we are promised h "ill net fail those who put their trust in him. But without considering the supernatural blessing which accompanies tins duty, we may observe, that it has a natural tendency to its o\>n .ivward; or, in other wor' ! s, that this firm trust and^confidence in the great Disposer of all things, contribute very much to the get!', ig clear of any affliction, or to the bearing of it manfully. 7 A person vvlio believes he has his succour at hand, and that tie acts in the sight of his friend, often exerts himself be- yond his abilities ; and does wonders, that are not to be matched by one \Uio is not animated with such a confidence of success- CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 161 Trust in the assistance of an Almighty Being, naturally pro- dures patience, hope, cheerfulness, and all other dispositions of mind, which alleviate those calamities that \ve are not ahle to remove. 8 The practice of this virtue administers great comfort to the mind of man, in times of poverty and affliction; but most of ail, in the hour of death. When the soul is hovering, in the last moments of its separation; when it is just entering on ano- ther state of existence, to converse with scenes, and objects, and companions, that are altogether new ; what can support lu-r under such trembliugs of thought, such fear, such anxiety, p to that Almighty Benefactor, who aims at no e-n I but the happiness of those whom he blesses, and who de- sires no return from them, but a devout and thankful heart. While others can trace their prosperity to no higher source t'na.i a concurrence of worldly causes; and, often, of mean i-ng iiu-idents, which occasionally favoured their de- -\ii .is ; with 'A- KU superior satisfaction does the servant of ';>d iemai the hand -of that gracious Power which hath r;.:st: of life, and crowned him with the mo?t fa- voiii\rle distinction beyond h's equals? 3 Let us farther consider, that nrtf only gratitude for the past:, but a chce - ,r. tbr present, en- 162 THE ENGLISH READER. PART L ter into the pious emotion. Thoy are onlv the nrtnons, who in their prosperoufrciays henr* this voice addresse'd to them, "Go'hy way, eat th} 'bread with joy, and drink thy vvi:*e with a cheerful heart; for God now accepteth thy works." lie who is the author of their prosperity, gives them a title to enjoy, with cotnplacericy, his own u,ift. 4 While had men snatch the pleasures of the wr.ilij as nv stealth, without countenance from the great Proprietor of the world, the righteous sit openly down to the feast of life, un- der the smile of approving" heaven. No guilt v fears damn- their joys. The blessing of God rests upon all that thev pos- se-s ; his protection surrounds ihem ; and he?;ce, u in f ^.^ hn- !hi:t! than to the policy of his councils, or to the force of his arms! 7 How many instances of divine goodness arose before him in pleasing remembrance, when with such relish, he. speaks -of the "green pastures and still waters, beside winch d vj had fed him ; of his cup which he had made to overflow; a.i'J of rhe table which .he had prepared for him in the presence oi his enemies!" \Vith what perfect tranquillity does he look f"r \vard to the time of his passing through "the valley 7 of the shallow of death;" imajipalled by that spectre, whose m'st uiaUi.it appearance blasts th.) prosperity of sinners ! He- fears no t*v\\ * \&r,% Ja5 " tho rod and the stafP' of his Divine She|>- CHII>. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 163 hM-d nrr with him ; and, throuirh all the unknown periods of this ' ( nd of future existence, commits himself to his guidance witii serure and triumphaht hope : '* Surely goodness and iwiry will follow me all the davs of my life; and I shall f x\ I'll in the iiou.se of the Lord forever." S What a purified, sentimental enjoyment of prosperity is lifiv exhibited! flow different from that gross relish of world- ly pleasures, which belongs to those who behold only the ter- i !'-4rial side of things ; who raise their views to no higher ob- ; "'is tlrm the succession of human contingencies, and the ,\e:i!f e. Torts of human ability ; who have no protector or pa- ; in the heavens, to enliven their prosperity, or to warm * ! jeir hearts with gratitude and trust ! BLAIR. SECTION XXIII. '*///:: -". " ' 7 ?- deeply rooted, is not subject to the influence oj Fortune. THE city of Sidon having surrendered to Alexander, he ordered lle*phestioii to bestow the crown on him whom the Si- donians should think most worthy of that honour. Hephestion being at that time resident will) two young men of distinction, iJlered them the kingdom; but they refused it, telling- him "hnt it was contrary to the laws of their country, to admit any ;ui to that honour, who was not of the royal family. 2 He then, having expressed his admiration of their dlsin- -ted spirit, desired tliem to name one of the royal race, ' mi^ht remember that he had received the crown through be ) hands. Overlooking many, who would have been ambi- ous of this high honour, they made choice of Abdolonymns, hose singular merit had rendered him conspicuous, even in it- vole of obscurity. Though remotely related to the rov- i mily, a series of misfortunes had reduced hiin to the ne- -l!y of cultivating a garden, for a small stipend, in the 'M of the citv. .', \\ bile Abdolonymus was busily employed in weeding his ira.den, the two friends of Hepliestion, bearing in their hands (he ensigns of royalty, approached him, and saluted him king. They informed him that Alexander had appointed him to that ved Mm i:u ; neii;:x!ely to exchange his rustic y, for the reu'al robe ana sceptre. .vhesi he should be in lii-; powrr, Jiot to> he ijivl been raised, an iihi- ei'ty. He re- '- : .' Jm 164 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. jests; and to find some other way of amusing themselves, which might leave s him in the peaceable enjoyment of his oh srure habitation. At length, however, they convinced him, that they were serious in their proposal ; and prevailed upon him to acceot the regal office, and accompany them to the palace. 5 No sooner was he in possession of the government, than pride and envy created him enemies ; who whispered their murmurs in every place, till at last they reached the ear of Alexander. He commanded the new-elected prince to Le 8f;it for; and inquired of him, with what temper of mind he had home his poverty. " Would to Heaven," replied Abdo- lonymus, " that I may he ahle to hear my crown with equal moderation : for when I possessed little, I wanted nothing : these hands supplied me with whatever I desired." From this answer, Alexander formed so high an idea of his wisdom, that he confirmed the choice which had been made ; and an- nexed a neighbouring province to the government of Sidon. Q.UINTUS CCP.T1U8. SECTION XXIV. The Speech of FABRICIUS, a Roman ambassador, taking Pyrrhus, who attempted to bribe him to his interests, by the offer of a great sum of money. WITH regard to my poverty, the king has, indeed, been justly informed. My whole estate consists in a house of hut' mean appearance, and a little spot of ground ; from which, by my own labour, I draw my support. But if, by any means, thou hast been persuaded to think that this poverty renders me of less consequence in my own country, or in any degree unhappy, thou art greatly deceived. 2^ I have no reason to complain of fortune ; she supplies me with all that nature requires; and if [ am without superfluities, I am also free from the desire of them. With these, I con- fess I should be more able to succour the necessitous, the only advantage for which the wealthy are to be envied ; but small as my possessions are, I can still contribute something to the support of the state, and the assistance of my friends. 3 With respect to honours, rny country places me, poor as I am, upon a level with the richest : for Rome knows no qualifications for great employments, but virtue and ability. JShe appoints me to officiate in the'most august ceremonies of religion; she intrusts me with the command of her armies: she confides to my care the most important negotiations. My poverty does not lessen the weight and influence of my counsels in the senate. 4 The Roman peoole honour me for that very poverty, Cnir. IX PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 165 which king Pyrrhus considers as a disgrace. They know the many opportunities I have had to enrich myself, without ren- ' sure; they are convinced of my disinterested zeal for ih< ;. prosperity : and if I have any tiling to complain of, in the re- turn they make me, it is only the excess of their applause. What value, then, can I put upon thy gold and silver '( VV king can add any thing to my fortune? Always attentive discharge the* duties incumbent upon me, I have a mind h from self-reproach ; and I have an honest fame. SECTION XXV. Character of JAMES I. king of England. NO prince, so little enterprising and so inoffensive, v. -.er so much exposed to the opposite extremes of caki:r. "id (lattery, of satire and panegyric. And the factions wh I :?^an in his time, heing still continued, have made his ch ler he as much disputed to this day, as is commonly i. ! ,; princes who are our contemporaries. 2 Many virtues, however, it must he owned, lie wa> p ..-ssed of; but not one of them pure, or free from the *. luoii of the neighbouring vices. His generosity border profusion, his learning on pedantry, his pacific disposition pusillanimity, his wisdom on cunning, his friendship on \-.>. fancy and boyish fondness. 3 While he imagined that he was only maintaining h authority, he may perhaps be suspected in some of his ac tions, and still more of his pretensions, to have encroached on the liberties of his people. While he endeavoured, by an exact neutrality, to acquire the good-will of all his neighbours, he was able to preserve fully the esteem and regard of none. His capacity was considerable, but fitter to discourse on gene- nil maxims, than to conduct any intricate business. 4 ilis intentions were just, but more adapted to the con- duct of private life, thai: to the government of kingdoms. Awkward in his person, and ungainly in his manners, he was ill qualified to command respect: partial and undSscerning in his affections, he was little fitt3d to acquire general love. Of a fcetole temper, more than of a frugal judgment ; exposed t j our ridicule Iron: his vanity, but exempt from our hatred by liis freedom from pride and arrogance. 5 And, upon the whole, ,it n ay be pronounced of his cba- ractei, that all his qualities were sullied with weakness, and embellished by humanity. Political courage he was certain- ly devoid of; and from thence chiefly is derived the strong prejudice, which T personal bravery: an 166 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I. inference, however, which must be owned, from general ex- perience, to he extremely fallacious. HUME. SECTION XXVI. CHARLES V. Emperor of Germany, resigns his dominions, and retires from Ilia World. THIS great emperor, in the plenitude of his power, and in p >ssession of all the honours which can flatter the heart of man, took the extraordinary resolution, to resign his king- doms ; and to withdraw entirely from any concern in business or the affairs of this world, in order that he might spend the remainder of his days in retirement and solitude. 2 Though it requires neither deep reflection, nor extraor- dinary discernment, to discover that the state of royalty is not exempt from cares and disappointments; though most of [hose who are exalted to a throne, find solicitude, and satiety, u:d disgust, to be their perpetual attendants, in that envied '.v-eminence; yet. to descend voluntarily from the supreme to a subordinate station, and to relinquish the possession of power in order to attain the enjoyment of happiness, seems 10 l>e an effort too great for the. human mind. 3 Several instances, indeed, occur in history, of monarchs ,vi,o have quitted a throne, and have ended their days in re- ; rernent. But they were either weak princes, who took this resolution rashly, and repented of it as soon as it was taken ; or unfortunate princes, from whose hands some strong rival had wrested their eceptre, and compelled them to descend with reluctance into a private station. 3 Dioclesian is, perhaps, the only prince capable of hold- ing the reins of government, who ever resigned them from deliberate choice; and who continued, during many years, to enjoy the tranquillity of retirement, without fetching one penitent sigh, or casting back one look of desire, towards the power or dignity which he had abandoned. 5 No wonder, then, that Charles's resignation should fill all Europe with astonishment; and give rise, both among his contemporaries, and among the historians of that period, to various conjectures concerning the motives which determined a prince, whose ruling passion had been uniformly the love of power, at the age of fifty-six, when objects of ambition operate with full force on the mind, and are pursued with the greatest ardotir, to take a resolution so singular and unexpected. 8 Tiie emperor, in pursuance of his determination, having assembled the states of the Low Countries at Brussels,- sea ted himself, for the last time, in the chair of state : on one side of which was placed his son, and on the other his sister the . IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 167 queen of Hungary, regent of the Netherlands, with a splen- did retinue of the grandees of Spain, and princes of the em- pire standing behind him. 7 The president of the council of Flanders, by his com- mand, explained, in a few words, his intention in calling tnis extraordinary meeting- of the states, lie then read the instru- ment of resignation, by which -Charles surrendered to his son Philip all his territories, jurisdiction, and authority in the Low Countries; absolving his subjects there from their oath oi allegiance to him, which he required them to transfer to Phi- lip his lawful heir : and to serve him with the same loyalty and zeal that they had manifested, during so long a course of year?, in support of his government. 8 Charles then rose from his seat, and leaning on the shoul- der of the prince of Orange, because he was unable to stand without support, he addressed himself to the audience ; and, from a paper which he held in his hand, in order to assist his memory, he recounted, with dignity, but without ostentation, all the great things which he Ind undertaken and performed, since the commencement of his administration. 9 He observed, that from the seventeenth year of his age, he had dedicated all his thoughts and attention to public ob- jects, reserving no portion of his time for the indulgence of Ins ease, and very little for the enjoyment of private pleasure ; that either in a pacific or hostile manner, he had visited Ger- many nine times, Spain six times, France four times, Italy seven times, the Low Countries ten times, England twice, Af- rica as often, and had hiacle eleven voyages by sea; that while his health permitted him to discharge his duty, and the vigour of his constitution was equal, in any degree, to the arduous of- fice of governing dominions so extensive, he had never shun- ned labour, nor repined under fatigue ; that now, when his health was broken, and his vigour exhausted by the rage of an incurable distemper, his growing infirmities admonished him to retire ; nor was he so fond of reigning, as to retain the sceptre in an impotent hand, which was no longer able to protect his subjects, or to render them happy; that instead of a sovereign worn out with diseases, and Scarcely haif alive, he gave them one in the prime of life, accustomed already to govern, and who added to the vigour of youth, all the atten- tion and sagacity of maturer years ; that if during the course of a long administration, he had committed any material er- ror in government, or it, under the pressure of so many and great affairs, and amidst the attention which Ii had been ~f* o tn ^rvyiiv, be had either neglected ov iryun--^ :>?) 168 THE ENGLISH READER. PART I ^f his subjects, he now implored their forgiveness; that, for ois part, he should over retain a grateful sense of their fidelity and attachment, arid would carry the rememhrance of it along with him to the place of his retreat, as his sweetest consola- tion, as well as the hest reward for all his services ; and in his last prayers to Almighty God, would pour forth his ar- dent wishes for their welfare. 10 Then turning towards Philip, who fell on his knees -and kissed his father's hand, " If," says he, " 1 had left y ' r death, this rich inheritance, to which I have made si; jj t ari< additions, some regard would have been justly due to my memory on that account; but now, when 1 voluntarily nsur; to you what I might have still retained, I may well expert the warmest expressions of thanks on your part. With lliese, however, I dispense ; and shall consider your concern for the welfare of your subjects, and your love of them, as the best and most acceptable testimony of your gratitude to' me. It is in your power, by a wise and virtuous administration, to jus- tijy the extraordinary proof which I give this day of my pa- ternal affection, and to demonstrate that you are worthy of the confidence which I repose in you. Preserve an inviola- ble regard for reli'gion ; maintain the Catholic faith in its pu- rity ; let the laws of your country be sacred in your eyes ; encroach not on the rights nd privileges of your people ; and if the time shall ever come, when you shall wish to enjoy the tranquillity of private life, may you have a son endowed with such qualities, that you~can resign your sceptre to him, with as much satisfaction as I give up mine to you." 11 As soon as Charles had finished this long address to bi> subjects, and to their new sovereign,, he sunk into the chair, exhausted and ready to faint with the fatigue of so extraordi- nary an effort. During his discourse, the whole audience melted into tears; some from admiration of his magnanimity: others softened by the expressions of tenderness towards his Bon, and of love to his people : and all were affected with the deepest sorrow, at losing a sovereign, who had distin- guished the Netherlands, his native country, with particular marks of his regard and attachment. SECTION XXVII. The same Subject continued. A FEW weeks after the resignation of the Netherlands, Charles, in an assembly no less splendid, and with a ceremo- nial equally pompous, resigned to his son the crowns of Spain, with all the territories depending on them, both in the old arid v ia fehe new world. Of all these vast possessions, he reserved CHAP. IX. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 160 nothing for himself, but an annual pension of a hundred thousand crowns, to defray the charges of his family, and to afford him a small sum for acts of beneficence and charity. 2 Nothing now remained to detain him from that retreat for which he languished. Every thing having been prepared some time for his voyage, he set out for Zuitburg in Zealand, where the fleet had orders to rendezvous. In his way thither, he passed through Ghent : and after stopping there a few days, to indulge that tender and pleasing melancholy, which arises in the mind of every man in the decline of life, on visit- ing the place of his nativity, and viewing the scenes and ob- jects familiar to him in his early youth, he pursued his jour- ney, accompanied by his son Philip, his daughter the arch- duchess, his sisters the dowager queens of France and Hun- gary, Maximilian his son-in-law, stad a numerous retinue of the Flemish nobility. Before he went on board, he dismissed them, with marks of his attention and regard; and taking leave of Philip with all the tenderness of a father who em- braced his son for the last time, he set sail under convoy ol a large fleet of Spanish, Flemish, and English ships. 3 His voyage was prosperous and agreeable ; and he aurived at Laredo in Biscay, on the eleventh day after he left Zealand As soon as he landed, he fell prostrate on the ground; and considering himself now as dead to the world, he kissed the earth, and said, " Naked' came I out of my mother's womb, and naked I now" return to thee, thou common mother of man- kind." From Laredo he proceeded to Valladolid. There he took a last and tender leave of his two sisters ; whom he would not permit to accompany him to his solitude, though they entreated it with tears : not only that they might have the consolation of contributing, by their attendance and care. to mitigate or to sooth his sufferings, but that 'they might reap instruction arid benefit, by joining with him in those pious exer cises, to which he had consecrated the remainder of his days 4 From Valladolid, he continued his journey to Plazench* in Estremadura. He had passed through that city a great many years before ; and haying been struck at that time with the delightful situation of the monastery of St. Justus, belong- ing to the order of St. Jerome, not many miles distant from that place, he had then observed to some of his attendants, that this was a spot to which Dioclesian might have retired with pleasure. The impression had remained so strong on his mind, that he pitched upon it as the place of his retreat. 5 It was seated in a vale of no great extent, watered by a email brook, and surrounded by rising ground*, covered with 170 THE ENGLISH READER. PART !. lofty trees. From the nature of the soil, as well as the tem- perature of the climate, it was esteemed the most healthful and delicious situation in Spain. 6 Some months before his resignation, he had sent an archi- tect thither, to add a new apartment to the monastery, for his accommodation; but he gave strict orders that the style of the buildingshould be such as suited his present station, rather than his former dignity. It consisted only of six rooms, four of them in the form of friars' cells, with naked walls ; the other two, each twenty feet square, were hung with brown cloth, and fur- nished in the most simple manner. They were all on a level* with the ground ; with a door on one side into a garden, of which Charles himself had given the plan, and had filled it with various plants, which be proposed to cultivate with his own hands. On the other side, they communicated with the chapel of tne monastery, in which he was to perform his devotions. 7 Into this humble retreat, hardly sufficient for the comforta- ble accommodation of a private gentleman, did Charles enter, with twelve domestics only. He buried there, in solitude and si- lence, his grandeur, his ambition, together with all those vast, projects, which, during half a century, nati alarmed and agitated Europe; filling every kingdom in it, by turns, with the terror of his arms, and the dread of being subjected to his power. 8 In this retirement, Charles formed such a plan of life for himself, as would have suited the condition of a private per- son of a moderate fortune. His table was neat but plain; his domestics few; his intercourse with them familiar; all the cumbersome and ceremonious forms of attendance on his- person were entirely abolished, as destructive of that social ease and tranquillity, which he courted, in order to sooth the remainder of his days. As the mildness of the climate, toge- ther with his deliverance from the burdens and cares of go- vernment, procured him, at first, a considerable remission from the acute pains with which he had been long tormented, lie enjoyed, perhaps, more. complete satisfaction in this hum- ble solitude, than all his grandeur had ever yielded him. 9 The ambitious thoughts and projects winch had so long engrossed and disquieted him, were quite effaced from his mind. Far from taking any part in the political transactions of the princes of Europe, he restrained his curiosity even from any inquiry concerning them ; and he seemed to view the busy scene which he had abandoned, with all the contempt and indifference arising from his thorough experience of its vanity, as well as from the pleasing reflection of having dis- entangled himself from its ca-es. PR* ROBERTSON. THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. PIECES IN POETRY. CHAPTER I. ELECT SENTENCES AND PARAGRAPHS, SECTION I. Short and Easy Sentenc.es. Education. *nPIS education forms the common mind ; * Just as the twig is bent, the tree 's inclln'd. Candour. With pleasure let us own our errors past ; And make each day, a critic on the last. Reflection. A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs. Secret virtue. The private path, tfae secret acts of men, If noble, far the noblest of their lives. Necessary knowledge easily attained. Our needful knowledge, like our needful food, Unhedaj'd, lies open in life's common field; And bids all welcome to the vital feast. Disappointment. Disappointment lurks in many a prize, As bees in flow'rs ; and stings us with success. Virtuous elevation. The mind that would be happy, must be great; G reat in its wishes ; great in its surveys. Extended views a narrow mind extend. Natural and fanciful life. Who lives to nature, rarely can be poor; Who lives to fancy, never can be rich. NOTE. In the first chapter tho Compiler has exhibited a eonridertbte witty if iMMtkal construction, for the young reader'* prepwaio/y exercise. m THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. Charity. In faith and hope the world will disagree; But all mankind's concern is charity. The prize of Virtue. What nothing; earthly gives, or can destroy, The soul's calm sunshine, arid the heart-felt joy, Is virtue's prize. Sense and modesty connected. Distrustful sense with modest caution speaks ; \ It still looks home, and short excursions makes ; > But rattling nonsense in full volleys breaks. Moral discipline salutary. Heav'n gives us friends to bless the present scene ; Resumes them to prepare us for the next. All evils natural, are moral goods ; All discipline, indulgence, on the whole. Present blessings undervalued. Like birds, whose beauties languish, half conceal'd, Till, mounted on the wing, their glossy plumes Expanded, shine with azure, green, and gold, How blessings brighten as they take their flight ! Hope. Hope, of all passions, most befriends us here ; Passions of prouder name befriend us less. Joy has her tears, and transport has her death ; Hope, like a cordial, innocent, though strong, Man's heart at once inspirits and serenes. Happiness modest and tranquil. Never man was truly blest, But it compos'd and gave him such a cast As folly might mistake for want of joy: A cast unlike the triumph of the proud ; A modest aspect, and a smile at heart. True greatness. Who noble ends by nob^e means obtains, Or failing, smiles in exile or in chains, Like good Aurelius let him reign, cr bleed Like Socrates, that man is great indeed. The tear of sympathy. No radiant pearl, which crested fortune wears, No gem, that twinkling hangs from beauty's ears, Nor the bright stars, which night's blue arch adorn* CHIP. I. SELECT SENTENCES. 173 Nor rising guns that gild the vernal morn, Shine with such lustre, as the tear that breaks, For others' wo, down Virtue's manly cheeks. SECTION II. VERSES IN WHICH THE LINES ARE OF DIFFERENT LE5GTH. Bliss of celestial Origin. RESTLESS mortals toil for nought; Bliss in vain from earth is sought ; Bliss, a native of the sky, Never wanders. Mortals, try; There you cannot seek in vaiii ; ' For to seek her, is to gain. The passions. The passions are a num'rous crowd, Imperious, positive, and loud. Curb these licentious sons of strife ; Hence chiefly rise the storms of life ; If they grow mutinous, and rave, They are thy masters, thou their slave. Trust in Providence recommended. 'Tis Providence alone secures, In every change, both mine and yours. Safety consists not in escape From dangers of a frightful shape : An earthquake may be bid to spare The man that's strangled by a hair. Fate steals along with silent tread, Found oft'nest in what least we dread ; Frowns in the storm with angry brow, But in the sunshine strikes the blow. Epitaph. How lov'd, how valu'd once, avails thee not; To whom related, or by whom begot: A heap of du-st alone remains of thee; 'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be. Fame. All fame is foreign, but of true desert; Plays round the head, but conies not to the heart. One self-approving hour, whole years outweigiis 01 stupid starers, am! of loud huzzas; And more true joy Marcellus exii'd feels, Than Ceesar with a senate at his heels. 174 THE ENGLISH READER. PART H. Virtue the Guardian of Youth. Down the smooth stream of life the stripling darts, Gay as the morn ; bright glows the vernal sky, Hope swells his sails, and Passion steers his course Safe glides his little bark along the shore, Where Virtue ,tak es her stand : but if too far HJ launches forth beyond discretion's mark, Sudden the tempest scowls, the surges roar, Blot his fair day, and plunge him in the deep. Sunrise. But yonder comes the powerful king of day, Rejoicing in>the east. The less'ning cloud, The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow, Illum'd with fluid gold, his near approach Betoken glad. Lo, now, apparent all Aslant the dew-bright earth, and coloured air, He looks in boundUess majesty abroad ; And sheds the shining day, that burnished plays On rocks, and hills, and tow'rs, and wand'ring streams, High gleaming from afar. Self -government. May I govern my passions with absolute sway ; And grow wiser and better as life wears away. Shepherd. On a mountain, stretched beneath a hoary willow, Lay a shepherd swain, and viewed the rolling billow. SECTION III. VERSES CONTAINING EXCLAMATIONS, INTERROGATIONS, AND PARENTHESIS. Competence. A COMPETENCE is all we can enjoy : Oh ! be content, where Heaven can give no more I. Reflection essential to Happiness* Much joy not only speaks small happiness, But happiness that shortly must expire. Can joy unbottom'd in reflection, stand t And, in a tempest, can reflection live 1 Friendship. Can gold gain friendship? Impudence of hope I As well mere man an angel might beget. Love, and love only, is the loan for love. Lorenzo ! pride repress ; nor hope to find . I. SELECT SENTENCES. A friend, but what has found a friend in thee. All like the purchase ; few the price will pay I And this makes friends such miracles below. Patience. Beware of desp'rate steps. The darkest day, (Live till to-morrow) will have pass'd away. Luxury. -0 luxury! Bane of elated life, of affluent states, What dreary change, what ruin is not thine How doth thy bowl intoxicate the mind ! To the soft entrance of thy rosy cave, How dost thou lure the fortunate and great Dreadful attraction ! Virtuous Activity. Seize, mortals ! seize the transient hour ; Improve each moment. as it flies: Life's a short summer man a flow'r ; He dies Alas ! how soon he dies ! The Source of Happiness. Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, Lie in three words ; health, peace, and competence. But health consists with temperance alone ; And peace, O, virtue ! peace is all thy own. Placid Emotion. Who can forbear to smile with nature ? Can The stormy passions in the bosom roll, "While every gale is peace, and evefy grove IB melody ? Solitude.* O sacred solitude ! divine retreat ! Choice of the prudent ! envy of the great! By thy pure stream, or in thy waving shade. We court fair wisdom, that celestial maid : The genuine offspring of her lov'd embrace, (Strangers on earth) are innocence and peace. There from the ways of men laid safe ashore, We smile to hear the distant tempest roar ; There, bless'd with health, with bus'ness unperplex'd, This life we relish, and ensure the next. * By nolitude here la meant, a temporary seclusion from tbo woa'4. IT* THE ENGLISH READER. PA** EL Presume not on To-morrow. In human hearts what bolder thoughts can rise, Than man's presumption on to-morrow's dawn ? Where is to-morrow ? In another world. For numbers this is certain ; the reverse Is sure to none. Dam vivimus vivanms. WltilewGlive, let us live. " Live while you live, v the epicure would say, " And seize the pleasures of the present day." " Live while you live. " the sacred preacher cries ; " And give to God each moment as it flies." Lord ! in my views, let both united be ;. I live in pleasure, when I live to thee ! DODDRIDOB* SECTION IV. VERSES IN VARIOUS FORKS. The security of Virtue. AET coward guilt, with pallid fear, To shelt'ring caverns fly, An 'd justly dread the vengeful fate, 1 ^hat thunders through the sky. Prote, ^ te d by that hand, whose law The threat'ning storms obey, Intrepid v Tirtue smiles secure, As in the blaze of day. Resignation. And Oh ! by e wort force subdu'd, Since oft my s . '"bborri will Prepost'rous shuns ' the . Iate ?f S ood > And grasps the sp e f lous llL Not to my wish, but v <> my want, Do thou thy gifts app. ^ 2 Unask'd, what good thou *f What ill, though ask'd, t 1en ^; Co-nip a ' . . " *2ave fouml out a gi^ , ^-pigeons breed : * ' i found where ti/ e WOC But let me that plunder fa ^ D iShe will say, -'tis a barbaro For he ne'er can be true she v Who can rob a poo r bird of And Ilov^dher theri> Such tendernets M* . L SELECT SENTENCES. 17? Epitaph. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; Fair science frown'd nnt on his humble birth, And melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; Heav'n did a recompense as largely send ; He gave to rnis'ry all he had a tear. He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. Joy and Sorroiv connected* Still, where rosy pleasure leads, See a kindred grief pursue, Behind the steps' that mis Yy treads, Approaching comforts view. The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sable tints of woe ; And blended form, with artful strife, The strength and harmony of life. The golden Mean. He that holds fast the golden mean, And lives contentedly between The little and the great, Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, Imbitt'ring all his state. The tallest pines feel most the pcw'r Of wint'ry blast ; the loftiest tow'r Comes heaviest to the ground. The bolts that spare the mountain's side, His cloud-capt eminence divide ; And spread the ruin round. Moderate Views and Jlims recommended. With passions unruffled, untainted with pride, By reason my life let me square ; The wants of my nature are cheaply supplied; And the rest are but folly and care. How vainly, through infinite trouble and strife, The many their labours employ ! Since all that is truly delightful in life, Is what all, if they pleare, may enjoy. 178 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. Attachment to Life. The tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground : >Twas therefore said by ancient sages, That love of life increas'd with years, So much, that in our later stages, When pain grow sharp, and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears. Virtue's address to Pleasure.* Vast happiness enjoy thy gay allies! A youth of follies, an old age of cares; Young yet enervate, old yet never wise, Vice wastes their vigour, and their mind impairs. Vain, idle, delicate, in thoughtless ease, Reserving woes for age, their prime they spend; All wretched, hopeless, in the evil days, With sorrow to the verge of life they tend. Griev'd with the present, of the past asham'd, They live, and are despis'd ; they die, nor more are nam'd. SECTION V. VERSES IN WHICH SOUND CORRESPONDS TO SIGNIFICATION Smooth and rough Verse. o SOFT is the strain when zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows. But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar. Slow J\lotio)i imitated. When Ajax strides some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labours, and the words move slow. Swift and casij JMotion. Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er ih' unbending corn, and skims along the main. Felling Trees in a Wood. Loud sounds the axe, redoubling strokes on strokes; On all sides round the forest hurls her oaks Headlong. Deep echoing groan the thickets brown; Then rustling, crackling, crashing, thunder down. Sound of a How-siring. . The string let fly Twang'd short and sharp, like the shrill swallow's cry. * Sensual Pleasure. CHAP. L SELECT SENTENCES. 17i> The Pheasant. See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings. Scylla and Charybdis. Dire Scylla there a scene of horror forms, And here Charybdis fills the deep with storms. When the tide rushes from her rumbling caves, The pough rock rqars ; tumultuous boil the waves. Boisterous and gentle Sounds. Two craggy rocks projecting to the main, The roarings winds tempestuous rage restrain: Within, the waves in softer murmurs glide ; And ships secure without their halsers ride. Laborious and impetuous Motion. With many a weary step, and many a groan, Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone : The huge round stone resulting with a bound, Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground Regular and sloiv Movement. First march the heavy mules securely slow; O'er hills, o'er dales, o'er crags, o'er rocks they go. Motion slow and difficult. \ needless Alexandrine ends the song, That like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along. Jl Rock torn from the Brow of a Mountain. Still gath'ring force, it smokes, and urg'd amain, Whirls, leaps, and thunders down, impetuous to the plain. Extent and violence of the Waves. The waves behind impel the waves before, Wide rolling, foaming high, and tumbling to the shore. Pensive Numbers. In those deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns Battle Arms on armour clashing brayed Horrible discord ; and the madding wheels Of brazen fury ragM. Sound imitating Reluctance. For who, to dumb forgetful ness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd ( 180 THE ENGLISH READ1LK. PART II Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind ? SECTION VI. PARAGRAPHS OF GREATER LENGTH. Connubial Affection. THE love that cheers life's latest stage, Proof against sickness and old age, Preserv'd by virtue from declension, Becomes not weary of attention: But lives,- wheji that exterior grace, Which first inspired the flame, decays. 'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind, To faults compassionate, or blind ; And will with sympathy endure Those evils it would gladly cure. But angry, coarse, and harsh expression, Shows kve to be a mere profession ; Proves that tbe heart Js none of his, Or soon expels him if it is. Swarms of Flying Insects. Thick in yon stream of light, a thousand ways, Upward and downward, thwarting and convolv'd, - The quiv'ring nations sport ; till, tempest-wing'd Fierce winter sweeps them from the face of day. Ev'n so, luxurious men; unheeding, pass An idle summer life, in fortune's shine, A season's glitter ! Thus they nutter on, From toy to toy, from vanity to vice ; Till, bldwn away by death, oblivion comes Behind, and strikes them from the book of life, Beneficence its own Reivard. My fortune (for I'll mention all, And more than you dare tell) is small; Yet ev'ry friend partakes my store, And want goes smiling from my door. Will forty shillings warm the breast Of worth or industry distress'd ! This sum I cheerfully impart ; 'Tis fourscore pleasures to my heart : And you may make, by means like these, Five talents ten, whene'er you please. >Tis true, rny little purse grows light; But then I sleep so sweet at night ! CHAP. I. -ES. 1M This grand specific -will prevail, When all the doctor's opiates fail. Virtue the btst Treasure. Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul, Is the best gift of Heav'n : a happiness That, even above the smiles and frowns of fate, Exalts great nature's favourites : a wealth That ne'er encumbers ; nor to baser hands Can *be transferred. It is the only good Man justly boasts of, or can call his own. Riches are oft by guilt and baseness earn'd. But for one end, one much-neglected use, Are riches worth our care ; (for nature's wants Are few, and without opulence supplied ;) This noble end is to produce the soul ; To show the virtues in their fairest light; And make humanity the minister Of bounteous Providence. Contemplation. As yet 'tis midnight deep. The weary clouds, Slow meeting, mingle into solid gloom. Now, while the drowsy world lies lost in sleep, Let me associate with the serious night, And contemplation, her sedate compeer; Let me shake off th' intrusive cares of day, And lay the meddling senses all aside. Where now, ye lying vanities of life! Ye ever tempting, ever cheating train ! Where are you now? and what is your amount? Vexation, disappointment, and remorse. Sad, sick'ning thought ! And yet, deluded man, A scene of crude disjointed visions past, And broken slumbers, rises still resolv'd, With new fiush'd hopes, to run the giddy round. Pleasure of Piety. A Deity believ'd, is joy begun ; A Deity ador'd, is joy advanc'd ; A Deity belov'd, is joy matur'd. Fuch branch of piety delight inspires . Vaith builds a bridge from this world to the next, O'er death's dark gulf, and all its horror hides ; Praise, the sweet exhalation of our joy, Th;;? jov exalte, ond makes it sweeter still ; Q 182 THE ENGLISH READER. PART li Pray'r ardent opens heav'n, lets down a stream Of glory, on the consecrated hour Of man in audience with the Deity. CHAPTER II. WJ1RRATIVE PIECES. SECTION I. The Bears and the Bees. AS two young bears, in wanton mood, Forth issuing from a neighbouring wood, Came where the industrious bees had stor'd, In artful cells, their luscious hoard ; O'erjoy'd they seiz'd, with eager haste, Luxurious on the rich repast. Alarrn'd at this, the little crew About their ears vindictive flew. 2 The beasts, unable to sustain The unequal combat, quit the plain : Half-blind with rage, and mad with pain, Their native shelter they regain ; There sit, and now discreeter grown, Too late their rashness they bemoan; And this by dear experience gain, That pleasure 's ever bought with pain. 3 So when the gilded baits of vice Are placed before our longing eyes, With greedy haste we snatch our fill, And swallow down the latent ill: But when experience opes our eyes, Away the fancied pleasure flies. It flies, but oh ! too late we find, It leaves a real sting behind. MERRICK, SECTION II. The Nightingale and the Glow-won A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long Had cheer'd the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appetite ; CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. tS When, looking eagerly around, He spied far off, upon the ground, A something shining in the dark, And knew the glow-worm by his spark ; So, stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop. 2 The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent " Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, " As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do ine wrong, As much as I to spoil your song ; For 'twas the self-same Pow'r divine, Taught you to sing, and me to shine ; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night." 3 The songster heard his short oration, ,. And, warbling out his approbation Releas'd him, as my story tells. And found a supper some where else. Hence, jarring sectaries may learn, Their real interest to discern ; That brother should not war with brother, And worry and devour each other : But sing and shine by sweet consent, Till life's poor transient night, is spent? Respecting, in each other's case, The gifts of nature and of grace. 4 Those Christians best deserve the name, Who studiously make peace their aim ; Peace, both the duty and the prize Of him that creeps, and him that flies. COWPER. SECTION III. The trials of Virtue. PLAC'D on the verge of youth, my mind Life's op'ning scene survey'd : I view'd its ills of various kind, Afflicted and afraid. 2 But chief my fear the dangers movM, That virtue's path enclose: My heart the wise pursuit approved, But 0, what toils oppose ! J84 THE ENGLISH READER. PART It 3 For see, ah see I while yet her ways With douhtful step I tread, A hostile world its terrors raise, Its snares delusive spread. 4 how shall I, with heart prepar'd, Those terrors learn to meet ? How, from the thousand snares to guard My unexperienced feet ? 5 As thus I mus'd, oppressive sleep Soft o'er my temples drew Oblivion's veil. -The v/at'ry deep, (An object strange and new,) 6 Before me rose : on the wide shore Observant as I stood, The gathering storms around me roar, And heave the boiling flood. 7 Near and more near the billows rise ; Ev'n now my steps they 'lave ; And death to my affrighted eyes, Approach'd in every wave. 8 What hope, or whither to retreat ! Each nerve at once unstrung ; Chill fear had fetter'd fast my feet, And chain'd my speechless tongue. 9 I felt my heart within me die ; When sudden to mine ear A voice, descending from on high, Reprov'd my erring fear. 10 "What though the swelling surge thou see Impatient to devour ; Rest, mortal ; rest on God's decree, And thankful own his pow'r. 11 Jnow, when he bade the deep appear, ' Thus far,' the Almighty said, * Thus far, no further rage ; and here * Let thy proud waves be stay'd.' " 12 I heard ; and lo ! at once controll'd, The waves, in wild retreat, Back on themselves reluctant rolPd, And murm'ring left my feet. 13 Deeps to assembling deeps in vain Once more the signal gave ; CHAP, II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 161 The shores the rushing weight sustain, And check th' usurping wave. 14 Convinced, in nature's volume wise, The imag'd truth I read ; And sudden from my waking eyes Th' instructive "vision fled. 15 Then why thus heavy, O my soul? Say, why distrustful still, Thy thoughts with vain impatience roll O'er scenes of future ill? 16 Let faith suppress each rising fear, Each anxious doubt exclude : Thy Maker's will hath plac'd thee here, A Maker wise and good! 17 He to thy ev'ry trial knows Its just restraint to give : Attentive to behold thy woes, And faithful to relieve. 18 Then why thus heavy, my soul! Say, why distrustful still, Thy thoughts with vain impatience roll, O'er scenes of future ill ? 19 Though griefs unnumber'd throng thee round, Still in thy God confide, Whose finger marks the seas their bound, And curbs the headlong tide. MERRICK. SECTION IV. The Youth and the Philosopher. A GRECIAN youth of talents rare, Whom Plato's philosophic care Had forrn'd for virtue's nobler view, By precept and example too, WjDuld often boast his matchless skill, To curb the steed, and guide the wheel ; And as he pass'd the gazing throng, With graceful ease, and smack'd the thong, The idiot wonder they express'd, Was praise and transport to his breast. 2 At length, quite vain, he needs would show His master what his art could do; Q 2 18* THE ENGLISH READER. PAJIT It And bade his slaves the chariot lead To Acadetfms' sacred shade. The trembling grove confess'd its fright, The wood-nymph started at the sight; The muses drop their learned lyre, And to their inmost shades Fetire. 3 Howe'er, the youth, with forward air, Bows to the sage, and mounts the car. The lash resounds, the coursers spring, The chariot marks the rolling ring; And gath'ring crowds, with eager eyes, And shouts, pursue him as he flies. 4 Triumphant to the goal returned, With nobler thirst his bosom burn'd ; And now along th' indented plain, The self-same track he marks again; Pursues with care the nice design, Nor ever deviates from the line. Amazement seizM the circling crowd ; The youths with emulation glow'd ; Ev'n bearded sages hail'd the boy ; And all but Plato gaz'd with joy. 5 For he, deep-judging sage, beheld With pain the triumphs of the field: And when the charioteer drew nigh, And, flush'd with hope, had caught his eye, " Alas ! unhappy youth," he cry'd, " Expect no praise from me," (and sigh'd.) 6 " With indignation I survey Such skill and judgment thrown away: The time profusely squander'd there, On vulgar arts beneath thy care, If well employ 'd, at less expense, Had taught thee honour, virtue, sense ; And raisM thee from a coachman's fate, To govern men, and guide the state." SECTION V. Dlwovrce bekvctn Jldain and Eve, retiring to rest. NOW carat* still ev'rimg on, and tui light gray Had in her .sober liv'ry all things clad. Silenc'e accompanied ; for beast and bird, They to their grassy couch, these to their nesta, CHAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES, 187 Were sunk ; all but the wakeful nightingale. She all night long her am'rous descant sung; Silence was pleas'd. Now glow'd the firmament With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length, Apparent queen, unveil'd her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 2 When Adam thus to Eve : " Fair consort, th' houi Of night, and all things now retir'd to rest, Mind us of like repose ; since God hath set Labour and rest, as day and night, to men Successive, and the timely dew of sleep, NDW falling with soft slum'brous weight, inclines Our eye-lids. Other creatures all day long Rove idle unemployed, and less need rest : Man hath his daily work of body or of mind Appointed, which declares his dignity, And the regard of Heav'n on all his ways ; While other animals unactive range, And of their doings God takes no account. 3 To-morrow, ere fresh morning streak the east With first approach of light, we must be risen, And at our pleasant labour ; to reform Yon flow'ry arbours, yonder alleys green, Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, That mock our scant manuring, and require More hands than ours to lop their wanton growth. Those blossoms also, and those dropping gums, That lie bestrewn, unsightly and unsrnooth, Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease. Meanwhile, as nature wills, night bids us rest." 4 To whom thus Eve, with perfect beauty adorn'd : "My author and disposer, what thou bidst, Unargu'd, I obey ; so God ordains. With thee conversing, I forget all time ; All seasons and their change, nil please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With tliarm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful laad he spreads His orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flow'r, Glist'ring with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth After soft show'rs. ; and sweet the coming oa 166 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II Of grateful evening mild ; then silent night, With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, And these, the gems of heav'n, her starry train: 6 But neither breath of morn, when she ascends With charm of earliest birds ; nor rising sun On this delightful land ; nor herb, fruit, flow'r, Glist'riug with dew ; nor fragrance after show'rs ; Nor grateful ev'ning mild ; nor silent night, With this her solemn bird ; nor walk by moon, Or glitt'ring star-light without thee is sweet. But wherefore all night long shine these ? for whom This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes 1" 6 To whom our gen'ral ancestor reply'd : " Daughter of God and man, accomplished Eve ! These have their course to finish round the earth, By morrow ev'ning; and from land to land, In order, though to nations yet unborn, Minist'ring light prepar'd, they set and rise ; Lest total darkness should by night regain Her old possession, and extinguish life In nature and all things ; which these soft fires Not only enlighten, but with kindly heat Of various influence, foment and warm, Temper or nourish ; or in part shed down Their stellar virtue on ail kinds that grow On earth, made hereby apter to receive Perfection from the sun's more potent ray. 7 These, then, though unbeheld in deep of night, Shine not in vain ; nor think, though men were none, That heav'n would want spectators, God want praise. Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep. All these with ceaseless praise his works behold, Both day and night. How often, from the steep Of echoing hill or thicket, have we heard Celestial voices to the midnight air, Sole, or responsive each to others' note, Singing their great Creator ? Oft in bands, . While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk With heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds, In full harmonic number join'd, their songs. Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heav'n. " 8 Thus talking, hand in hand, alone they pass'd On to their blissful bow'r. ! CAP. II. NARRATIVE PIECES. 169 -There arriv'd, both stood, Both turn'd ; and under open sky ador'd The God that made both sky, air, earth, and heav'n, Which they beheld, the moon r s resplendent globe, And starry pole. "Thou also mad'st the night, Maker Omnipotent, and thou the day, Which we, in our appointed work employ'd, Have finished, happy in our mutual help, And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss Ordained by thee ; and this delicious place, For us too large, where thy abundance wants Partakers, and uncropt falls to the ground. But thou hast promised from us two a race, To fill the earth, who shall with us extol Thy goodness infinite, both when we wake, And when we seek, as now, thy gift of sleep." MILTON. SECTION VI. Religion and Death. LO ! a form, divinely bright, Descends, and bursts upon my sight; A seraph of illustrious birth! (Religion was her name on earth;) Supremely sweet her radiant face, And blooming with celestial grace! Three shining cherubs form'd her train, Wav'd their light wings, and reachM the plain: Faith, with sublime and piercing eye, And pinions fluttering for the sky ; Here Hope, that smiling, angel stands, And golden anchors grace her hands; There Charity in robes of white, Fairest and fav'rite maid of light. 2 The seraph spoke " 'Tis Reason's part To govern and to guard the heart; To lull the wayward soul to rest, When hopes and fears < *5rthy bark through various life: But when the storms of death are nigh, And midnight darkness veils the sky, Shall Reason then direct thy sail, Disperse the clouds, or sink the gale? 190 THE ENGLISH READER. FART IL Stranger, this skill alone is mine, Skill that transcends his scanty line. 3 " Revere thyself thou'rt near allied To angels on thy better side. How various e'er tneir ranks or kinds. Angels are but unbodied minds : 'When the partition-walls decay, Men emerge angels from their clay. Yes, when the frailer body dies, The soul asserts her kindred skies. But minds, though sprung from heav'nly race, Must first be tutor'd for the place : * The joys above are understood, And relish'd only by the good. Who shall assume this guardian care ; Who shall secure their birth-right there? Souls are my charge to me 'tis giv'n To train them for their native heav'n." 4 u Know then- who bow the early knee, And give the willing heart to me ; Who wisely, when Temptation waits, Elude her frauds, and spurn her baits ; Who dare to own my irijur'd cause, Though fools deride my sacred laws ; Or scorn to deviate to the wrong, Though persecution lifts her thong ; Though all the sons of hell conspire To raise the stake and light the fire ; Know that for such superior souls, There lies a bliss beyond the poles : Where spirits shine with purer ray, And brighten to meridian day : Where love, where boundless friendship rules; (No friends that change, no love that cools ;) Where rising floods, of knowledge roll, And pour, and pour upon the soul !" 5 " But where's the passage to the skies ? The road through death's black valley lies. Nay, do not shudder at my tale : Tho' dark the shades, yet safe the vale. This path the best of men have trod ; And who'd decline the road to God ! Oh ! 'tis a glorious boon to die ! This favour can't be priz'd too high * CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 19J 6 While- thus she spoke, my looks express'd The raptures kindling in my breast; My soul a x'd attention gave ; When the stern monarch of fhe grave, With haughty strides approach'd : amaz'd I stood, and trembled as I gaz'd. The seraph calm'd each anxious fear, And kindly wip'd the falling tear ; Then hasten'd, with expanded wing, To meet the pale, terrific king. 7 But now what milder scenes arise ! The tyrant drops his hostile guise ; He seems a youth divinely fair ; In graceful ringlets waves his hair ; His wings their whitening plumes display, His burnish'd plumes, reflect the day ; Light flows his shining azure vest, And all. the angel stands confessed. I view'd the change with sweet surprise ; And, Oh ! I panted for the skies ; Thank'd heav'n, that e'er I drew my breath, And triumphed in the thoughts of death. COTTOK. CHAPTER III. DIDACTIC PIECES. -^c*^ SECTION I. The vanity of Wealth. NO more thus brooding o'er yon heap, With av'rice painful vigils keep ; Still unenjoy'd the present store, Still endless sighs are breath'd for more. On I quit the shadow, catch the prize, Which not all India's treasure buys ! To purchase heav'n has gold the pow'r t Can gold remove the mortal hour 1 In life, can love be bought with gold ? Are friendships pleasures to be sold ? No all that 's worth a wish a thought, Fair virtue gives uribrib'd, unbought. Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind ; Let nobler views engage thy mind. DR. JOHN so*. 19* THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. SECTION II. Nothing fonned in vain. LET no presuming impious railer tax Creative wisdom, as if aught was form'd In vain, or not for admirable ends. Shall little haughty ignorance pronounce His works unwise, of which the smallest part Exceeds the narrow vision of her mind? As if, upon a full-proportion'd dome, On swelling columns heav'd, the pride of art, A critic-fly, whose feeble ray scarce spreads An inch around, with blind presumption bold, Should dare to tax the structure of the whole. 2 And lives the man whose universal eye Has swept at once th? unbounded scheme of things ; Mark'd their dependence so, and firm accord, As with unfault'ring accent to conclude, That this availeth nought ? Has any seen The mighty chain of beings, less'ning down From infinite perfection to the brink Of dreary nothing, desolate abyss ! From which astonished thought, recoiling, turns? Till then alone let zealous praise ascend, And hymns of holy wonder to that POWER, Whose wisdom shines as lovely in our minds, As on our smiling eyes his servant sun. THOMPSON. SECTION III. On Pride. OF all the causes, which conspire to blind Man's erring judgment, and misguide the mind, What the weak head with strongest bias ruled, Is pride ; the never failing vice of fools. Whatever nature has in worth deny'd. She gives in large recruits of needful pride! For, as in bodies, thus in souls, we .find What wants in blood and spirits, swell'd with wind Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, And fills up all the mighty void of sense. 2 If once right reason drives that cloud away, Truth breaks upon us with resistless day. Trust not yourself; but, your defects to know, Make use ofev'ry friend -and evVy foe. CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 1 A little learning is a dangerous thing; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring : There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain; And drinking largely sobers us again. 3 Fir'd at first sight with what the muse imparts, In fearless youth we tempt the heights of arts, While, from the bounded level of our mind, Short views we take, nor see the lengths behind ; But more advanc'd, behold, with strange surprise, New distai)! scenes of endless science rise ! So, pleas'd at first the tow'ring Alps we trv, Mount o'er the vales, and seem to tread the sky; Tli' eternal snows appear already past, Ai;d the first clouds and mountains seem the last : But, those attain'd, we tremble to survey The growing labours of the lengthened way; Th' increasing prospect tires our wand'ring eyes ; Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise FOPK, SECTION IV. Cruelty to Brutes censured* I WOULD not enter on my list of friends, (Though grac'd with polish'd manners and fine sense Yet wanting sensibility,) the man Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. An inadvertent step may crush the snail, That crawls at evening in the public path; But he that has humanity, forewarn ri. Will tread aside, and let the reptile live. 2 The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight, And charg'd perhaps with venom, that intrudes A visitor unwelcome into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose, th' alcove, The chamber, or refectory, may die. A necessary act incurs no blame. N ot so, when held within their proper bounds, And guiltless of offence they range the air, Or take their pastime in the spacious field. There they are privileg'd. And he that hunts Or harms them there, is guilty of a wrong; Disturbs f .h' economy of nature's realm, Who when she form'd, design'd them an abode. 3 The sum is this: if mari ? s convenience, health, Or safety interfere, his rights and claims 194 , THE ENGLISH READER. PART II Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs. Else 'they are all the meanest things that are As free to live and to enjoy that life, As God was free to form them at the first, Who, in his sovereign wisdom, made them all. 4 Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons To love it too. The spring time of our years Is soon dishonoured and defiPd in most, By budding ills that ask a prudent hand To check them. But alas ! none sooner shoots If unrestrain'd, into luxuriant growth, Than cruelty, most dev'lish of them all. 5 Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule And righteous limitation of its act, By which heav'n moves in pard'ning guilty man j And he that shows none, being ripe in years, And conscious of the outrage he commits, Shall seek it, arid not find it, in his turn.-*-cowPER. SECTION V. Paraphrase on the latter part of the 6th chapter of St Matthew. WHEN my breast labours with oppressive care, And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear; While all my warring passions are at strife, Oh ! let me listen to the words of life ! Raptures deep-felt his doctrine did impart, And thus he rais'd from earth the drooping heart. 2 " Think not, when all your scanty stores afford, Is spread at once upon the sparing board ; Think not, when worn the homely robe appears, While on the roof the howling tempest bears ; WhaUurther shall this feeble life sustain, And what shall clothe these shiv'ring limbs again. 3 Say, does not life its nourishment exceed? And the fair body its investing weed ? Senolcl ! and look away your low despair See the light tenants of the barren air: To them, nor stores nor granaries belong ; Nought, but the woodland and the pleasing song ; Yet, your kind heav'rily Father bends his eye On the least wing that flits along the sky. 4 To him they sing, when spring renews the plain ; \ To him they cry, in winter's pinching reign; Nor is tbfeir music, nor their piaint in vain; CHAP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 195 He hears the gay, and the distressful call; And with unsparing bounty fills them all." 5 " Observe the rising lily's snowy grace ; Observe the various vegetable race : They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow; Yet see how warm they blush ! how bright they glow! What regal vestments can wi h them compare! What king so shining! or what queen so fair!" 6 "If ceaseless, thus, the fowls of heav'n he feeds; If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads; Will he not care for you, ye faithless, say? Is he unwise? or are ye less than they?" THOMSON. SECTION VI. The death of a good JVIan a strong incentive to Virtue. THE chamber where the good man meets his fate, Is privileged beyond the common walk 0f virtuous life, quite in the verge of heav'n. Fly, ye profane ! if not, draw near with awe, Receive the blessing, and adore the chance, "* That threw in this Bethesda your disease: If unrestor'd by this, despair your cure. 2 For, here, resistless demonstration dwells; A death-bed's a detector ol the heart. Here tir'd dissimulation drops her mask, Thro' life's griir.ace, that mistress of the scene! Here real, and apparent, are the same. You see the man ; you see his hold on heav'n, If sound his virtue, as Philander's sound. 3 Heav'n waits not the last moment ; c\vns her friem On this side death, and points them out to men ; A lecture, silent, but of sov'reign pow'r; To vice, confusion : and to virtue, peace. Whatever farce the boastful hero plays, Virtue alone has majesty in death ; And greater still, the more the tyrant frowns. YO>: SECTION VII. Reflections on a Future State, from arev;*iv ofWini 'TIS done ! dread winter spreads his latest glooms And reigns tremendous o'er the conquer'd year. How dead the vegetable kingdom lies ! How dumb the tuneful ! Horror wide extends His desolate domain. Behold, fond man ! See here thy pictur'd life : pass some few years, 190 THE ENGLISH READER. PART H. Thy flow'ring spring, thy summer's ardent strength, Thy sober autumn fading into age, And pale concluding winter comes at last, And shuts the scene. 2 Ah ! whither now are fled Those dreams of greatness? those unsolid hopes Of happiness? those longings after fame? Those restless cares ? those busy bustling days ? Those gay-spent, festive nights? those veering thoughts, Lost between good and ill, that shar'd thy life ? 3 All now are vanished ! Virtue sole survives, Immortal, jnever-failing friend of man, His guide to happiness on high. And see ! 'Tis come, the glorious morn ! the second birth Of heav'n and earth ! awak'riing nature, hears The new-creating word, and starts to life, In ev'ry heightened form, from pain and death For ever free. The great eternal scheme, Involving all, and in a perfect whole Uniting as the prospect wider spreads, To reason's eye refin'd clears up apace. 4 Yo vainly wise! Ye blind presumptuous! now, Confounded in the dust, adore that Power And Wisdom, oft arraiga'd : see now the cause Why unassuming worth in secret liv'd, And tiled neglected : why the good man's share In life was gall and bitterness of soul : Why the lone widow and her orphans pin'd In starving solitude ; while luxury, In palaces lay straining her low 'thought, To form unreal wants : why heav'n-born truth, And moderation fair, wore the red marks Of superstition's scourge : why licens'd pain, That cruel spoiler, that embosom'd foe, Imbittcr'd all our bliss. 5 Ye good distressed ! Ye noble few ! who here unbending stand Beneath life's pressure, yet bear up awhile, And what your bounded view, which only saw A little part, deem'd evil, is no more : The storms of wint'ry time will quickly pass, And one unbounded spring encircle all. THOMSO CHAP. in. DIDACTIC PIECES. 197 SECTION VIII. Adam's advice to Eve, to avoid temptation. " O WOMAN, best are all things as the will Of God ordain'd them ; his creating hand Nothing imperfect or deficient left Of all that he created, much less man, Or aught that might his happy, state secure, Secure from outward force. Within himself The danger lies, yet lies within his pow'r: Against his will he can receive no harm. 2 But God *left free the will ; for what obeys Reason, is free, and reason he made right ; But bid her well beware, and still erect, 7 ( est, by some fair appearing good surprised, She dictate false, and misinform the will To do what God expressly hath forbid. Not then mistrust, but tender love, enjoins That I should mind thee oft : arid mind thou me, 3 "Firm we subsist, yet possible to swerve, Since reason not impossibly may meet Some specious object by the foe suborn'd, Arid fall into deception unaware, Not keeping strictest watch, as she was warn'd. Seek not temptation then, which to avoid Were better, and most likely if from me Thou sever not ; trial will come unsought. 4 Wonldst thou approve thy constancy ? approve First thy obedience ; th j other who can know, Not seeing thee attempted, who attest? But if thou think, trial unsought may find Us both securer than thus warn'd thou seem'st, Go ; for thy stay, not free, absents thee more : Go in thy native innocence ; rely On what thou hast of virtue, summon all; For God towards thee hath done his part ; do thine." MILTON SECTION IX. On Procrastination. BE wise to-day; His madness to defer : Next day the fatal precedent will plead j Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time. Tr after vc'av it steals, till all ar? Oal; 1*8 THE ENGLISH HEADER. PART. H And, to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene. 2 Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears ', The palm, " That all men are about to live:" For ever on the brink of being born. All pajr themselves the compliment to think, They one day shall not drivel ; ^nd their pride On this reversion, takes up ready praise ; At least their own ; their future selves. applauds ; How excellent that life they ne'er will lead ! Time lodg'd in their own hands Is folly's vails ; That lodg'd in fate's, to wisdom they consign ; The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone. 'Tic not in folly, not to scorn a fool ; And scarce in human wisdom to do more. 3 All promise is poor dilatory man ; And that thro' ev'ry stage. When young, Indeed, In full content we sometimes nobly rest, Unanxious for ourselves ; and only wish, As duteous sons, our father's were more wise. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; At fifty, chides his infamous delay ; Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; In all the magnanimity of thought, Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same. 4 And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal, but themselves : Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread ; But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close ; where, past the shaft, no trace is found. As from the wing no scar the sky retains ; The parted wave no furrow from the keel ; So dies in human hearts the thought cf death. Ev'n with the tender tear which Nature stierts O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. YOUNG. SECTION X. That Philosophy, which stops at Secondary Causes rcjnoved, HAPPY the man who sees a God employ'd In all the good and ill that checker life I Resolving all events, with their effects Aacl manifold retmlts> inta the will OIUP. III. DIDACTIC PIECES. 199 And arbitration wise of the Supreme. Did not his eye rule all things, and intend The least, of our concerns ; (since from the least The greatest oft originate ;) could chance Find place in his dominion, or dispose One lawless particle to thwart his plan ; Then God might he surprised, and unforseea Contiftger.ee might alarm him and disturb The smooth and equal course of his affairs. 2 This truth, philosophy, though eagle-ey'd In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks ; And having found his instrument, forgets Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, Denies the powV that wields it. God proclaims T ;ot displeasure against foolish men That live an atheist life ; involves the heav'n In tempests ; quits his grasp upon the winds, And gives them all their fury ; bids a plague Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin, An! putrefy the breath of blooming health ; 3 He calls for famine, and the meagre fiend Blows mildew from between his shrivel'd lips, And taints the golden ear ; he springs his mines, And desolates a nation at a blast : Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells Of homogeneal arid discordant springs And principles ; of causes, how they work By necessary laws their sure effects, Of action o.nd re-action. 4 He has found The source of the disease that nature feels ; And bids the world take heart and banish fear= Thou fool ! will thy discov'ry of the cause Suspend th' effect, or he?,l it? Has not God Still wrought by means since first he made the wond ? And did he no!^ of old ; iv.eaus To drown it? \\\\?, \ less Than a capacio ;;s, Form'd ibi- his use, his will? Go, dress thine eyv .-sruvc; askf)f him. Or ask of whomsoever h;; lias taught ; And learn, though fote, tV? -Triririr.s cause of alL COWFJUU 200 THE ENGLISH READER. PART IL SECTION XL Indjgttjnt Sentiments on National Prejudices^ Slavery, $c* Of I, for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless continuity of shade, Where rumour of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more ! My ear is pain'd, My soul is sick with ev'ry day's report Of wrong and outrage with which eartn s filPd. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart ; (t does not feel for man. The nat'ral bond Of brotherhood is sever'd, as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. ' He finds his fellow guilty of a skin , Not colour'd like his own ; and having pow'r T' enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interpos'd, Make enemies of nations, who had else, Like kindred drops, been mingled into one. 3 i'hus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; And worse than all, and most to be deplor'd, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 4 Then what is man ! And what man seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To cany me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. 5 No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation priz'd above all price ; I had mu-ch ratner be myself the slave, And wear the oonds, that fasten them on him. We have no slaves jat home then why 'abroad? And they themseives once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. 6 Slaves cannot breavhe in England : if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles falL noble, and b'espeaW * nation proud $ CHAP. IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 201 And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through ev'ry vein Of all your empire ; that where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. COWPER. CHAPTER IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. ^.0^0^- SECTION I. The Morning in Summer. THE rneek-ey'd morn appears, mother of dews, At first faint gleaming in the dappled east; Till far o'er ether spreads the wid'ning glow ; And from before the lustre of her lace White break the clouds away. With quicken'd step, Brown night retires ; young clay pours in apace, And opens all the lawny prospect wide. 2 The dripping rock, the mountain's misty top, Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn. Blue, thro' the dusk the smoking currents shine; And from the biaded field the fearful hare Limps awkward : while along the ibrest-^lade The wild deer trip, and often turning gaze At early passenger. Music awakes The native voice of undissembled joy ; And thick around the woodland hymns arise. 3 Rous'd by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells ; And from the crowded fold, in order, drives His flock to taste the verdure of the morn. Falsely luxurious, will not man awake ; And springing from the bed of sloth, enjoy The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour, To meditation due and sacred song ? 4 For is there aught in sleep can charm the wise ? To lie in dead oblivion, losing half The fleeting moments of too short a life; Total extinction of th' enlighten'tl soul! Or else to feverish vanity alive, Wilder'd, and tossing thro' distemper'd dreams] Who would in such a gloomy state remain Longer than nature craves; when ev'ry muse And ev'ry blooming pleasure waits without, To bless the wildly devious morning walk? TiroMSOH. 202 HE ENGLISH READER. PART IL SECTION II. Rural Sounds, as ivell as Rural Sights, delightful NOR rural sights alone, but rural sounds Exilarate the spirit, and restore The tone of languid nature. Mighty w r inds That sweep the skirt of some far-spreading wood, Of ancient growth, make music, not unlike The dash of ocean on his winding shore, And lull the spirit while they fill the mind ; Unnumber'd branches waving in the blast, And all their leaves fast fluttering all at once. 2 Nor less composure waits upon the roar Of distant floods; or on the softer voice Of neighb'ring fountain; or of rills that slip Through the cleft rock, and, chiming as they fall Upon loose pebbles, lose themselves at length In. matted grass, that, with a livelier green, Betrays the secret of their silent course. Nature inanimate employs sweet sounds ; But animated nature sweeter still ; To soothe and satisfy the human ear. 3 Ten thousand warblers cheer the day, and one The live-long night? Nor these alone, whose notes Nice finger d art must emulate in vain ; But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime, In still repeated circles, screaming loud ; The jay, the pye, and ev'n the boding owl, That hails the rising moon, have charms for me, Sounds inharmonious in themselves, and harsh, Yet heard in scenes where peace for ever reigns, And only there, please highly for their sake.- COWPER SECTION III. The Rose. THE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a show'r, Which Mary to Anna conveyed ; The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flow'r, And weigh'd down its beautiful head. 2 The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet, And it seemed to a fanciful view. To weep for the buds it had left with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew4 3 I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drownM ; CHAP. IV. DESCRIPTITE PIECES. 203 And swinging it rudety, too rudely, alas ! I snapped it it fell to the ground. 4 And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part, Some act by the delicate jn'md ; Regardless of wringing and breaking 9, heart, Already to sorrow^ resigned. 5 This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile ; And the tear that is wip'd with a little address, May be foHowed, perhaps, by a smile. -COWPER SECTION IV. Care of 'Birds for their Young. AS thus the patient dam assiduous sits, Not Jo be tempted from her tender task, Or by sharp hunger, or by smooth delight, Tho T the whole loosen'd spring around her blows, Her sympathizing partner takes his stand High on th' opponent bank, and ceaseless sings The tedious time away ; or else supplies Her place a moment, while she sudden flits To pick the scanty meal. 2 Th' appointed time With pious toil fulfilled, the callow young, Warm'd and expanded into perfect life, Their brittle bondage break, and come to light ; A helpless family, demanding food With constant clamour. O what passions then, What melting sentiments of kindly care, On the new parents seize ! 3 Away they fly Affectionate, and undesiring bear The most delicious morsel to their young ; Which equally distributed, again The search begins. Even so a gentle pair, By fortune sunk, but forrn'd of gen'rous mould, And charm'd with cares beyond the vulgar breast, In some lone cot amid the distant woods, Sustain'd alone by providential Heav'n, Oft, as they weeping eye their infant train, Check their own appetites and give them all. THOMSON. SECTION V. Liberty and Slavery contrasted. Part of a letter toniten from Italy, by Jlddison. HOW has kind Heav'n adorn'd this happy lanJ, tfeatofer'cl blessings witk a wastisfcl hami! 204 THE ENGLISH READER. * PART II But what avail her unexhausted stores, Her blooming mountains, ar-d her sunny shores, With all the gifts that heav'n and earth impart, The smiles of nature, and the charms of art, While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, And tyranny usurps her happy plains 1 The poor inhabitant beholds in vain The redd'ning orange, and the swelling grain ; Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, And in the myrtle's fragrant shade, repines. 2 Oh, Liberty, thou pow'r supremely bright, Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight ! Perpetual pleasures in thy presence reign ; And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train. Eas'd of her load, subjection grows more light; And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight. Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay ; Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. On foreign mountains may the sun refine The grape's soft juice, arid mellow it to wine ; With citron groves adorn a distant soil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil : We envy not the warmer clime that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies; Nor at the coarseness of our heav'n repine, Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine : 'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, [smile. And makes her barren rocks, and her bleak mountains SECTION VI. Charity. A Paraphrase on the 13th Chapter of the First Epistle to the Corinthians. DID sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue, Than ever man pronoimc'd, or angel sung ; Had I all knowledge, human and divine, That thought can reach, or science can define; And had I pow'r to give that knowledge birth, In all the speeches of the babbling earth ; Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire, To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire ; Or had I faith like that which Israel saw, When Moses gave them miracles, and lawr Yet, gracious charity, indulgent guest, Were not thy power exerted in my breast; CHAP. IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 205 Those speeches would send up unheeded pray'r ; That scoru of life would be but wild despair : A cymbal's sound were better than my voice ; My faith were form ; my eloquence were noise , 2 Chanty, decent, modest, easy, kind, Softens the high, and rears the abject mind, Knows with just reins, and gentle hand, to guide Betwixt vile shame, and arbitrary pride. Not soon provoked, she easily forghes ; And much she suffers, as she much believes. Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives ; She builds our quiet as she forms our lives ; Lays the rough paths of peevish nature even ; And opens in each heart a little heav'n. 3 Each other gift, which God on man bestows, Its proper bounds, and due restriction knows j To one fix'd purpose dedicates its pow'r, And finishing its act exists no morer Thus, in obedience to what heav'n decrees, Knowledge shall fail, and prophecy shall cease ; But lasting chanty's more ample sway, Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay, In happy triumph shall for ever live ; And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive* 4 As through the artist's intervening glass. Our eye observes the distant planets pass ; A little we discover ; but allow, That more remains unseen, than art can show ; So whilst our mind its knowledge would improve, (Its feeble eye intent on things above,) High as we may, we lift our reason up, By faith directed, and confirm'd by hope ; Yet we are able only to survey, Dawnings of beams, and promises of day ; Heaven's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight ; Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light. 5 But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispell'd ; The sun shall soon be face to face beheld, In all his robes, with all his glory on, Seated sublime on his meridian throne. Then constant Faith, and holy Hope, shall die ; One lost in certainly, and one in joy : Whilst thou, more happy power, fair Chanty, Triumphant sister, greatest of the three, 206 THE ENGLISH READER. PART IL Thy office, and thy nature still the same, Lasting thy lamp, and unconsum'd thy flame, Shalt still survive Shalt stand before the hosts of heav'n confest, For ever blessing, and for ever blest. PRIOR. SECTION VII. Picture oj a Good J\lan. SOME angel guide my pencil, while I draw, What nothing else than angel can exceed, A man on earth devoted to the skies ; Like ships at sea, while in, above the world. With aspect mild, and elevated eye, Behold him seated on a mount serene, Above the fogs of sense, and passion's storm ; All the black cares, and tumults of this life, Like harmless thunders, breaking at his feet, Excite his pity, not impair his peace. 2 Earth's genuine sons, the sceptred, and the slave, A mingled mob ! a wand'ring herd ! he sees, Bewilder'd in the vale ; in all unlike ! His full reverse in all ! What higher praise ? What stronger demonstration of the right? The present all their care ; the future his. When public welfare calls, or private want, They give to fame ; his bounty he conceals. Their virtues varnish nature ; his exalt. Mankind's esteem they court ; and he his own. 3 Theirs the wild chase of false felicities ; His, the compos'd possession of the true. Alike throughout is his consistent piece, All of one colour, and an even thread ; While party-colour'd shades of happiness, With hideous gaps between, patch up for them A madman's robe ; each puff of fortune blows The tatters by, and shows their nakedness. 4 He sees with other eyes than theirs ; where they Behold a sun, he 'spies a Deity ; What makes them only smile, makes him adore. Where they see mountains, he but atoms sees ; An empire in his balance, weighs a grain. They things terrestrial worship, as divine ; His hopes immortal blow them by, as dust, That dims his sight and shortens his survey Which longs, in infinite, to lose all bound CHAP. IV. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. 07 5 Titles and honours (if they prove his fate) He lays aside to find his dignity ; No dignity they find in aught besides. They triumph in externals, (which conceal Man's real glory,) proud of an eclipse: Himself too much he prizes to be proud ; And nothing thinks so great in man, as man. Too dear he holds his int'rest to neglect Another's welfare, or his right invade ; Their int'rest, like a lion, li, s on prey. 6 They kindle at the shadow of a wrong ; Wrong he sustains with temper, looks on heav'n, Nor stoops to think his injurer his foe : Nought, bat what wounds his virtue, wounds his peace. A cover'd heart their character defends ; A cover'd heart denies him half his praise. 7 With nakedness his innocence agrees! While their broad foliage testifies their fall ! There no joys end, where his full feast begins : His joys create, theirs murder, future bliss. To triumph in existence, his alone; And his alone triumphantly to think His true existence is not yet begun. His glorious course was, yesterday, complete : Death, then, was welcome ; yet life still is sweet. YOUNG. SECTION VIII. The pleasures of Retirement. KNEW he but his happiness, of men The happiest he ! who, far from public rage, Deep in the vale, with a choice few retir'd, Drinks the pure pleasures r f the rural life. 2 What tho' the dome be wanting, whose proud gate Each morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd Of flatterers false, and in their turn abus'd ? Vile intercourse ! What though the glitt'ring robe, Of ev'ry hue reflected light can give, Or floated loose, or stiff with mazy gold, The pride and gaze of fools, oppress him not? What tho', from utmost land and sea purveyed, For him each rarer tributary life Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps With luxury, and death ? What tho' his bowl Flames not with costly juice ; nor sunk in bed* Oft of gay care, he tosses out the oght, 208 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state 1 What tho' he knows not those fantastic joys, That still amuse the wanton, still deceive ; A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain ; Their hollow moments undelighted all ? Sure peace is his ; a solid life estranged To disappointment and fallacious hope. 3 Rich in content, in nature's hounty rich, In herbs and fruits ; whatever greens the spring, When heaven descends in showers ; or bends the bougb When summer reddens, and when autumn beams : Or in the wintry glebe whatever lies ,^ ConceaPd, and fattens with the richest sap : These are not wanting ; nor the milky drove, Luxuriant spread o'er all the lowing vale ; Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams, And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade, Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay ; Nor aught besides of prospect, grove, or song, Dim grottos, gleaming lakes, and fountains clear. 4 Here too dwells simple truth ; plain innocence ; Unsullied beauty ; sound unbroken youth, Patient of labour, with a little pleas'd ; Health ever blooming ; unambitious toil ; Calm contemplation, and poetic ease. THOMSON. SECTION IX. The Pleasure and Benefit of an improved and well-dirtcteA Imagination. OH ! blest of Ileav'n, who not the languid songs Of luxury, the siren ! not the bribes Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils Of pageant Honour, can seduce to leave Those ever-blooming sweets, which, from the store Of nature, fair imagination culls, To charm th' enliven'd soul ! What tho' not all Of mortal offspring can attain the height Of envied life ; tho' only few possess Patrician treasures, or imperial state ; Yet nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasures, and an ampler state, Endows at large whatever happy man Will deign to use them. 2 His the city's pomp* The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns OHAP. IY. DESCRIPTIVE PIECES. The princely dome, the column, and the arch, The breathing marble and the sculptured gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring Distils her dews, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds : for him, the hand Of autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold, and 'blushes like the morn. Each passing hour sheds tribute from. her wings ; And still new beauties meet his lonely walk, And loves unfelt attract him. 3 Not a breeze Flies 'o'er the meadow; not a cloud imbibes The setting sun's effulgence ; not a strain From all the tenants of the warbling shade Ascends ; but whence his bosom can partake Fresh pleasure, unrepiov'd. Nor thence partakes Fresh pleasure only ; for th' attentive mind, By this harmonious action on her powers, Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft In outward things to medifate the charm Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home, To find a kindred order ; to exert Within herself this elegance of love, This fair inspired delight : her temper'd pow'rs Refine at length, and every passion wears A chaster, milder, more attractive mien. 4 But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze On nature's form, where, negligent of all These lesser graces, she assumes the port Of that Eternal Majesty that weigh 'd The world's foundations ; if to these the mind Exalts her daring eye ; then mightier far Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms Of servile custom cramp her gen'rous pow'rs ? Would sordid policies, the barb'rous growth Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear? 5 Lo ! she appeals to nature, to the winds And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course, The elements and seasons : all declare For what the eternal MAKER has ordain'd The pow'rs of man: we feel within ourselves His energy divine ; he tells the heart, He meant, he made us to tehold and love S 2 210 THE ENGLISH READER. PART H What he beholds and loves, the general orb Of life and being ; to Le great like Him, Beneficent and active. Thus the men Whom nature's works instruct, with God himself Hold converse ; grow familiar, day by day, With his conceptions ; act upon his plan ; And form to his, the relish of their souls. AKENSIDE. CHAPTER V. PATHETIC PIECES. -.c*, SECTION I. The Hermit. AT the close of .the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets ef forgetfulness prove ; When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove ; 'Twas thus by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began; No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, tho' he felt as a man. " Ah ! why, all abandon'd to darkness and wo ; Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall ? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthral. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay ; Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn; sooth him whose pleasures like thine pass away , Full quickly they pa^s but they never return. " Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, The moon half extinguish'd her crescent displays ; But lately I m vk'd, when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendour again : But man's faded glory what change shall renew ! Ah fool ! to exult in a glory so vvin ! " 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more : I mourn ; bat, ye woodlands, I rncurn not for you ; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfunvd with fresh fragrance, and gHu'ring with dew. Nor yet lor the ravage of winter I mourn ; Kind nature the embryo blossom will save : CHAP. T. PATHETIC PIECES. *11 But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ! O when shall day dawn on the night of the grave : 5 " 'T\vas thus by the glare of false science betray'd, That leads, to bewilder, and dazzles, to blind : My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. pity s great Father of light, then I cried, Thy creature who fain would not wander from thee! Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride ; From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free. 6 " And darkness and doubt are now flying away ; No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn : So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See truth, love, and mercy, in triumph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending. And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." BEATT1E. SECTION II. The Beggar's Petition. PITY the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling- limbs have borne him to your door; Whose days are dwindled" to the shortest span ; Oh ! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. 2 These tatter'd clothes my poverty bespeak ; These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years ; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek, Has been the channel to a flood of tears. 3 Yon house, erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect drew me from my road ; For plenty there a residence has found, And grandeur a magnificent abode. 4 Haru is the fate of the infirm and poor ! Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread, A pamper'd menial drove me from the door, To seek a shelter in an humbler shed. 5 Oh i take me to your hospitable dome ; Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold ! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb ; For I am poor, and miserably old. Should I reveal the sources of my grief, If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity, would not be represt. S12 THE ENGLISH READER. PABT tt 7 Heav'n sends misfortunes ; why should we repine ? >Tis Heav'n has brought me to the state you see; And your condition may be soon like mine, The child of sorrow and of misery. 8 A little farm was my paternal lot; Then, like the lark, I sprightly haiPd the morn ; But ah ! oppression forc'd me from my cot, My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. 9 My daughter, once the comfort of my age, Lur'd by a villain from her native home, Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide stage, And doom'd in scanty poverty to roam. 10 My tender wife, sweet soother of my care ! Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, Fell, ling'ring fell, a victim to despair ! And left the world to wretchedness and me. 11 Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, Whose trembling limbs have born him to your door; Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ; Oh ! give relief, and Heav'n will bless your store. SECTION III. Unhappy close of Life HOW shocking must thy summons be, O Death ! To him that is at ease in his possessions ! Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, Is quite unfurnish'd for the world to come ! In that dread moment, how the frantic soul Raves round the walls of her clay tenement ; Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help ; But shrieks in vain ! How wishfully she looks On all she's leaving, now no longer her's ! 2 A little longer ; yet a little longer ; O, might she stay to wash away her stains ! And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight ! Her very eyes weep blood ; arid ev'ry groan She heaves is big with horror. But the foe. Like a staunch murd'rer, steady to his purpose, Pursues her close, thro' ev'ry lane of life ; Nor misses once the track ; but presses on, Till, forc'd at last to the tremendous verge, At oaoe she sinks to everlasting ruin. sum. CIUF. V. PATHETIC PIECES. 213 SECTION IV. Elegy to Pity. HAIL, lovely pow'r ! whose bosom heaves the sigu, When fancy paints the scene of deep distress ! Whose tears spontaneous, crystallize the eye, When rigid fate denies the pow'r to bless. 2 Not all the sweets Arabia's gales convey From flow'iy meads, can with that sigh coui/*/* , Not dew-drops glitt'ring in the morning ray, Seem near so beauteous as that falling tear. 3 Devoid of fear the fawns around thee play ; Emblem of peace, the dove before thee flies ; No blood- stain'd traces mark thy blameless way ; Beneath thy feet, no hapless insect dies. 4 Come, lovely nymph, and range the mead with nv To spring the partridge from the guileful foe : From secret snares the struggling bird to free : Arid stop the hand uprais'd to give the blow. 5 Arid when the air with heat meridian glows, And nature droops beneath the conquering gleam, Let us, slow wand'ring where the current flows, Save sinking flies that float along the stream. 6 Or turn to nobler, greater tasks thy care, To me thy sympathetic gifts impart ; Teach me in friendship's griefs to bear a share, And justly boast the geri'rous feeling heart. 7 Teach me to soothe the helpless orphan's grief; With timely aid the widow's woes assuage ; To mis'ry's moving cries to yield relief; And be the sure resource of drooping age, 8 So when the genial spring of life shall fade, And sinking nature own the dread decay, Some soul congenial then may lend its aid, And gild the close of life's eventful day. SECTION V. Verses supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the Island oj Juan Fernandez I AM monarch of all 1 survey, My right there is none to dispute ; From the centre all round to the sea, I ani lord of the fowl and the brute. 214 THE ENGLISH READER. PART IL Oh solitude! where are the charms, That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place. 2 I am out of humanity's reach; I must finish my journey alone : Never hear the sweet music of speech ; I start at the sound of my own. The heasts that roam over the plain, My form with indifference see ; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me. 3 Society, friendship, and love, Divinely bestow'd upon man, Oh, had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again I My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth ; Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 4^ Religion ! what treasure untold Resides in that heavenly word ! More precious than silver or gold, Or ail that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell, Thes'e vallies and rocks never heard ; Ne'er sigii'd at the sound of a knell, Or smil'd when a sabbath appear'd. 5 Ye winds that have made me. your sport, Convey to this desolate shore, Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me ? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see. 6 How fleet is a glance of the mind ! Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swnt-wing'd arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there ; But alas ! recollection at hand $oen hurries me back to despair. CHAP. T. PATHETIC FIE6ES. 215 7 But the sea-fowl has gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair ; Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place ; And mercy encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot. CGWPCB* SECTION VI. Gratitude. WHEN all thy mercies, O my God! My rising soul surveys, Transported with the view, I'm lost In wonder, love, and praise. 2 how shall words with equal warmth, The gratitude declare, That glows within my ravish'd heart ! But thou canst read it there. 3 Thy providence my life sustained, And all my wants redrest, When in the silent womb I lay, And hung upon the breast. 4 To all my weak complaints and cries, Thy mercy lent an ear. Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learn'd To form themselves in pray'r. 6 Unnumber'd comforts to my soul Thy tender care bestow'd, Before my infant heart conceived From whom those comforts flow'd. 6 When, in the slipp'ry paths of youth, With heedless steps, I ran, Thine arm, unseen, convey 'd me safe, And led me up to man. 7 Through hidden dangers, toils and deathi, It gently clear'd my way ; And through the pleasing snares of vice, More" to be fear'd than they. 8 When worn t\ ith sickness, oft hast thou, With health renew'd my face ; And when in sins and sorrows sunk, Reviv'd my soul with grace. 216 * THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. Thy bounteous hand, with worldly blias, Has made my cup run o'er ; And, in a kind and faithful friend, Has doubled all my store. 10 Ten thousand thousand precious gifts, My daily thanks employ ; Nor is the least a cheerful heart, That tastes those gifts with joy. 11 Througii ev'ry period of my life, Thy goodness I'll pursue ; And, after death, in distant worlds, The glorious theme renew. 12 When nature fails, and day and night Divide thy works no more, My ever-grateful heart, Lord ! Thy mercy shall adore. 13 Through all eternity, to thee A joyful song Pil raise ; For O ! eternity's too short To utter all thy praise. ADDISON. SECTION VII. A Man perishing in ike Snow ; from whence Reflections are raised on the miseries of Life. AS thus the snows arise ; and foul arid fierce, All winter drives along the darken'd air ; In his own loose-revolving field, the swain Disaster'd stands ; sees other hills ascend, Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes, Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on, From hill to dale, still more and more astray ; Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps. Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth In many a vain attempt. * How sinks his soul ! What black despair, what horror fills his heart ! When, for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd His tufted cottage rising through the snow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Far from the track, and blest abode of man ; While round him night resistless closes fast, And fcVry temp'e^ bc^lmg foter his head. CHAP. VIII. PATHETIC PIECES. 217 Renders the savage wilderness more wild, 3 Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, Of covered pits, unfathomably deep, A dire descent, beyond the pow'r of frost ! Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge, Smoothed up with snow ; and what is land, unknown, What water, of the still unfrozen spring, In the loose marsh or solitary lake, Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. 4 These check his fearful steps ; and down he sinks Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift, Thinking o'er all the bitterness or death, Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots Through the wrung bosom of the dying man, His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 5 In vain for him the officious wife prepares The fire fair-blazing, ancl the vestment warm ; In vain his little children, peeping out Into the mingled storm, demand their sire, With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold ; Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve The deadly winter seizes ; shuts up sense ; And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold, Lays him along the snows a stiffen'd corse, Stretch 'd out, and bleaching in the northern blast. 6 Ah, little think the gay licentious proud, Whom pleasures, pow'r, and affluence surround ; They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth, And wanton 4 , often cruel riot, waste ; Ah little think they, while they dance along, How many feel, this very moment, death, And all the sad variety of pain ! How many sink in the devouring flood, Or more devouring flame ! How many bleed, By shameful variance betwixt man and man ! 7 How many pine in want, in dungeon glooms, Shut from the common air, and common use Of their own limbs ! How many drink the cup Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread Of misery! Sore pierc'd by wintry winds, How many shrink into the sordid hut Of cheerless poverty ! How many shake With all the fiercer tortures of the mind, Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse! T 18 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II, 8 How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop In deep retir'd distress ! How many stand Around the death-bed of their dearest friends, And point the parting anguish ! Thought fond man Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills, That one incessant struggle render life, One scene of toil, of suffering, and of fate, Yice in his high career would stand appalPd A-nd heedless rambling impulse learn to think ; The conscious heart of chanty would warm, And her wide wish benevolence dilate ; The social tear would rise, the social sigh ; And into clear perfection, gradual bliss, Refining still, the social passions work. THOMSON. SECTION VIII. Morning Hymn. THESE are thy glorious works, parent of good, Almighty, thine this universal frame, Thus wond'rous fair ; thyself how wond'rous then ! Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens, To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lower works ; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine. 2 Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, ingels ; for ye behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, day without night, Oircle his throne rejoicing ; ye, in heaven, On earth, join all ye creatures to extol Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end. fairest of stars, last in the train of night, II better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet Lour of prime. Thuu sun, of this great world, both eye arid soul, Acknowledge him thy greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st, 3 Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun. now fly'st, With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies ; Ard ye five other wand'ring fires that move In mystic dance, not without song, resound His praise, who out of darknesa cali'd up light. Air, and ye elements, thte eldest birth CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 219 Of nature's womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix And nourish all thing's ; let your ceaseless change Vary to our great MAKER st'iil new praise. 4 Ye mists and exhalations that now rise From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray. Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honour to the world's great AUTHOR rise! Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs, Rising or falling, still advance his praise. 5 His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, With ev'ry plant, in sign of worship wave. Fountains, and ye that warble as ye flow Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Join voices, all ye living souls ; ye birds, That singing, up to heaven's gate ascend, Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. 6 Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep; Witness if I be silent, morn or even, To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. Hail, UNIVERSAL LORD! be bounteous still To give us only good ; and if the. night Has gathered aught of evil, or concealed, Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. MILTON. CHAPTER VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. -*c*o SECTION I. Ode to Content. O THOU, the nymph with placid eye ! O seldom found, yet ever nign! Receive my teinp'rate vow; Not all the storms that shake the pole Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul, And smooth, unaltered brow. O come, in simplest vest array'd, With all thy sober cheer display'd, To bless my longing sight ; 120 THE ENGLISH READER. PART lie Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace, Thy meek regard, thy matron grace, And chaste subdu'd delight. 3 No more by varying pasfions beat, gently guide my pilgrim feet To find thy hermit cell ; Where in some pure and equal sky, Beneath thy soft indulgent eye, The modest virtues dwell. 4 Simplicity in attic vest, And innocence, with candid breast, And clear undaunted eye ; And Hope, who points to distant years, Fair op'ning thro' this vale of tears A vista to the sky. 5 There Health, thro' whose calm bosom glide The template joys in even tide, That rarely ebb or flow ; And Patience there, thy sister meek, Presents her mild unvarying cheek, To meet the offer'd blow. C Her influence taught the Phrygian sage A tyrant master's wanton rage, With settled smiles, to meet: Inur'd to toil and bitter bread, lie bow'd his meek submitted head, And kiss'd thy sainted feet. 7 But thou, nymph, retir'd and coy! In what brown hamlet dost thou joy To tell thy tender tale? The lowliest children of the ground, Moss-rose and violet blossom round, And lily of the vale. 8 O say what soft propitious hour 1 best may choose to hail thy pow'r, And court thy gentle sway? W r hen autumn, friendly to the muse, Shall thy own modest tints diffuse, And shed thy milder day? 9 When evc>, her dewy star beneath, Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe, And ev'ry storm is laid ? If such an hour was e'er thy choice, Oft let me hear thy soothing voice, Low whisp'ring through the shade.-BARBAUU*. CHAP. TL PROMISCUOUS PIECES. SECTION II. The Shepherd and the Philosopher. REMOTE from cities liv'd a swain, Unvex'd with all the cares of gain; His h*ad was silver'd o'er with age, And long experience made him sage; In summer's heat and winter's cold, He fed his flock, and penn'd the fold ; His hours in cheerful labour flew, Nor envy, nor ambition knew : His wisdom and His honest fame Through all the country raised hi& name. 2 A deep philosopher (whose rules Of moral life were drawn from schools) The shepherd's homely cottage sought, And thus explor'd his reach of thought. " Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil O'er books consum'd the midnight oil? Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd, And the vast sense of Plato weigh' d ? Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd, And hast thou fathenvd Tully's mind? Or, like the wise Ulysses, thrown, By various fates, on realms unknown, Hast thou through many cities stray'd, Their customs, la'.vs, and manners weigh W 3 The shepherd modestly replied,* " I ne'er the paths of learning tried ; Nor have I roam'd' in foreign parts, To read mankind, their laws and arts : For man is practis'd in disguise ; He cheats the most discerning eyes. Who by that search shall wiser grow ? By that ourselves we never know. The little knowledge I have gain'd, Was all from simple nature drain'd ; Hence my life's maxims took their rise, Hence grew my settled hate of vice. 4 The daily labours of the bee Awake my soul to industry. Who can observe the careful ant, And not provide for future want ? My dog (the trustiest of his kind) With gratitude inflames my niind. 23* THE ENGLISH READER. PART 1L I mark his true, his faithful way, And, in my service, copy Tray. * In constancy and nuptial love, I learn my duty from the dove. The hen, who from the chilly air, With pious wing, protects her care, And ev'ry fowl that flies at large, Instructs me in a parent's charge. 6 From nature too I take my rule, To shun contempt and ridicule. I never, with important air, In conversation overbear. Can grave and formal pass for wise. When men the solemn owl despise? My tongue within my lips I rein ; For who talks much must talk in vain. We from the wordy torrent fly ; Who listens to the chatt'ring pye? Nor would I, with felonious flight, By stealth invade my neighbour's right. 6 Rapacious animals we hate ; Kites, hawks, and wolves, deserve their fate. Do not we just abhorrence find Against the toad and serpent kind 1 But envy, calumny, and spite, Bear stronger venom in their bite. Thus ev'ry object of creation Can furnish hints to contemplation ; And, from the most, minute and mean, A virtuous mind can morals glean." 7 " Thy fame is just," the sage replies ; " Thy virtue proves thee truly wise. Iride often guides the author's pen, Books as affected are as men : But he who studies nature's laws, From certain truth his maxims draws ; And those, without our schools, suffice To make men moral, good, and wise." GAY. SECTION III. The Road to Happiness open to all Men. OH happiness ! our being's end and aim! Good, pleasure, ease, content ! whate'er thy name ; That something still which prompts th* eternal sigh, For wh}ch we bear to live, or dare to die : CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, O'erlook'd, seen double, by the fool and wise ; Plant of celestial seed, If dropt below, Say, in \yhat mortal soil thou deign'st to grow ? 2 Fair opening to some court's propitious shrine, Or deep with diamonds in the flaming mine I Twined with the wreaths Parnassian laurels yield, Or reap'd in iron harvests of the field I Where grows ? where grows it not ? if vain our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not the soil. Fix'd to no spot is happiness sincere,; 'Tis no where to be found, or ev'ry where ; 'Tis never to be bought, but always free ; And, fled from monarchs, St. John ! dwells with thee 3 Ask of the learn'd the way. The learn'd are blind ; This bids to serve, and that to shun mankind : Some place the bliss in action, some in ease ; Those call it pleasure, arid contenfment these : Some sunk to beasts, find pleasure end in pain ; Some swelPd to gods, confess ev'n virtue vain : Or indolent, to each extreme they fall, To trust in ev'ry thing, or doubt of all. 4 Who thus define it, say they more or less Than this, that happiness is happiness ? Take nature's path, and mad opinions leave ; All states can reach it, and all heads conceive ; Obvious her goods, in no extreme they dwell ', There needs but thinking right, and meaning well j And mourn our various portions as we please, Equal is common sense, and common ease. Remember, man, " the universal cause Acts not by partial, but by general laws ;" And makes what happiness we justly call, Subsist not in the good of one, but all. POPS* SECTION. IV. The Goodness of Providence. THE Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care; . His presence shall my wants supply, And guard me with a watchful eye; My noon day walks he shall attend, And all my midnight hours defend. 2 When in the sultry glebe I faint, Or on the thirsty mountains want i *24 THE ENGLISH READER. PART IL To fertile vales, and dewy meads, My weary wand 'ring steps he leads ; Where peaceful rivers, soft arid slow, Amid the verdant landscape flow. 3 Tho' in the paths of death I tread, With glooming horrors overspread, My steadfast heart shall fear no ill ; For thou, Lord, art with me still ; Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, And guide me through the dreadful shade. 4 Tho' in a hare and rugged way, Through devious lonely wilds I stray, Thy bounty shall my pains beguile ; The barren wilderness shall smile, With sudden greens ajid herbage crown'd, And streams shall murmur all around. ADDISON. SECTION V. The Creator's Works attest his greatness. THE spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangl'd heav'ns, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim ; Th' unweari'd sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's pow'r display, And publishes to ev'ry land, The work of an Almighty hand. 2 Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wond'rous tale; And, nightly, to the listening earth, Repeats the story of her birth; W T hilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. 3 What though, in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball ! What tho' no real voice nor sound, Amid their radiant, orbs be found ! In reason's ear they all rejoice, Arid utter forth a glorious voice ; For ever singing as they shine, " The hand that made us, is Divine." ADDIION. Cm*. VL PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 2 SECTION VI. An Address to the Deity. O THOU ! whose balance does the mountains weigh ; Whose will the wild tumultuous seas obey ; Whose breath can turn those wat'ry worlds to flame, That flame to tempest, and that tempest tame ; Earth's meanest son, all trembling, prostrate falls, And on the bounty of thy goodness calls. 2 O ! give the winds all past offence to sweep, To scatter wide, or bury in the deep. Thy pow'r, my weakness, may I ever see, And wholly dedicate my soul to thee. Reign o'er my will ; my passions ebb and flow At thy command, nor human motive know ! If anger boil, let anger be my praise, And sin the graceful indignation raise. My love be warm to succour the distressed, And lift the burden from the soul oppressed. 3 may my understanding ever read This glorious volume which thy wisdom made ! May sea and land, and earth and heav'n, be join'd, _ To bring' th' eternal Author to my mind ! When oceans roar, or awful thunders roll, May thoughts of thy dread vengeance, shake my soul J When earth's in bloom, or planets proudly shine, Adore, my heart, the Majesty divine ! 4 Grant I may ever, at the morning ray, Open with pray'r the consecrated day ; Tune thy great praise, and bid my soul arise, And with the mounting sun ascend the skies ; As that advances, let my zeal improve, And glow with ardour of consummate love ; Nor cease at eve, but with the setting sun My endless worship shall be still begun. 5 And oh ! permit the gloom of solemn night, To sacred thought may forcibly invite. When this world's shut, and awful planets rise, Call on our minds, and raise them to the skies ! Compose our souls with a* less dazzling sight, And show all nature in a milder light ; How ev'ry boist'rous thought in calm subsides ; How the smooth'd spirit into goodness glides 1 6 Oh how divine ! to tread the milky way, To the bright palace of the Lord of Day ; 226 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II His court admire, or for his favour sue, Or leagues of friendship with his saints renew ; Pleas-d to look down and see the world asleep ; While I long vigils to its Founder keep ! Canst thou not shake the centre ? Oh, control, Subdue by force, the rebel in my soul ; '1 hou, who canst still the raging of the flood, Restrain the various tumults of my blood ; Teach me, with equal firmness, to sustain Alluring pleasure, and assaulting pain. 7 O may I pant for thee in each desire ! And with strong faith foment the holy fire Stretch out my soul in hope, and grasp the prize, Which in eternity's deep bosom lies ! At the great day of recompense behold, Devoid of fear, the fatal book unfold ! Then wafted upward to the blissful seat, From age to age my grateful song repeat ; My Light, my Life, my God, my Saviour see, Aiad rival angels in the praise of thee ! YOUNG. SECTION VII. Th" pursuit of Happiness often ill-directed* THE midnight moon Serenely smiles O'er nature's soft repose ; No low'ring cloud obscures the sky, Nor ruffling tempest blows. 2 Now ev'ry passion sinks to rest, The throbbing heart lies still ; And varying schemes of life no more Distract the lab 'ring will. 3 In silence, hush'd to reason's voice, Attends each mental pow'r ; Come, dear Emilia, and enjoy Reflection's fav'rite hour. 4 Come, while the peaceful scene invites, Let's search this ample round ; Where shall the lovely fleeting form Of happiness be found 1 5 Does it amidst the frolic mirth Of gay assemblies dwell ; Or hide beneath the solemn gloom, That shades the hermit's cell ? 6 How oft the laughing brow of joy heart conceals ! CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 227 And, through the cloister'? deep recess, Invading sorrow 1 steals. 7 In vain, through beauty, fortune, wit, The fugitive we trace; It dwells not in the faithless smile That brightens Clodia's face. 8 Perhaps the joy to these deny'd, The heart in friendship finds : Ah ! dear delusion, gay conceit Of visionary minds ! 9 Howe'er our varying notions rove, Fet all agree in one, To place its being in some state, At distance from our own. 10 blind to each indulgent aim, Of pow'r supremely wise, Who fancy happiness in aught The hand of heav'n denies! 11 Vain is alike the joy we seek, And vain what we possess, Unless harmonious reason tunes, The passions into peace. 12 To tempered wishes, just desires, Is happiness confin'd ; And deaf to folly r s call, attends The music of the mind. CARTER. SECTION VIII. The Fire-Side. DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud, In folly's maze advance, Tho' singularity and. pride Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside, Nor join the giddy dance. 2 From the gay world, we'll oft retire To our own family and fire, Where love our hours employs ; No noisy neighbour enters here, No intermeddling stranger near, To spoil our heart-felt joys. 3 If solid happiness we prize, Within our breast this jewel lies And they are fools who roam; 228 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 11 The world has nothing to bestow ; From our own selves our joys must flow, And that dear hut, our home. 4 Of rest was Noah's dove bereft, When with impatient wing she left That safe retreat, the ark ; Giving her vain excursion o'er, The disappointed bird once more Explor'd the sacred bark. 5 Tho' fools spurn Hymen's gentle pow'w, We, who improve his golden hours, By sweet experience know, That marriage rightly understood, Gives to the tender and the good A paradise below. 6 Our babes shall richest comfort bring ; If tutorM right, they'll prove a spring W r hence pleasures ever rise ; We'll form their minds, with studious care, To all that's manly, good, and fair, And train them for the skies. 7 While they our wisest hours engage, They'll joy our youth, support our age, And crown our hoary hairs ! They'll grow in virtue ev'ry day, And thus our fondest loves repay, And recompense our cares. 8 No borrow'd joys ! they're all our own. While to the world we live unknown, Or by the world forgot ; PJonarchs ! we envy not your state ; We look with pity on the great, And bless our humbler lot. 9 Our portion is not large indeed ! But then how little do we need ! For nature's calls are few : In this the art of living lies, To want no more than may suffice, And make that little do. 10 We'll therefore relish, with content, Whate'er kind Providence has sent, Nor aim beyond our pow'r ; For if our stock be very small, 'Tis prudence to enjoy it all, Nor lose the present hour. . VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 290 11 To be resign'd when* ills Patient when favours are cbnied, And pleas'd with favours giv'n : Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part ; This is that incense of the heart, Whose fragrance smells to heav'n* 12 We'll ask no long protracted treat, Since winter-life is seldom sweet ; But when our feast is o'er, Grateful from tahle we'll arise, Nor grudge our sons with envious eyes 9 The relics of our store. 13 Thus, hand in hand, thro' life we'll go ; Its checker'd paths of joy and wo, With cautious steps, we'll tread ; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear, And mingle with the dead. 14 While conscience, like a faithful friend, Sha& thro' the gloomy vale attend, And cheer our dying breath ; Shall, when all other comforts cease, Like a kind angel whisper peace, And smooth the bed of death. COTTOW SECTION IX, Providence Vindicated in the present state of Man. HEAV'N from all creatures, hides the book of fate ; All but the page prescrib'd, their present state ; From brutes what men, from men what spirits know ; Or who could suffer being here below ? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? Pleas'd to the last, he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood. 2 Oh blindness to the future ! kindly giv'n That each may fill the circle mark'd by Heav'n ; Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ; Atoms or systems into ruin hurl'd, And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 3 Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher Death ; and God adore*- What future bliss he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 230 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. Hope springs eternal in the human breast : Man never is, but always TO BE blest. The soul, uneasy, and confiu'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 1 Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; His soul proud science never taught to stray Far as the Solar Walk or Milky Way, Yet, simple nature to his hope has giv'n, Behind the cloud -topt hill, a humbler heav'n ; Some safer world in depth of woods embrac'd, Some happier island in the watr'y waste ; Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 5 To BE, contents his natural 'desire ; He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; But thinks, 'admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. Go, wiser thou ! and in thy scale of sense, Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; Call imperfection what thou fanciest such ; Say here he gives too little, there too much. 6 IP pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies ; AH quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes ; Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell, Aspiring to be angels, men rebel : And who but wishes to invert the laws Of ORDER, sins against th' ETERNAL CAUSE. POPE. SECTION X. Selfishness Reproved. HAS God, thou fool ! work'd solely for thy good, Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food 1 Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, For him as'kindly spreads the fiow'ry lawn. Is it ior thee the lark ascends and sings ? Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat ? Loves of his own, and raptures swell the note. 2 The bounding steed you pompously bestride, Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain ? The birds of heav'n shall vindicate their grain. CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 231 Thine the full harvest of the golden year ? Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer. The hog that ploughs not, nor obeys thy call, Lives on the labours of this lord of all. 3 Know, nature's children all divide her care ; The fur that warms a monarch, warm'd a bear. While man exclaims, " See all things for my use !" " See man for mine !" replies a pamper'd goose. And just as short of reason he must fall, Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. 4 Grant that the pow'rfui still the weak control ; Be man the wit and tyrant of the whole : Nature that tyrant checks ; he only knows, And helps another creature's wants and woes. Say, will the falcon, stooping from above, Smit with her varying plumage, spare the dove ? Admires the jay the insect's gUded wings? Or hears the hawk when Philomela sings 1 5 Man cares for all : to birds he gives his woods, To beasts his pastures, and to fish his floods ; For some his int'rest prompts him to provide, For more his pleasures, yet for more his pride. All feed on one vain patron, and enjoy Th' extensive blessing of his luxury. f> That very life his learned hunger craves, He saves from famine, from the savage saves ; Nay, feasts the animal he dooms his feast ; And, till he ends the being, makes it blest : Which sees no more the stroke, nor feels the pain, Than favour'd man by touch ethereal slain. The creature had his feast of life before ; Thou too must perish, when thy feast is o'er ! POPE* SECTION XI. Human Frailty. WEAK and irresolute is man ; The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan, To-morrow rends awny. 2 The bow well bent, and smart the spring, Vice seems already slain ; But passion rudely snaps the string, And it revives again. 3 Some foe to his upright intent, Tincls out his weaker part ; 232 THE ENGLISH READER. PART IL Virtue engages his assent, But pleasure wins his heart. 4 'Tis here the folly of the wise> Through all his art. we view ; And while his tongue the charge denies^ His conscience owns it true. 5 Bound on a voyage of awful length, And dangers little known, A stranger to superior strength, Man vainly trusts his own. 6 But oars alone can ne'er prevail To reach the distant coast ; The breath of heaven must swell the sail, Or all the toil is lost. COWPEII. SECTION XII. Ode to Peace. COME, peace of mind, delightful guest ! Return, and make thy downy nest Once more in this sad heart : Nor riches I, nor power pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view; We therefore need riot part. 2 Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, From av'rice and ambition free, And pleasure's fatal wiles ; For whom, alas ! dost thou prepare The sweets that I was wont to share, The banquet of thy smiles ? 3 The great, the gay, shall they partake The heaven that thou alone canst make ; And wilt thou quit the stream, That murmurs' through the dewy mead, The grove and the sequester'd shade, To be a guest with them ? 4 For thee I panted, thee I priz ? d, For thee I gladly sacrificed Whatever IJov'd before ; And shall I see thee start away, And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say Farewell, we meet no more ? COWPER, SECTION XIIL Ode to Adversity. DAUGHTER of Heav'n, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, CBA*. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 233 Whose iron scourge, and torturing hour, Tho bud affright, afflict the best ! F*owi in thy adamantine chain, The proud are taught to taste of pain, And purple tyrants vainly groan With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. 2 When first thy sire to send on earth \irtue, his darling child, designed, To thee he gave the heav'nly birth, And bade to form her infant mind. Stern rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore. What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know ; And from her own she learn'd to melt at others wo 3 Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly Self-pleasing folly's idle brood, Wild laughter, noise, and thoughtless joy, And leave us leisure to be good. 1 'ght they disperse ; and with them go The summer friend, the flattering foe. By vain prosperity received, To her they vow their truth, a#d are again believ'd. 4 Wisdom, in sable garb array'd, Immers'd in rapt'rous thought profound, And melancholy, silent maid, With leaden eye that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend ; Warm charity, the general friend, Wit^i justice, to herself severe, And pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear. 5 Oh, gently, on thy suppliant's head, Dread power, lay thy chastening J Not in thy gorgon terrors clad, Nor circled with the vengeful band, (As by the impious thou ait seen,) Witb thund'ring voice, and threatening mien, With screaming horror's fun'ral cry, Despair, and fell disease, and ghastly poverty. G Thy form benign, propitious, wear, Thy milder influence impart ; Thy philosophic train be there, To soften, not to wound my heart. The gen'rous spark extinct revive ; Teach me to love, and to forgira ; *3* THE ENGLISH READER, PART II. Exact my own defects to scan; What others are to feel ; and know myself a man. GRAY* SECTION XIV. The Creation required to praise its Author BEGIN, my soul, th' exalted lay ! Lst each enraptured thought obey, And praise th' Almighty's name. Lo ! heaven and earth, and seas, and skies, In one melodious concert rise, To swell th' inspiring* theme. 2 Ye fields of light celestial plains, Where gay transporting beauty reigns, Ye scenes divinely fair ! Your Maker's wond'rous power proclaim ; Tell how he form*d your shining frame, Arid breath'd the fluid air. 3 Ye angels, catch the thrilling sound ! While all th' adoring thrones around His boundless mercy sing : Let every list'ning saint above Wake all the tuneful soul of love, And touch the sweetest string. 4 Join, ye loud spheres, the vocal choir ; Thou dazzling orb of liquid fire, The mighty chorus aid : Soon as gray ev'nkig gilds the plain, Thou moon, protract the melting strain, And praise him in the shade. 5 Thou heav'n of heav'ns, his vast abode Ye clouds, proclaim your forming God, Who caWM yon worlds from night: Ye shades dispel !"- th' Eternal said; At once th' involving darkness fled, And nature sprung to light. 6 Whaie'er a blooming world contains, That wings the air, that skims the plains, United praise bestow ; Ye dragons, sound his awful name To heaven aloud; and roar acclaim, Ye swelling deeps below. 7 Let ev'ry element rejoice ; Ye thunders burst with awful voice To HIM who bids you roll ; CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 23* His praise in softer notes declare, Each whispering breeze of yielding air, And breathe it to the soul. 8 To him, ye graceful cedars, bow ; Ye tow'ring mountains, bending low, Your great Creator own ; Tell, when aft righted nature shook, How Sinai kindled at his look, And trembled at his frown. 9 Ye flocks that haunt the humble vale, Ye insects fluttering on the gale, In mutual concourse rise; Crop the gay rose's vermeil bloom, And waft its spoils, a sweet perfume, In incense to the skies. 10 Wake all ye mounting tribes, and sing Ye plumy warblers of the spring, Harmonious anthems raise To HIM who shap'd your finer mould, Who tipp'd your glitt'ring wings with gold And tun'd your voice to praise. 1 1 Let man > by nobler passions sway'd, The feeling heart, the judging head, In heav'nly praise employ; Spread his tremendous name around, Till heaven's broad arch rings back the sound, The gen'ral burst of joy. 12 Ye whom the charms of grandeur please, Nurs'd on the downy lap of ease, Fall prostrate at his throne; Ye princes, rulers, all adore ! Praise him, ye kings, who makes your power An image of his own. 13 Ye fair, by nature form'd to move, O praise th' eternal SOURCE OF LOVE, With youth's enliv'ning fire: Let ajre take up the tuneful lay, Sigh his bless'd name then soar aw r ay, And -ask an angel's lyre. OGII.VIB. SECTION XV. The Universal Prayer. FATHER OF ALL ! in ev'ry age, In ev'ry clime ador'd ! By saint, by savage, and by sage, J*liovab, Jove, r>r Lord : 236 THE ENGLISH READER, PART IL 2 Thou GREAT FIRST CAUSE, least understood, Who all my sense confin'd, To know hut this, that Thou art good, And that myself am blind ; 3 "Yet. gave me, in this dark estate, To see the good from ill ; And hind ing nature fast in fate, Left free the human will. 4 What conscience dictates to be done, Or warns me not to do, This teach me more than hell to shun, That more than heav'n pursue. 5 What blessings thy free bounty gives, Let me not cast away ; For God is paid, when man receives ; T' enjoy, is to obey. 6 Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me bound, Or think thee Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round. 7 Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume thy bolts to throw ; And deal damnation round the land On each I judge thy foe. 8 If I am right, thy grace impart, Still in the right to stay ; If I am wrong, oh teach my heart To find that better way ! ., 9 Save me alike from foolish pride, Or impious discontent, At aught thy wisdom has denied, Or aught thy goodness lent. 10 Teach me to feel another's wo ; To hide the fault I see : That mercy I to others ^hoTV, That mercy show to me. 11 Mean tho'-I am, not wholly so, Since quickeri'd oy thy breath: O lead me wheresoe'er I go, Thro' this day's life or death. 12 This duy, be bread and 'peace my lot: All else beneath the sun, Thou know'st if best bflstbw'd or not, And let Ihv will be done. CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 237 13 To thee, whose temple is all space, Whose altar, earth, sea, skies ! One chorus let all beings raise ! All nature's incense rise. POPE. SECTION XVI. Conscience. TREACH'ROUS conscience ! while she seems to sleep On rose and myrtle, lull'd with syren song ; While she seems nodding o'er her charge, to drop On headlong appetite the slackened rein, And gives us up to license, jnrecalPd, Unmark'd ; see, from hehind her secret stand, The sly informer minutes ev'ry fault, And her dread diary with horror fills. 2 Not the gross act alone employs her pen ; She reconnoitres fancy's airy band, A watchful foe ! the formidable spy, List'ntng o'erhears the whispers of our camp ; Our dawning purposes of heart explores, And steals our embryos of iniquity. 3 As all-rapacious usurers conceal Their doomsday-book from all-consuming heirs, Thus, with indulgence most severe, she treats Us spendthrifts of inestimable time ; Unnoted, notes each moment misapplied ; In leaves more durable than leaves of brass, Writes our whole history ; which death shall read In ev'ry pale delinquent's private ear ; And judgment publish ; publish to more worlds Than this ; and endless age in groans resound. YOt SECTION XVII. On an Infant. TO the dark and silent tomb, Soon I hasten'd from the womb ; Scarce the dawn of life began, Ere I measur'd out my span. - 2 I no smiling pleasures Vncw ; I no gay delights could .view : Joyless sojourner was I, Only born to w r eep and die. 3 Happy infant, early bless'd ! Rest, in peaceful slumber, rest ; Early rescu'd from the cares, Which increase with growing- years. 238 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. 4 No delights are worth thy stay, Smiling as they seem, and gay ; Short and sickly are they all, Hardly tasted ere they pall. 5 All our gaiety is vain, All our laughter is but pain ; Lasting only, and divine, Is an innocence like thine. SECTION XVIII. The Cuckoo. HAIL, beauteous stranger of the wood, Attendant on the spring! Now heav'n repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome sing. 2 Soon as the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear: Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year 3 Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flow'rs, When heav'n is fiiPd with music sweet, Of birds among the bowr's. 4 The school-boy, warid'ring in the wood, To pull the flow'rs so gay, Starts, thy curious voice to hear, And imitates thy lay. 5 Soon as the pea puts on the bloom, Thou fly'st the vocal vale, An annual guest, in other lands, Another spring to hail. 6 Sweet bird ! thy bow'r is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear ; Thcu hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year! , 7 O could I fly, I'd fly with thee; We'd make,with social wing, Our annual visits o'er the globe, Companions of the spring. LOGAN. SECTION XIX. Day. Ji Pastoral in three parts. MORNING. IN the barn the tenant cock, Close to Partlet perch'd on high, Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock!) | Jocund that the morning 's nigh. CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 239 2 Swiftly from the mountain's brow, Shadows, nur's'd by night, retire ; And the peeping sun-bearn, now Paints with gold the village spire. 3 Philomel forsakes the thorn, Plaintive where she prates at night ; And the lark to meet the morn, Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. 4 From the low-roof 'd cottage ridge. See the chatt'ring swallow spring ; Darting through the one-arched bridge Quick she dips her dappled wing. 5 Now the pine-tree's waving top Gently greets the morning gale ; Kidlings now begin to crop Daisies, on the dewy dale. 6 From the balmy sweets, uncloy'd, (Restless till her task he done,) Now the busy bee's em ploy 'd, Sipping dew before the sun. 7 Trickling through the crevic'd rock, Where the limpid stream distils, Sweet refreshment waits tfye flock, When 'tis sun-drove from the hills. 8 Colin's for the promis'd corn (Ere the harvest hopes are ripe,) Anxious; whilst the huntsman's horn, Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe. 9 Sweet sweet, the warbling throng, On the white emblossom'd spray ! Nature's universal song Echoes to the rising day. NOON. 10 FERVID on the glittering flood, Now the noontide radiance glows! Drooping o'er its infant bud, Not a dew-drop's left the rose. 1 1 By the brook the shepherd dines, From the fierce meridian heat, Sheiler'd by the branching pines, Pendant o'er his grasfy seat. 12 Now the flock forsakes the glade, Where, uncheck'd, the sun-beams fall, Sure to find a pleasing shade By the ivy'd abbey walj. 240 THE ENGLISH READER. PART IL 13 Echo, in her airy round, O'er the river, rock, and hill, Cannot catch a single sound, Save the clack of yonder mill. 14 Cattle court the zephyrs bland,' Where the streamlet wanders cool; Or with languid silence stand Midway in the marshy pool. 35 But from mountain, dell, or stream, Not a fluttering zephyr springs ; Fearful lest the noontide beam, Scorch its soft, its silken wings. 16 Not a leaf has leave to stir; Nature's lull'd serene and still! Quiet e'en the shepherd's cur, Sleeping on the heath-clad hill. 17 Languid is the landscape round, Till the fresh descending show'r, Grateful to the thirsty ground, Raises ev'ry fainting flow'r. 18 Now the hill the hedge are green, Now the warbler's throat's in tune; Blithsome is the verdant scene, Brighten'd by the beams of Noon EVENING. 19 O'ER the heath the heifer strays Free ; (the furrow'd task is done;) Now the village windows blaze, Burnish'd by the setting sun. 20 Now he sets behind the hill, Sinking from a golden sky: Can the pencil's mimic skill Copy the refulgent dye? 21 Trudging as the ploughmen go, (To the smoking hamlet bound,) Giant-like their shadows grow, Lengthen'd o'er the level ground. 22 Where the rising forest spreads Shelter for the lordly dome ; To their high-built airy beds, See the rooks returning home 23 As the lark, with vary'd tune, Carols to the ev'ning loud ; 'j**r~- Mark the mild resplendent moon> Breaking through a parted cloud* CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 241 24 Now the hermit owlet peeps, From the barn or twisted brake; And the blue mist slowly creeps, Curling on the silver lake. 25 As the trout in speckled pride, Playful from its bosom springs; To the banks a ruffled tide, Verges in successive rings. 26 Tripping through the silken grass, O'er the path-divided dale, Mark the rose-cornplexion'd lass, With her well-pois'd milking pail I 27 Linnets with unnumber'd notes, And the cuckoo bird with two, Tuning sweet their mellow throats, Bid the setting sun adieu. CUNNINGHAM* SECTION XX. The Order of Nature. SEE, thro' this air, this ocean, and this earth, All matter quick, and bursting into birth. Above, how high progressive life may go! Around, how wide! Ijow deep extend below; Vast chain of being! which from God began, Nature ethereal, human; angel, man; Beast, bird, fish, insect, what nc eye can see, No glass can reach; from infinite to thee, From thee to nothing. On superior pow'rs Were we to press, inferior might on ours ; Or in the full creation leave a void, Where, one step broken, the great scale's desfrroy'd : From nature's chain whatever link you strike, Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike. 2 And, if each system in gradation roll, Alike essential to the amazing whole, The least confusion but in one, not all That system only, but the whole mu jt fall. Let earth, unbalanc'd from her orbit fly, Planets and suns run lawless thro' the sky ; Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurl'd, Being on being wreck'd, and world on world ; Heav'n's whole foundations to their centre nod, And nature trembles to the throne of God. All this dread ORDER break for whom 'I for thee ? Vile worm ! Oh madness ! pride ! impiety ! X 2*2 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. 3 What if the foot ordain'd the d?ist to tread, Or hand to toil, aspir'd to be the head ? What if the head, the eye, or ear repin'd To serve mere engines to the ruling mind ? Just as absurd for any part to claim To be another, in this gen'Ead frame : Just as absurd, to mourn the tasks or pains, The Great directing MIND OF ALL ordains. 4 All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body nature is, and God the soul : That, changed thro' all, and yet in all the same, Great in the earth, as in th' ethereal frame ; Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze, Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees ; Lives thro' all life, extends thro 7 all extent, Spreads undivided, operates unspent ; Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart"; As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : To him no high, no low, nc great, no small ; He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 5 Cease then, nor ORDER imperfection name : Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. Know thy own point : this kind, this due degree Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee. Submit. In this, or any other sphere, Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear : Safe in the hand of one disposing Pow'r, Or in the natal, or the mortal hour. All nature is but art, unknown to tbee ; All chance, direction, which tnou canst not see ; All discord, harmony not understood ; All partial evil, universal good ; And, spite of Pride, in erring Reason's spite, One truth is clear WHATEVER is, is RIGHT. POP SECTION XXI. Confidence in Divine protection. How are thy servants blest, O Lord ! How sure is their defence ! Eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help omnipotence. 2 In foreign realms, and lands remote, Supported by thy care, CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. Through burning climes I pass'd unhurt, And breath'd in tainted air. 3 Thy mercy sweeten'd ev'ry soil, Made ev'ry region please ; The hoar}' Alpine hills it warm'd, And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. 4 Think, O my soul, devoutly think, How, with affrighted eyes, Thou saw'st the wide extended deep In all its horrors rise ! 5 Confusion dwelt in ev'ry face, And fear in ev'ry heart, When waves on waves, arid gulfs in gulfs, Overcame the pilot's art. 6 Yet then, from all my griefs, Lord! Thy mercy set me free ; While in the confidence of pray'r, My soul took hold on thee. 7 For tho* in dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave, I knew thou wert not slow to hear, Nor impotent to save. 8 The storm was laid, the winds retir'd, Obedient to thy will ; The sea that roar'd at thy command, At thy command was still. 9 In midst of dangers, fears, and deaths, Thy goodness I'll adore; And praise thee for thy mercies past, And humbly hope for more. 10 My life, if thou preserve my life, Thy sacrifice shall be ; And death, if death must be my doom, Shall join my soul to thee. ADDJSON. SECTION XXII. Hymn en a Review of the Seasons, THESE, as they change, Almighty Father! these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love. ^Vide flush. the fields; the soft'nhig air is balm; Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles, And ev'ry sense, and ev'ry heart is joy. Then comes Thy glory in the summer months, 244 THE ENGLISH READER. PART II. With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, By brooks and groves, in hollow-whisp'ring gales. 3 Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfin'd, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In winter, awful Thou! with clouds and storms Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd, Majestic darkness! On the whirlwind's wing, Riding sublime, Thou bidst the world adore; And humblest nature, with thy northern blast. 4 Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, ^uch beauty and beneficence combin'd ; Shade, unperceiv'd, so soft'ning into shade, And all so forming an harmonious whole, That as they still succeed, they ravish still. 5 But wand'ring oft, with brute unconscious gaze, Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty hand That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres; Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring; Flings from the sun direct the flaming day ; Feeds ev'ry creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life. 6 Nature, attend ! join ev'ry living soul, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In adoration join ! and, ardent raise One general song ! Ye, chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, Crown the great hymn ! 7 For me, when I forget the darling theme. Whether the blossom blows ; the summer ray Rusyets the plain ; inspiring autumn gleams ; Or winter rises in the black'ning east ; Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no more, And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! 8 Should fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barb'rous climes, Rivers unknown to song ; where first the suft Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam CHAP. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. 245 Flames on the Atlantic isles ; 'tis nought to me ; Since God is ever present, ever felt, In the void waste as in the city full : And where HE vital breathes there must he joy. 9 When e'en at last the solemn hour shall come, Arid wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I, cheerful, will ohey; there, with new poiv'rs. Will rising wonders sing: I cannot go Where UNIVERSAL LOVE not smiles around, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns : From seeming evil still educing good, And better thence again, and better still, In infinite progression. But I ! ose Myselt in HIM, in light ineffable ! Come, then, expressive silence, muse his praise. THOMSON. SECTION XXIII. On Solitude. O SOLITUDE, romantic maid ! Whether by nodding towers you tread, Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom, Or hover o'er the yawning tomb, Or climb the Andes' clifted side, Or by the Nile's coy source abide, Or, starting from your half-year's sleep, From Hecla view the thawing deep, Or, at the purple dawn of day, Tadmor's marble waste survey ; You, recluse, again I woo, And again your steps pursue. 2 Plum'd conceit himself surveying, Folly with her shadow playing, Purse-proud elbowing insolence, Bloated empiric, puiY'd pretence, Noise that through a trumpet speaks, Laughter in lou'J peals that breaks, Intrusion, with a fopling's face, (Ignorant of tirr.e and place,) *" Sparks of fire dissension blowing, Ductile, court-bred flattery bowing, Restraint's stiff neck, grimace's leer. Squint -ey'd censure's artful sneer, Ambition's buskins, steep'd in bloody Fly thy presence, Solitude ! 2*8 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 11 3 Sage reflection, bent with years, Conscious virtue, void of fears, Muffled silence, wood-nymph shy, Meditation's piercing eye, Halcyon peace on moss reclin'd, Retrospect that scans the mind, Rapt earth-gazing revery, Blushing artless modesty, Health that snufls the morning air, Full-ey'd truth with bosom bare, Inspiration, nature's child, Seek the solitary wild. 4 When all nature's hush'd asleep, Nor love, nor guilt, their vigils keep, Soft you leave your cavern'd den, And wander o'er the works of men ; Rut when Phosphor brings the dawn, By her dappled coursers drawn, Again you to your wild retreat, And the early huntsman meet, Where, as you pensive pass along, You catch the distant shepherd's song, Or brush from herbs the pearly dew, Or the rising primrose view, Devotion lends her heav'n plum'd wings, You mount, and nature with you sings. 5 But when the mid-day fervours glow, To upland airy shades you go, Where never sun-burnt woodman came, Nor sportsman chas'd the timid game ; And there, beneath an oak reclin'd, With drowsy waterfalls behind, You sink to rest, Till the tuneful bird of iiigiit, From the neighb'ring poplar's height, Wake you with her solemn strain, And teach pleas'd echo to complain. 6 W 7 ith you roses brighter bloom, Sweeter evVy sweet perfume ; Purer ev'r/ fountain (lows, Stronger ev'ry wilding grows, Let those toil for gold who please, Or for fame renounce their ease. What is fame ? An empty bubble ; Gold? A shining, constant trouble. CHAF. VI. PROMISCUOUS PIECES. ait Let them for their country bleed ! What was Sidney's, Raleigh's meed ? Man's not worth a moment's pain ; Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain. 7 Then let me, sequester'd fair, To your sybil grot repair; On yon hanging cliff it stands, Scoop'd by nature's plastic hands, Bosom'd in the gloomy shade Of cypress not with age decayed ; Where the owl still hooting sits, Where the bat incessant flits ; There in loftier strains I'll sing Whence the changing seasons spring; Tell how storms deform the skies, Whence the waves subside and rise, Trace the comet's blazing tail, Weigh the planets in a scale ; Bend, great God, before thy shrine ; The bourniess macrocosm's thine. 8 Since in each scheme of life I've faiPd, And disappointment seems entail'd ; Since all on earth I valu'd most, My guide, my stay, my friend is lost ; O Solitude, now give me rest, And hush the tempest in my breast. gently deign to guide my feet To your hermit-trodden seat; Where I may live at last my own, Where 'I at last may die unknown. 1 spoke ; she turn'd her magic ray ; And thus she said, or seem'd to say; 9 Youth, you're mistaken, if you think to find In shades, a med'cine for a troubled mind : Wan grief will haunt you whereso'er you go, Sigh in the breeze, and in the streamlet flow. There pale inaction pines his life away ; And satiate mourns the quick return of day : There, naked frenzy laughing wild with pain. Or bares the blade, or plunges in the main : There superstition broods o'er all her fears, And yells of demons in the zephyr hears. But if a hermit you're resolv'd to dwell, And bid to social life a last farewell; *Tis impious. 248 THE ENGLISH READER. PART 11 10 God never made an independent man; 'Twould jar the concord of his general plan. See ev'ry part of that stupendous whole, " Whose body nature is, and God the soul ;" To one great end, the general good, conspire, From matter, brute, to man, to seraph, fire. Should man through nature solitary roam, His will his sovereign, every where his home, What force would guard him from the lion's jaw ? What swiftness wing him from the panther's pawl Or, should fate lead him to some safer shore, Where panthers never prowl, nor lions roar, Where liberal nature all her charms bestows, Suns shine, birds sing, flowers bloom, and water flows ; Fool, dost thou think he'd revel on the store, Absolve the care of Heav'n, nor ask for more? Though waters flow'd, flow'rs bloom'd, and Phoebus shone. He'd sigh, he'd murmur, that he was alone. For know, the Maker on the human breast, A sense of kindred, country, man, impress'd. 11 Though nature's works the ruling mind declare, And well deserve inquiry's serious care, The God, (whate'er misanthrophy may say,) Shines, beams in man with most unclouded ray. What boots it thee to fly from pole to pole? Hang o'er the sun, and with the planets roll 1 ' What boots through space's farthest bourns to roam ? If thou, O man, a stranger art at home. Then know thyself, the human mind survey ; The use, the pleasure, will the toil repay. 12 Nor study only, practice what you know; Your life, your knowledge, to mankind you owe. With Plato's olive wreath the bays entwine ; Those who in study, should in practice shine. Say, does the learn'd lord of Hagley's shade, Charm man so much by mossy fountains laid, As when arous'd, he stems corruption's course, And shakes the senate with a Tully's force? 1 " n freedom gasp'd beneath a Caesar's feet, "" virtue might to shades retreat : " ^nthes, the least may useful be, - f ill belongs to thee. \\- n tV| 129 3. Letter from Pliny to Marcellinus, on the death of an amiable young woman 130 4. On Discretion, 131 5. On the government of our thoughts, 133 6. On the evils which flow from unrestrained passion, . . .135 7. On the proper state of our temper, with respect to one another, 136 8. Excellence of the Holy Scriptures, . 9. Reflections occasioned by a review of the blessings pronounced by Christ, on his disciples, in his sermon on the mount, . 139 10. Schemes of life often illusory, 140 11. The pleasures of virtuous sensibility, . . ... . 142 12. On the true honour of man, ... ... 144 13. The influence of devotion on the happiness oflife, . 14. The planetary and terrestrial worlds comparatively considered, 147 15. On the power of custom, and the uses to which it may be applied, 143 16. The pleasure resulting from a proper use of our faculties, . . 150 17. Description of Candour, 151 18. On the imperfection of that happiness which rests solely on worldly pleasures, : * If? 19. What are the real and solid enjoyments of human life, - - 155 20. Scale of beings, ! 5 JJ 21. Trust in the care of Providence recommended, ... 159 22. Piety and gratitude enliven prosperity, - 23. Virtue, deeply rooted, is not subject to the influence of fortune, 163 24. The speech of Fabricius, to king Pyrrhus, who attempted to bribe him to his interests, by the offer of a large sum of money, 164 25. Character of James f. king of England, - 26. Charles V. Emp. of Germany, resigns his dominions, &c. - 166 27. The same subject continued, - 168 P.&JRT II. PIECES IN POETRY. CHAPTER I. Select Sentences and Paragraphs. 1. Short and easy sentences, - - - - 2 Verses in which the lines are of different length, - - 3. Verses containing exclamations, interrogations, parentheses, &c. 174 4. Verses in various forms, - JJ6 5. Verses in which sound corresponds to signification, J < 6. Connubial Affection, CHAPTER II Narrative Pieces. 1. Ti'e bears and tha boes, M CONTENTS. 2. The nightingale and the glow-worm, .... 182 3. The trials of virtue, ]83 4. The youth aad the philosopher, - - . . . 18S 5. Discourse between Adam and Eve retiring to rest, ... 186 G. Religion and death, ........ 539 CHAPTER III. Didactic Pieces. 1. The vanity of wealth, 191 2. Nothing formed in vain, 192 3. On pride, {&. 4. Cruelty to brutes censured, ---..--. 193 5. A paraphrase on the latter part of the 6th chapter of Matthew, 194 6. The death of a good man a strong incentive to virtue, . . 195 7. Reflections on the future state, from a review of winter, . . ib. 8. Adam's advice to Eve, to avoid temptation, .... 197 9. On procrastination, ib. 10. That philosophy which stops at secondary causes, reproved, . 199 11. Indignant sentiments on national prejudice, slavery, &c. . 200 CHAPTER IV. Descriptive Pieces. 1. The morning in summer, .'" 201 2. Rural sounds, as well as rural sights, delightful, . . . 202 3. The Rose, . . . . . ' . . . . . ib. 4. Care of birds for their young, . ...... 203 5. Liberty and slavery contrasted, ib. 6. Charity. A paraphrase on the 13th chap, to the Corinthians, . 204 7. Picture of a good man. 206 8. The pleasures of retirement, ....... 207 9. The pleasures and benefit of an improved imagination, . . 208 CHAPTER V. Pathetic Pieces. 1. The Hermit, 210 2. The Begga.r's Petition, ........ 211 3. Unhappy close of life, 212 4. Elegy to Pity, . . . . . . . . . .213 5. Verses by Alex. Selkirk, in the island of Juan Fernandez, . ib. 6. Gratitude, 215 7. A man perishing in the snow, with reflections, &c. &c. . . 216 8. A morning hymn, ......... 218 CHAPTER VI. Promiscuous Pieces. 1. Ode to Content, 219 2. The Shepherd and the Philosopher, 251 3. The road to happiness open to all men, ..... 2:22 4. The goodness of Providence, ....... 223 5. The Creator's works attest his greatness, . , ... 224 6. Address to the Deity, 225 7. The pursuit of happiness often ill-directed, .... 226 8. The fire-side, 27 9. Providence vindicated in the present state of man, - - 229 10. Selfishness reproved, - - - 230 11. Human frailty, ......... 231 12. Ode to peace, 232 13. O*de to adversity, ib. 14. The creation required to piaise its Author,- - - . - 234 15. The universal prayer, ------ - 235 16. Conscience, - - 237 17. On an infant, ..--....- ib. 18. The Cuckoo, 238 19. Day. A pastoral, in three parts, - - - - - ib. 20. The order of nature, - - - 241 21. Confidence in Divine protection, - - - 242 22. Hymn on a re view of the Seasons, 243 23 On Solitude, * ..... 245 14 DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED EDUCATION-PSYCHOLOGY LIBRARY TEL. NO. 642-4209 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. APR 21 JUN 1 5 REC'O -1 P( ' 3 1989 \\f\Pu * *- / LD 21A-15m-ll,'72 General Library / (Q5761slO)476 A-32 University of Calif or / Berkeley / VA 04429 541173 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY V*.