Rei a aly University of Virginia Library PN4200 .S4 1850 AL ssons locution ; or, As il 2 Ml i bbLIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA PRESENTED BY DR. EDGAR WOODS, JR.LESSONS IN ELOCUTION; A SELECTION OF PIECES PROSE AND VERSE, THE IMPROVEMENT OF YOUTH IN READING AND SPEAKING. Elements of Gesture, BY PLATES, AND RULES FOR EXPRESSING WITH PROPRIETY THE VARIOUS PASSIONS OF THE MIND. ALSO, AN APPENDIX, CONTAINING LESSONS ON A NEW PLAN, BY WILLIAM Seortr ENLARGED BY NEW SELECTIONS, MOSTLY FROM AMERICAN LITERATURE, BY- JAMES D. JOHNSON,. A.M. 5 pa - um € e ——— eg e a ® @ 2808 ® ® ® 6 y THOMAS, COWPERTHWAI®..& CO. 1850.Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1848, by THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO., _ n the clerk’s office of the District Court of the Unired States, for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. (2) e e e ce ee ee eee e bs © e @ S ¢ e ® @)#8 @ « $ : e 6 € p ee eee e € @ é s < ‘ as ¢ ce e @ @ ° € ¢ PRINTED BY SMT? & PETERS ** e « mA ©, e & . : 3 ranklineBuiigin’s Sieth Gtrs { syteGe oe ‘ Fa fokin vUlEINES, with street below Archg Phiageinhia, C ®* «@ s : e < é Goo 6.6, ‘ . ¢ ee *. 3 t . ok c qe © ¢ © « e € betteEDITOR’S PREFACE. noes WE present the public with a new edition of Scott’s Lessons in Elocution, at the risk even of being considered “old-fashioned ;” because, after much experience in teaching, and notwithstanding the numerous new works of similar character which have been published of late years, we are persuaded that Scott’s selections from the classical literature of the English language, as a whole, have not been, and cannot be, excelled. The only liberty which we have taken with the body of the work, has been occasionally to intersperse some new selections, mostly from American literature, as we feel persuaded the ori- ginal compiler himself would have done, had he lived to witness its development. ‘To this development no one has contributed more than himself, by familiarizing the mind of our American youth with the best and most eloquent passages of the great prose and poetical authors and orators of the mother country ; and no one would, with more pride, have acknowledged the creditable advance which we have made in our national litera- ture. But that it would ever have occurred to him that his work of patriotism and love, built of the venerable materials of the Augustan age of British literature, might, properly, be en- tirely superseded by selections from a literature comparatively of yesterday, we cannot suppose. ‘“ Westward the course of empire,” and of literature also, he knew had “taken its way.” But he knew, too, that the claims of necessity, and the difficulties of life in a new land, and the tumults of revolution, although demanding stout hearts, and strong minds, and rough hands, ill (iii)/ Pee ‘ate coe iV EDITOR’S PREFACE. assorted with the elegant ease required for the successful wooing of the muses. And, therefore, we may conjecture, that had he lived to the present hour, he would have been of the opinion, that Shakspeare and Milton were still unrivalled by American poets; Addison, and Johnson, and Goldsmith, not entirely sur- passed by Irving, or Paulding, or Willis; Robertson, Gibbon and Hume, yet respectable models of historical style, compared with Marshal], Grimshaw and Bancroft, or even Prescott; Tillotson, and Atterbury, and Blair, at least primi inter pares, by the side of Mather, and Edwards, and Dwight, in the pulpit; Mansfield and Chesterfield fit companions of P. Henry, and Calhoun, and Clay, in the Senate ; and Cicero entitled to a corner in the forum where Ames and Pinckney, and Wirt and Webster, figured. None are prouder of these great American names than our- selves, or more sensible of the propriety of introducing them into a work designed for the youth of the country. But we are persuaded that they themselves would prefer to stand in their appropriate relative positions, in the long gallery of illustrious worthies of the mother-land, rather than to occupy, in solitary grandeur, niches few and far between, as yet, in the temple of American literature. The only other change which we have introduced into this edition, is an abbreviation of the * Elements of Gesture,”’ attached to former editions, and which seem to be a sort of heir-loom. We have endeavoured to retain, in this abbreviation, every thing practically useful, leaving out only the more discursive parts, and the whole sketch of the Passions. The whole of the “ Extracts from Walker’s Elocution,’’ em- braced in former editions, will be found in the present. If there be any value at all in such mere abstract rules, these, we believe, will be found more valuable than many of the more artificial methods which have been, of late years, devised to teach a correct and elegant elocution. For ourselves, however, we confess to a want of faith in the value of any mere artistical rules for the attainment of this desirable end. The celebrated thrice-repeated answer of De- mosthenes, when asked what eloquence was, that it consisted in “action,” is not more true, than that elocution is only to be attained by oft-repeated practice. Were we, in conclusion, required to suggest the fewest possible rules on this subject, weEDITORS BRO A CE. would propound the following, to be found in the Table on page 12. From these few short rules, it will be seen that we rely chiefly on practice in reading to give perfection. It is in read- ing, as in music; the ear is the great teacher, the voice is but the instrument. There are few good readers, precisely for the reason that there are but few good singers; to wit, because few exercise the voice habitually and critically, either in reading or singing. 7 Good reading and good singing are on all hands admitted to be useful and elegant accomplishments, and yet both are too much neglected by our youth. This neglect is partly attribu- table to their parents, who, in this, as in too many more important matters, fail to supervise their children as they should; but chiefly is it due to the youth themselves, who, partly from false shame, but more from the false conceit that reading and singing are things of easy acquisition, postpone them until they find their mistake, and the truth of the old adage, that “as the twig is bent, the tree’s inclined.” The vocal organs, for want of use, will not, nay, cannot, play their parts. They have lost their flexibility, and ¢he will can no more operate through them, as by use it might have done, than it can lift a palsied limb. Whereas by constant, habitual use, “nothing will be easier” than to make the vocal instrument, whether in reading or sing- ing, “ discourse most eloquent music.”’ It is a remarkable fact, that well-educated females, as a class, read with more beauty than males of equal education. The reason probably is, that they have an ear more delicately attuned to the soul-stirring melodies of sound. Hence they read as they speak, always ez-animd (from the heart). This fact should suggest to us a hint more valuable than all the rules of the most laboured treatise. We adopt it; and conclude by recommending to youth to take their earliest and most frequent Jessons in reading from the lips of their well-educated mothers and sisters, or female friends. With such teachers, and with the Bible as the best text-book to begin with, correct and elegant reading will cease to be a task, and become a labour of love; and like all such labours, be more easily achieved. Afterwards, this work may be read.errs fer Fe = aoe Lm f el CONTENTS. INTRODUCTORY LESSONS. I. On the Speaking of Speeches at Schools.— Walker. ... fl, ‘On the Acting ‘of Plays at Schools.—J6id. vss... 6... II. Rules for Expressing with Propriety, the Principal Pas- IV. 1—V. VI. VIL. VILL. IX. X. XI. XI. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. XVIII. XIX. XX. XXII. XXIT. XXII. XXIV. IT. II. . The Bad Reader.—Percival’s Tales sions and Humours, which occur in Reading or Publie SSCS peo 0 ES ce i eee Rules respecting Elocution— Walker. .......e0ccce08 PART I.—LESSONS IN READING. SECTION I. Select Sentences.— Art of Thinking........csceree The Fox and the Goat.—Dodsley’s Fables... .......4. he Pox and the: Stone Ibid. eswk hide Al ORY CRC ONET Ot MCAT IG da in Sasol « srncrte sivsvus. mone Sean ee yi MUGS VOU, sae cs & ses oe « uy o.ce nie eae The Sick Lion, the Fox, and the Wolf—Jbid Dishonesty Punished.—Kane’s Hints. Sa Ne So Ms ayaa camel cp Bd oles te cvevinlin a dine wo Bees. Dodstey's Fables... « o~ un es «nase, « Beauty and Deformity.—Percival’s Tales............ Remarkable instance of Friendship.—Art of Speaking. . Dionysius and Damocles.—Jbid. Ciiaracter ot Cataline ——Sgilust. 0. ec es ema «barns, Avarice and Luxury.— Spectator. Hercules’ (Choice Wetilerne 200. 22 8) Boe... Will Honeycomb’s Spectator.— Spectator. On Good Breeding.—Chesterfield. .....c0c..00.05.., Address to a Young Student.— Knox The Folly of Pride.—Sidney Smith. ........0....... Advantages of, and Motives to, Cheerfulness.— Spec- tator eevee ewe enes S75 e je [, @ 01 Ole 10) 6.0) 8 %).02 6, «0s he @1 0.0 70,0) 0, O26! OO © 6.10 8 & ek 8-58 2)0 8 8) Fe 66 8 a ® Oe O18 yk Se ee © 8. 8 5 6 SECTION ILI. 9,8 0, 0 0.0) ae 9 § 0.8 68 B88 Respect due to Old Abe Specigi. << ee Piety to God recommended to the Young.—Blair...... (vi) Page 13 19 ®) 0 OV dO 58 59 60IV. CONTENTS. Modesty. and. Docility.—-Tbidweew Macau h oh eroabslehyo <1 60 V, .Sineerity, alsin ge ay 3150 106 XVIII. The Journey of a Day —a Picture of Human Life.— TROON. is ren ees ae a Ae ne ve aaa ales eas 108 SECTION IV. I. Description of the Amphitheatre of Titus. —Gzbbon.... 111 II. Reflections in Westminster Abbey.— Spectator. ...... 112 III. The Character of Mary Queen of Scots.— Robertson. .. 114 IV. The Character of Queen Elizabeth. Hume. ......... 115 V. Charles V.’s Resignation of his Dominions.—Robertson. 117 VI. Insecurity of the World.—Chalmers. .... 2.000. seeoes 120 VII. Importance of Virtue.—Price. .....seesererees 43 ker tocker (| Vill Page VUI. Address to Art.— Harris. . 0.0. c cece e se ceesecessens 122 [X. Flattery.— Theophrastus. ....0ceeceevecceceesecees 123 X. The Absent Man.— Spectator. .... cece cece rece eeens 124. Al; Phe: Monk — Stemie: 22. s6 SS eR Sale 125 XII. On the Head-dress of the Ladies.— Spectator......... 127 XIII. On the Present and Future State.—Jdbzd. ............ 129 XIV: Unele Toby's Benevolenee=—Sierme. 220s. ei. J. a's 132 XV. Power of Government.— Everett...... 00.0 cscs eecees 132 - XVI. Story of the Siege of Calais.—Fool of Quality. ....... 133 SECTION V. {. On Grace in Writing.—Fitzborne’s Letters. ........- 137 II. On the Structure of Animals. —Spectator. ........... 138 III. On Natural and Fantastical Pleasures.— Guardian. ... 140 IV. The Folly and Madness of Ambition Illustrated.— World. 143 V. Battle of Pharsalia and the Death of Pompey.—Gold- Se steele hee wali atte, Sawin a aici ais iw circ scce hee 6 146 Wl Chamcter ot Kino Alfved Jive. . vice ~ sures +s 151 VII. Awkwardness in Company.—Chesterfield. .......0040+ 151 VIII. Virtue Man’s Highest Interest.—Harris. ..........4. 152 TX. On the Pleasure arising from Objects of Sight.—Spec- COCO. Mee et ee aes Set atiarile wom Mae we cacev ad > wd 153 Xe Miberty end Slavery See. wv aicialain ds cmewie ee ace SS 3 oS 155 Wie any of Critic isi, Mites cia ad) cielsscheh wees + v6 156 XII. Parallel between Pope and Dryden.— Johnson. ....... 157 CIE. Mhesstory of dae Heyer: — Sterne... 6 ace ce Geass ens 158 SECTION VI. I. The Shepherd and the Philosopher.— Gay. .......... 165 I. Ode feAeven, Water.—-Simotlett, oo... soe ts wns he 167 Ill. Ode from the Nineteenth Psalm.—Spectator. ........ 167 JV. Rural Charms.—Goldsmith......... SE Pera 168 V. ‘The Painter who Pleased Nobody and Everybody.— Gay. 169 VI. Diversity in the Human Character. —Pope........... 170 Pe Meme OE pig Gia’ cin oe oe oo eek ene 172 Pou ive Bieri learn, << Fs. Beet on cs ss exe ewe sa wince ve 172 Px. On the Death of Mrs, Mason.—iMason......... <<... 78 X. Extract from the Temple of Fame.— Pope. .......... 178 XI. A Panegyric on Great Britain.— Thomson. .......... 180 XI. Hymn to the Deity, on the Seasons of the Year.—Ibid. 182 SECTION VII. He i We (hhamiel eon. Merril. — z ha Sern ori * DN ge ee * aa Pans = ceauadiieeaama ae one IOS SON gute ee POU 5 SE, hit. ae 36 LESSONS IN [PART I. order to be employed in scolding; it did not provide them with delicate features, in order to be disfigured with anger. Let fame be regarded, but conscience much more. It is an empty joy to appear better than you are; but a great blessing to be what you ought to be. Let your conduct be the result of deliberation, never of impa- tience. In the conduct of life, let it be one great aim to show that every thing you do proceeds from yourself; not from your pas- sions. Chrysippus rewards in joy, chastises in wrath, doth every thing in passion. No person stands in awe of Chrysippus, no person is grateful to him. Why? Because it is not Chry- sippus who acts, but his passions. We shun him in wrath as we shun a wild beast; and this is all the authority he has over us. Indulge not desire at the expense of the slightest article of virtue ; pass once its limits, and you fall headlong into vice. Examine well the counsel that favours your desires. The gratification of desire is sometimes the worst thing that can befall us. LY... To be angry, is to punish myself for the fault of another. A word dropped by chance from your friend offends your delicacy. Avoid a hasty reply; and beware of opening your discontent to the first person you meet. When you are cool it will vanish, and leave no impression. The most profitable revenge, the most rational, and the most pleasant, is to make it the interest of the injurious person not to hurt you a second time. It was a saying of Socrates, that we should eat and drink in order to live; instead of living, as many do, in order to eat and drink. Be moderate in your pleasures, that your relish for them may continue. Time is requisite to bring great projects to maturity. Precipitation ruins the best contrived plan; patience ripens the most difficult. When we sum up the miseries of life, the grief bestowed on trifles makes a great part of the account; trifles which, neglected, are nothing. How shameful such a weakness ! The pensionary De Wit being asked how he could transact such a variety of business without confusion, answered, that he never did but one thing at a time. Guard your weak side from being known. If it be attacked, the best way is to join in the attack. Francis I. consulting with his generals how to lead his army+ ec Sker: fq READING. 37 over the Alps, into Italy, Amerel, his fool, sprung from a corner, and advised him to consult rather how to bring it back. The best practical rule of morality is, never to do but what we are willing all the world should know. Solicitude in hiding failings makes them appear the greater. It is a safer and easier course, frankly to acknowledge them. A man owns that he is ignorant; we admire his modesty. He says he is old; we scarce think him so. He declares himself poor; we do not believe it. When you descant on the faults of others, consider whether you be not guilty of the same. ‘To gain knowledge of ourselves, the best way is to convert the imperfections of others into a mirror for discovering our own. Apply yourself more to acquire knowledge than to show it. Men commonly take great pains to put off the little stock they have; but they take little pains to acquire more. Never suffer your courage to be fierce, your resolution obsti- nate, your wisdom cunning, nor your patience sullen. To measure all reasons by our own, is a plain act of injustice : it is an encroachment on the common rights of mankind. If you would teach secrecy to others, begin with yourself. flow can you expect another will keep your secret, when your- self cannot ? A man’s fortune is more frequently made by his tongue, than by his virtues; and more frequently crushed by it, than by his vices. V. Even self-interest is a motive for benevolence. There are none so low, but may have it in their power to return a good office. To deal with a man, you must know his temper, by which you can lead him; or his ends, by which you can persuade him; or his friends, by whom you can govern him. The first ingredient in conversation is truth ; the next, good sense; the third, good humour ; the last, wit. The great error in conversation 1s, to be fonder of speaking than of hearing. Few show more complaisance than to pretend to hearken, intent all the while upon what they themselves have to say ; not considering, that to seek one’s own pleasure so pas- sionately is not the way to please others. To be an Englishman in London, a Frenchman in Paris, a Spaniard in Madrid, is no easy matter, and yet it is necessary. A man entirely without ceremony has need of great merit. He who cannot bear a jest, ought never to make one. In the deepest distress, virtue 1s more illustrious than vice in its highest prosperity. 4 aah $y sasha acdI, ~ ane 3 Danan : ae EE PRM. EE Rac SONTNMY SERA eat Pe II ne ges memes 38 LESSONS IN [PART I. No man is so foolish but he may give good counsel at a time ; no man so wise but he may err, if he take no counsel but his own. He whose ruling passion is love of praise, is a slave to every one who has a tongue for detraction. Always to indulge our appetites is to extinguish them. Ab- stain, that you may enjoy. To have your enemy in your power, and yet to do him good, is the greatest heroism. Modesty, were it to be recommended for nothing else, leaves a man at ease, by pretending to little; whereas vain glory re- quires perpetual labour to appear what one Is not. If we have sense, modesty best sets it off; if not, best hides the want. When, even in the heat of dispute, I yield to my antagonist, my victory over myself is more illustrious than over him, had he yielded to me. The refined luxuries of the table, besides enervating the body, poison that very pleasure they are intended to promote ; for, by soliciting the appetite, they exclude the greatest pleasure of taste, that which arises from the gratification of hunger. VI.— The Fox and the Goat. A Fox and a Goat travelling together, in a very sultry day, found themselves exceedingly thirsty ; when, looking round the country in order to discover a place where they might probably meet with water, they at length descried a clear spring at the bottom of a well. They both eagerly descended: and having sufficiently allayed their thirst, began to consider how they should get out. Many expedients for that purpose were mutu- ally proposed and rejected. At last the crafty Fox cried out with great joy —I have a thought just struck into my mind, which I am confident will extricate us out of our difficulty: Do you, said he to the Goat, only rear yourself up upon your hind legs, and rest your fore feet against the side of the well. In this posture, I will climb up to your head, from which I shall be able, with a spring, to reach the top; and when I am once there, you are sensible it will be very easy for me to pull you out by the horns. The simple Goat liked the proposal well, and immediately placed himself as directed; by means of which, the Fox, without much difficulty, gained the top. And now, said the Goat, give me the assistance you promised. ‘Thou old fool, replied the Fox, hadst thou but half as much brains as beard, thou wouldst never have believed that I would hazard my own life to save thine. However, I will leave with thee a piece of advice, which may be of service to thee hereafter, if thouSECT. 1. | READING. oo shouldst have the good fortune to make thy escape : never ven- ture into a well again, before thou hast well considered how to get out of it. VIl.— The Fox and the Stork. THE Fox, though in general more inclined to roguery than wit, had once a strong inclination to play the wag with his neighbour, the Stork. He accordingly invited her to dinner in great form; but when it came upon the table, the Stork found it consisted entirely of different soups served up in broad shallow dishes, so that she could only dip in the end of her bill, but could not possibly satysfy her hunger. ‘The Fox lapped it up very readily ; and every now and then addressing himself to his cuest, desired to know how she liked her entertainment ; hoped that every thing was seasoned to her mind; and protested he was very sorry to see her eat so sparingly. The Stork perceiv- ing she was played upon, took no notice of it, but pretended to like every dish extremely; and, at parting, pressed the F'ox so earnestly to return her visit, that he could not in civility refuse. The day arrived, and he repaired to his appointment ; but to his great mortification, when dinner appeared, he found it composed of minced meat, served up in long narrow-necked glasses; so that he was only tantalized with the sight of what it was impos- sible for him to taste. The Stork thrust in her long bill and helped herself very plentifully ; then turning to Reynard, who was eagerly licking the outside of ajar, where some sauce had been spilled, [ am very glad, said she, smiling, that you seem to have so good an appetite ; I hope you will make as hearty a dinner at my table asI did the other day at yours. Reynard hung down his head, and looked very much displeased. Nay, nay, said the Stork, don’t pretend to be out of humour about the mat- ter; they that cannot take a jest should never make one. VIL. — The Court of Death. Deatu, the king of terrors, was determined to choose a prime minister; and his pale courtiers, the ghastly train of diseases, were all summoned to attend, when each preferred his claim to the honour of this illustrious office. Fever urged the numbers he had destroyed ; cold Palsy set forth his pretensions, by shaking all his limbs; and Dropsy, by his swelled, unwieldy carcass. Gout hobbled up, and alleged his great power in racking every joint; and Asthma’s inability to speak was a strong, though silent areument in favour of his claim. Stone and Colic pleaded their violence ; Plague his rapid progress in destruction ; and Consumption, though slow, insisted that he was sure. In _ org Se tisteeiian am tanto ent lk 2 Ripe 5 ee ee ae gee eames aNtr Tate i Siihacin lini Maa ARCA EN on neuen nabs itgiad:— a PAS e theSe. gee Datei ‘ AO LESSONS IN [PART I the midst of this contention, the court was disturbed with the noise of music, dancing, feasting, and revelry; when imme- diately entered a lady, with a bold lascivious air, and a flushed and jovial countenance:'she was attended on one hand, by a troop of cooks and bacchanals, and on the other, by a train of wanton youths and damsels, who danced, half naked, to the softest musical instruments; her name was INTEMPERANCE. She waved her hand, and thus addressed the crowd of diseases : Give way, ye sickly band of pretenders, nor dare to vie with my superior merits in the service of this great monarch. Am I not your parent? the author of your beings? do you not derive the power of shortening human life almost wholly from me? Who, then, so fit as myself for this important 6ffice? The orisly mo- narch grinned a smile of approbation, placed her at his right hand, and she immediately became his principal favourite and prime minister. IX.— The Partial Judoe Cc A F'aRMER came to a neighbouring lawyer, expressing great concern for an accident which, he said, had just happened. “One of your oxen, continued he, has been gored by an unlucky bull of mine; and I should be glad to know how I am to make you reparation. Thou art a very honest fellow, replied the Lawyer, and wilt not think it unreasonable that I expect one of thy oxen in return. It is no more than justice, quoth the Farmer, to be sure. But, what did I say ?—I mistake. It is your bull that has killed one of my oxen. Indeed! says the Lawyer; that alters the case: I must Inquire into the affair; and if—And iF! said the Farmer—the business, I find, would have been con- cluded without an rr, had you been as ready to do justice to others as to exact it from them. : X.— The sick Lion, the Foz, and the PVolf. A Lion, having surfeited himself with feasting too luxuriously on the carcass of a wild boar, was seized with a violent and dangerous disorder. The beasts of the forest flocked, numbers, to pay their respects to him upon the scarce one-was absent except the Fox, natured and malicious beast, seized this Opportunity to accuse the Fox of pride, ingratitude, and disaffection to his majesty. In the midst of this invective, the Fox entered; who, having heard “part of the Wolf's accusation, and observed the Lion?s countenance to be kindled into wrath, thus adroitly excused him- self, and retorted upon his accuser: I see many here who, with mere lip service, have pretended to show you their loyalty ; but, In great occasion, and The Wolf, an jll-anc “ay | READING: A] for my part, from the moment I heard of your majesty’s. illness, ae useless compliments, I employed m rset day and night, to inquire, among the most learned physicians, an infallible Te medy for your disease; and have, at length, happily been informed of one. It is a plaster made of part of a wolf’s skin, taken warm from his back, and laid to your majesty’s stomach. ‘This remedy was no sooner proposed, than it was determined tnat the experiment should be tried; and whilst the operation was performing, the Fox, with a sarcastic smile, wh ispered this useful maxim in the Wolf’s ear: If you would be safe from harm yourself, learn for the future, not to meditate mischief against others. 7 XI.— Dishonesty Punished. A usurer, having lost a hundred pounds in a bag, promised a reward of ten pounds to the persen who a ld restore it. A man, having brought it to him, demanded the reward. The usurer, a to give the reward, now that he had got the bag, alleged, after the se was opened, t that there was a hundred and ten eomatd in it, when he lost it. The usurer, being called be- fore the judge, unwarily acknowledged that the seal was broken open in his presence, and that there was no more at that time but a hundred pounds in the bag. ‘“ You say,” says the judge, “that the bag you lost had a hundred and ten pounds ra ate as Yes, my lord.” “Then,” replied the judge, “this cannot be your bag, as it contained but a hundred pounds; therefore the plaintiff must keep it till the true owner appears ; and you must look for your bag where you can find it.’ Ke Fie Pictare: Sir Wituiam Lexy, a famous painter in the reign of Charles I., agreed beforehand for the price of a picture he was to draw for a rich London Alderman, who was not indebted to nature, either for shape or face. The picture being fin ished, the Alder- man endeavoured to beat down the price, alle oINng, that - he did not purchase it, it would lie on the painter's hand. “That’s your mistake,” says Sir William, “for I can sell it at double the price I demand.” ‘How can that be,”’ says the Alderman, ‘for Lis like nobody but myself?’ “True,” r ‘plied Sir Wi liam, “ but I can draw a tail to it, and then it will be an excel- len it monkey.” Mr. Alderman, to prevent being exposed, paid down the money demanded, and carried off the picture. XIU. — The Two Bees. On a fine morning in May, two bees set forward in quest of honey ; the one wise and temperate, the other careless and ex- 4 * ean glare eta aoe Bas ae Pec 2. She aw ee al Re al ere adRPE steertacma 42 LESSONS IN [PART I. travagant. ‘They soon arrived at a garden enriched with aro- matic herbs, the most fragrant flowers, and the most delicious fruits. They regaled themselves for atime on the various dain- ties that were spread before them; the one loading his thigh, at intervals, with provisions for the hive, against the distant winter 5 the other revelling in sweets, without regard to any thing but his present gratification. At length they found a wide-mouthed phial, that hung beneath the bough of a peach tree, filled with honey, ready tempered, and exposed to their taste, In the most alluring manner. The thoughtless epicure, in spite of all his friend’s remonstrances, plunged headlong into the vessel, re- solving to indulge himself in all the pleasures of sensuality. The philosopher, on the other hand, sipped a little with caution, but, being suspicious of danger, flew off to fruits and flowers, where, by the moderation of his meals, he improved his relish for the true enjoyment of them. In the evening, however, he called upon his friend, to inquire whether he would return to the hive; but he found him surfeited in sweets, which he was as unable to leave as to enjoy. Clogged in his wings, enfeebled in his feet, and his whole frame totally enervated, he was but just able to bid his friend adieu, and to lament, with his latest breath, that, though a taste of pleasure might quicken the relish of life, an unrestrained indulgence is inevitable destruction, AIV. — Beauty and Deformity. A yvoutu, who lived in the country, and who had not acquired, either by reading or conversation, any knowledge of the animals which inhabit foreign regions, came to Manchester to see an exhibition of wild beasts. The size and figure of the elephant struck him with awe; and he viewed the rhinoceros with astonish- ment. But his attention was soon drawn from these animals, and directed to another of the most elegant and beautiful form ; and he stood contemplating with silent admiration the glossy smoothness of his hair, the blackness and reoularity of the streaks with which he was marked, the symmetry of his limbs, and, above all, the placid sweetness of his countenance, « What is the name of this lovely animal,” said he to the keeper, “ which you have placed near one of the ugliest beasts in your collection, as if you meant to contrast beauty with deformity?” « Beware, young man,” replied the intelligent keeper, « of being so easily captivated with external appearance. —‘T’he animal which you admire is called a tiger; and, notwithstanding the meekness of his looks, he is fierce and savage beyond description: I can neither terrify him by correction, nor tame him by indulgence. But the other beast, which you despise, is in the highest degree ~ docile, affectionate, and useful. For the benefit of man, he tra-SECT. 1.| READING. A3 verses the sandy deserts of Arabia, where drink and_ pasture are seldom to be found; and will continue six or seven days without sustenance, yet still patient of labour. His hair 1s manufactured into clothing; his flesh is deemed wholesome nourishment; and the milk of the female is much valued by the Arabs. 'he camel, therefore, for such is the name given to this animal, is more worthy of your admiration than the tiger; not- withstanding the inelegance of his make, and the two bunches upon his back. For mere external beauty is of little estimation 5 and deformity, when associated with amiable dispositions and useful qualities, does not preclude our respect and approbation.” XV.— Remarkable Instance of Friendship. Damon and Pythias, of the Pythagorean sect in philosophy, lived in the time of Dionysius, the tyrant of Sicily. Their mu- tual friendship was so strong, that they were ready to die for one another. One of the two (for it is not known which) being con- demned to death by the tyrant, obtained leave to go mto his own country to settle his affairs, on condition that the other should consent to be imprisoned in his stead, and put to death for him, if he did not return before the day of execution. ‘The attention of every one, and especially of the tyrant himself, was excited to the highest pitch, as everybody was curious to see what would be the event of so strange an affair. When the time was almost elapsed, and he who was gone did not appear, the rashness of the other, whose sanguine friendship had put him upon running so seemingly desperate a hazard, was universally blamed. But he still declared that he had not the least shadow of doubt in his mind of his friend’s fidelity. The event showed how well he knew bim. He came in due time, and surrendered himself to that fate’ which he had no reason to think he should escape ; and which he did not desire to escape, by leaving his friend to suffer in his place. Such fidelity softened even the savage heart of Dionysius himself. He pardoned the condemned; he gave the two friends to one another, and begged that they would take himself in for a third. XVI. — Dionysius and Damocles. Dionystus, the tyrant of Sicily, showed how far he was from being happy, even whilst he abounded in riches, and all the pleasures which riches can procure. Damocles, one of his flat- terers, was complimenting him upon his power, his treasures, and the magnificence of his royal state, and affirming that no monarch ever was greater or happier than he. “Have youa mind, Damocles,’ says the king, “to taste this happiness, and Sia i eaten ia pee ihe Sean ee eae wg tales oie a av a Pe aah all sg SSeS ee keeper nN! —apep Se cella ptm a6 Sabai ypeA4 LESS ONS EN [PART T, know by experience what my enjoyments are, of which you have so high an idea?” Darnocles gladly accepted the offer. Upon which the king ordered that a royal banquet should be prepared, and a gilded couch placed for him, covered with rich embroidery, and sideboards loaded with gold and silver plate of immense value. Pages of extraordinary beauty were ordered to wait on him at table, and to obey his commands with the createst readiness, and the most profound submission. Neither ojnt- ments, chaplets of flowers, nor rich perfumes, were wanting. The table was loaded with the most exquisite delicacies of every kind. Damocles fancied himself among the gods. In the midst of all his happiness, he sees let down from the roof, exactly over his neck, as he lay indulging himself in state, a glittering sword, hung by a single hair. The sight of destruction, thus threaten- ing him from on high, soon put a stop to his joy and revelling, ‘Lhe pomp of his attendants, and the glitter of the carved plate, gave him no longer any pleasure. He dreads to stretch forth his hand to the table; he throws off the chaplet of roses; he hastens to remove from his dangerous situation : and, at last, begs the king to restore him to his former" humble condition, having no desire to enjoy any longer such a dreadful kind of happiness: XVII. — Character of Catiline. Lucius Carmine, by birth a patrician, was, by nature, en- dowed with superior advantages, both bodily and mental; but his dispositions were corrupt and wicked. From his youth, his supreme delight was in violence, slaughter, rapine, and intestine confusions ; and such works were the employment of his earliest years. His constitution qualified bim for bearing hunger, cold, and want of sleep, to a degree exceeding belief, daring, subtle, unsteady. There was no char could not assume, and put off at pleasure. belonged to others, prodigal of his own, viol ever became the object of his pursuit. He possessed a consider- able share of eloquence, but little solid knowledge. His insatiable temper was ever pushing him to grasp at what was immoderate, romantic, and out of his reach, About the time of the disturbances raised by Sylla, Catiline was seized by a violent Just of power; nor did he at al] hesitate about the means, so he could but attain his purpose of raising himself to supreme dominion. His restless spirit was in a con. tinual ferment, occasioned by the confusion of his own private affairs, and by the horrors of his guilty conscience; both which he had brought upon himself by living the life above described. He was encouraged in his ambitious projects by the general corruption of manners which then prevailed among a people His mind was acter which he Rapacious of what ently bent on what-SROT,.%, | READING. 45 infected with two vices, not less opposite to one another in their natures, than mischievous in their tendencies; I mean luxury and avarice. XVUI.— Avarice and Luxury. THERE were two very powerful tyrants engaged in a perpetual War against each other; the name of the first was Luxury, and of the second, Avarice. The aim of each of them was no less than universal monarchy over the hearts of mankind. Luxury had many generals under him, who did him great service; as Pleasure, Mirth, Pomp, and Fashion. Avarice was likewise very strong in his officers, being faithfully served by Hunger, Industry, Care, and Watchfulness; he had likewise a privy counsellor, who was always at his elbow, and whispering some- thing or other in his ear; the name of this privy counsellor was Poverty. As Avarice conducted himself by the counsels of Poverty, his antagonist was entirely guided by the dictates and advice of Plenty, who was his first counsellor and minister of state, that concerted all his measures for him, and never departed out of his sight. While these two great rivals were thus con- tending for empire, their conquests were very various. Luxury got possession of one heart, and Avarice of another. ‘The father of a family would often range himself under the banners of Avarice, and the son under those of Luxury. The wife and husband would often declare themselves of the two different parties; nay, the same person would very often side with one in his youth, and revolt to the other in old age. Indeed, the wise men of the world stood neuter; but, alas! their numbers were not considerable. At length, when these two potentates had wearied themselves with waging war upon one another, they agreed upon an interview, at which neither of the counsellors was to be present. It is said that Luxury began the parley ; and after having represented the endless state of war in which they were engaged, told his enemy, with a frankness of heart which is natural to him, that he believed they two should be very good friends, were it not for the instigations of Poverty, that pernicious counsellor, who made an ill use of his ear, and filled him with groundless apprehensions and prejudices. ‘To this Avarice replied, that he looked upon Plenty (the first minister of his antagonist) to be a much more destructive counsellor than Poverty; for that he was perpetually suggesting pleasures, banishing all the necessary cautions against want, and conse- quently undermining those principles on which the government of Avarice was founded. At last, in order to an accommodation, they agreed upon this preliminary: that each of them should immediately dismiss his privy counsellor. When things werepoet inet 46 LESSONS IN [PART I. \ thus far adjusted towards a peace, all other differences Were i Soon accommodated ; insomuch, that for the future they resolved to live as good friends and confederates, and share between them i whatever conquests were made on either side. For this reason, ae we now find Luxury and Avarice taking possession of the same ni heart, and dividing the same person between them. ‘To which hl { shall only add, that since the discarding of the counsellors By above mentioned, Avarice supplies Luxury, in the room of | Plenty, as Luxury prompts Avarice, in the place of Poverty. AIX. — Hercules’ Choice. When Hercules was in that part of his youth in which it was natural for him to consider what course of life he ought to pur- sue, he one day retired into a desert, where the silence and soli- x tude of the place very much favoured his meditations. As he : was musing on his present*condition, and very much perplexed in“ himself on the state of life he should choose, he saw two women, of a larger stature than ordinary, approaching towards a him. One of them hada very noble air, and graceful deport- ment; her beauty was natural and easy, her person clean and unspotted, her eyes cast towards the ground, with an agreeable reserve, her motions and behaviour full of modesty, and her rai- ment was white as snow. The other had a oreat deal of health and floridness in her countenance, which she had helped with an artificial white and red; and she endeavoured to appear more graceful than ordinary in her mien, by a mixture of affectation in all her gestures. She had a wonderful confidence and assur- ance in her looks, and all the variety of colours in her dress, that she thought were the most proper to show her complexion to advantage. She cast her eyes upon herself, then turned them on those that were present to see how they liked her; and often looked on the figure she made in her own shadow. Upon her nearer approach to Hercules, she stepped: before the other lady, Ai, who came forward with a regular, composed carriage, and run- if ning up to him, accosted him after the following manner :— “My dear Hercules,” says she, “I find you are very much divided in your thoughts, upon the way of life that you ought to choose; be my friend, and follow me; I will lead you into the possession of pleasure, and out of the reach of pain, and remove you from all the noise and disquietude of business. The affairs of either peace or war shall have no power to disturb you. Your whole employment’shall be to make vour life easy, and to entertain every sense with its proper gratifications. Sumptuous tables, beds of roses, clouds of perfumes, concerts of music, crowds of beauties, are all in readin Come along with me into this region of de 1 AR ce PIO BABI ep IO eo Os ad Se ess to receive you. lights, this world ofSKB] READING. AT pleasure, and bid farewell for ever to care, to pain, to busi- ness.” Hercules, hearing the lady talk after this manner, desired to know her name; to which she answered, “ My friends, and those who are well acquainted with me, call me Happiness; but my enemies, and those who would injure my reputation, have given me the name of Pleasure.” By this time the other lady came up, who addressed herself to the young hero in a very different manner. «“ Hercules,” says she, “I offer myself to you, because I know you are descended from the gods, and give proofs of that descent by your love to virtue, and application to the studies proper for your age. This makes me hope you will gain, both for your- self and me, an immortal reputation. But, before I invite you into my society and friendship, I will be open and sincere with you, and must lay down this as an established truth, that there is nothing truly valuable which can be purchased without pains and labour. ‘The gods have set a price upon every real and noble pleasure. If you would gain the favour of the Deity, you must be at the pains of worshipping him: if the friendship of good men, you must study to oblige them: if you would be honoured by your country, you must take care to serve it. In short, if you would be eminent in war or peace, you must become master of all the qualifications that can make you so. ‘These ate the only terms and conditions upon which I can propose happiness.” ‘The goddess of Pleasure here broke in upon her discourse : “ You see,’”’ said she, “ Hercules, by her own con- fession, the way to her pleasures is long and difficult; whereas, that which I propose is short and easy.”” “Alas!” said the other lady, whose visage glowed with passion, made-up of scorn and pity, “ what are the pleasures you propose? ‘To eat before you are hungry, drink before you are athirst, sleep before you are tired; to gratify your appetites before they are raised, and raise such appetites as nature never planted. You never heard the most delicious music, which is the praise of one’s own self; nor saw the most beautiful object, which is the work of one’s own hands. ‘Your votaries pass away their youth in a dream of mistaken pleasures, while they are hoarding up anguish, tor- ment, and remorse, for old age. « As forme, I am the friend of gods and of good men, an agreeable companion to the artisan, a household guardian to the fathers of families, a patron and protector of servants, an asso- ciate in all true and generous friendships. The banquets of my votaries are never costly, but always delicious; for none eat and drink at them who are not invited by hunger and thirst. ‘Their slumbers are sound, and their wakings cheerful. My young men have the pleasure of hearing themselves praised by those af See dat ae Wayews Bee ee ae ee Sa aaa aes " « pias It i Sats nts col adie Sage aera a sa ag ew ie ide Wa aaa pw giy _ ws, Se sk f Peon. their wives ? 18 LESSONS IN [PART I. who are in years; and those whoare in years, of being honoured by those who are young. In a word, my followers are favoured by the gods, beloved by their acquaintance, esteemed by their country, and after the close of their labours, honoured by pos- terity.”” We know by the life of this memorable hero, to which of these two ladies he gave up.his heart; and I believe every one who reads this will do him the justice to approve his choice. XX.— Will Honeycomb’s Spectator. My friend, Will Honeycomb, has told me, for above this half year, that he had a great mind to try his hand at a Spectator, and that he would fain have one of his writings in my works. This morning I received from him the following letter, which, after having rectified some little orthographical mistakes, [ shall make a present to the public. «Dear Spec—I was about two nights ago in company with very agreeable young people, of both sexes, where, talkmg of some of your papers, which are written on conjugal love, there arose a dispute among us, whether there were not more bad husbands in the world than bad wives. A gentleman, who was advocate for the ladies, took this occasion to tell us the story of a famous siege in Germany, which I have since found related in my historical dictionary, after the following manner. When the emperor Conrad LI. had besieged Guelphus, duke of Bavaria, in the city of Hensberg, the women, finding that the town could not possibly hold out long, petitioned the emperor that they might depart out of it with so much as each of them could carry. The emperor, knowing they could not convey away many of their effects, granted them their petition; when the women, to his great surprise, came out of the place with every one her husband upon her back. The emperor was so moved at the sight, that he burst into tears; and after having very much ex- tolled the women for their conjugal affection, gave the men to their wives, and received the duke into his favour. “The ladies did not a little triumph at this story; asking us at the same time, whether in our consciences we believed that the men in any town of Great Britain would, upon the same offer, and at the same conjuncture, have loaded themselves with Or rather, whether they would not have been glad of such an opportunity to get rid of them? To this my very good friend, ‘om Dapperwit, who took upon him to be the mouth of our sex, replied, that they would be very much to blame if they would not do the same good office for the women, considering that their strength would be greater and their bur- dens lighter. As we were amusing ourselves with discoursesSECT. 1. READING. 49 vu of this nature, in order to pass away the evening, which now began to grow tedious, we fell into that laudable and primitive diversion of questions and commands. I was no sooner vested with the regal authority, but I enjoined all the la adies, under pain of my displeasure, to tell the company ingenuously, in case they had ae in the siege above-mentioned, and had the same offers made them as the good women of that place, what every one of them would have brought off with her, and have thought most worth the saving? There were several merry answers made to my question, which entertained us till bed-time. This filled my mind with such a huddle of. ideas, that upon my going to sleep, I fell into the following dream: “J saw a town of this island, which shall be nameless, invested on every side, and the inhabitants of it so o suatiened as to cry for quarter. ‘I'he general refused any ot he or terms than those granted to the above-mentioned town of He Retibacits namely, that the married’ women might come out, with what they could bring along with them. Immediately the city gates flew open, and a female procession appeared, m ultitudes of the sex following one another in a row, and staggering under their respective burdens. TI took my stand upon an eminence in the enemy’s camp, which was appointed A the general rendezvous of these female car- riers, being very desirous to look into their several ladings. The first of them had a huge sack upon her shoulders, which she set down with great care: upon the opening of it, when I expected to have seen her husb coh shoot out of it, | found it was filled with china-ware. ‘I'he nex appeane din a more decent figure, carry- ing a handsome Fea fellow upon-her back: I could not for- bear commending the young woman for her Hie affection, when, to my great surprise, | found that she had left the sood man at .home, and brought away her gallant. Isawa third at some distance, with a little withered face peeping over her shoulder, whom I could not suspect oh KS or any other but her spouse, till upon her setting him dow [I heard her call him dear pug, and found him to ‘be her ane e monkey. A fourth brought a huge bale of cards along with her; and the fifth a Bologna lapdog ; for her husband, it seems, being a very bulky man, “she thought it would be less trouble for her to bring away little cupid. The next was the wife of a rich usurer, loaded with a bag of gold: she told us that her spouse was very old, and by the course of nature could not expect to live long; and that to show her tender regard for him, she had saved that which the poor man loved better ‘than his life. The next came towards us with her son upon her back, who, we were told, was the greatest rake in the place, but so much the mother’s darling, that she left her husband behind, with a lar ze family of ho peful sons and daughters, for the sake of this oraceless youth. 5 Do0 LESSONS IN [PART I. “Tt would be endless to mention the several persons, with their several loads, that appeared to me in this strange vision. All the place about me was covered with packs of ribands, broaches, embroidery, and ten thousand other materials, suffi- cient to have furnished a whole street of toyshops. One of the women, having a husband who was none of the heaviest, was (bringing him off upon her shoulders, at the same time that she carried a great bundle of Flanders lace under her arm ; but find- ing herself so overladen that she could not save both of them, she dropped the good man, and brought away the bundle. In short, [ found but one husband among this great mountain of baggage, who was a lively cobbler, that kicked and spurred all the while his wife was carrying him off, and, as it was said, had scarce passed a day in his life, without giving her the discipline of the strap. “] cannot conelude my letter, dear Spec, without telling thee one very odd whim in this my dream. I saw, methought, a dozen women employed in bringing off one man: I could not guess who it should be, till, upon his nearer approach, I disco- vered thy short phiz. The women all declared that it was for the sake of thy works, and not thy person, that they brought thee off, and that it was on condition that thou shouldest con- tinue the Spectator. If thou thinkest this dream will make a tolerable one, it is at thy service, from, dear Spec, thine, sleeping and waking, Witt Honeycomr.”’ The ladies will see, by this letter, what I have often told them, that Will is one of those old-fashioned men of wit and pleasure of the town, who show their parts by raillery on marriage, and one who has often tried his fortune in that way without success. I cannot, however, dismiss this letter, without observing, that the true story, on which it is built, does honour to the sex; and that, in order to abuse them, the writer is obliged to have recourse to dream and fiction. XAXIL— On Good Breeding. A FRIEND of yours and mine has very justly defined good breeding to be, “the result of much good sense, some good na- ture, and a little self-denial, for the sake of others, and with a view to obtain the same indulgence from them.” Taking this for granted (as I think it cannot be disputed), it is astonishing to me, that any body, who has good sense and good nature, can essentially fail in good breeding. As to the modes of it, indeed, they vary, according to persons, places, and circumstances, and are only to be acquired by observation and experience ; but the substance of it is every where and eternally the same. GoodSECT. I.| READING. D1 manners are, to particular societies, what good morals are to society in general,——their cement and their security. And as laws are enacted to enforce good morals, or at least to prevent the ill effects of bad ones; so there are certain rules of civility, universally implied and received, to enforce good manners, and punish bad ones. And indeed there seems to me to be less dif- ference both between the crimes and punishments, than at first one would imagine. ‘The immoral man, who invades another’s property, is justly hanged for it; and the ill-bred man, who by his ill manners, invades and disturbs the quiet and comforts of private life, is by common consent, as justly banished society. Mutual complaisances, attentions, and sacrifices of little con- veniences, are as natural an implied compact between civilized people, as protection and obedience are between kings and subjects; whoever, in either case, violates that compact, justly forfeits all advantages arising from it. For my own part, I really think, that next to the consciousness of doing a good action, that of doing a civil one is one of the most pleasing; and the epithet which I should covet the most, next to that of Aris- tides, would be that of well-bred. Thus much for good breed- ing, in general; I will now consider some of the various modes and degrees of it. Very few, scarcely any, are wanting in the respect which they should show to those whom they acknowledge to be highly their superiors; such as crowned heads, princes, and public persons of distinguished and eminent posts. Itis the manner of showing that respect, which is different. ‘The man of fashion and of the world, expresses it in its fullest extent; but naturally, easily, and without concern: whereas'a man who is not used to keep good company, expresses it awkwardly ; one sees that he is not used to it, and that it costs him a great deal; but I never saw the worst bred man living, guilty of lolling, whistling, scratching his head, and such like indecencies, in company that he re- spected. In such companies, therefore, the only point to be attended to is, to show that respect, which every body means to show, in an easy, unembarrassed, and graceful! manner. ‘This is what observation and experience must teach you. In mixed companies, whoever is admitted to make ‘part of them, is for the time at least, supposed to be upon a footing of equality with the rest; and consequently, as there is no one principal object of awe and respect, people are apt to take a greater latitude in their behaviour, and to be less upon their guard; and so they may, provided it be within certain bounds, which are, upon no occasion, to be transgressed. But upon these occasions, though no one is entitled to distinguished marks of respect, every one claims, and very justly, every mark of civility and good breeding. Ease is allowed, but carelessness paki ia BP caine Ses ae om agento% LESSONS IN [PART I. and negligence are strictly forbidden. If a man accosts you, and talks to you ever so dully or frivolously, it is worse than rudeness, it is brutality to show him, by a manifest inattention to what he says, that you think him a fool, or a blockhead, and not worth hearing. ‘It is much more so with regard to w omen, who, of w hatever rank the ey are, are entitled, in consideration of their sex, not only to an attentive, but an officious good breeding from men. Their little wants, hkings, dishkes, preferences, an- tipathies, and fancies, must be officiously attended to, and, if possible, a at and anticipated, by a well-bred man. You must never usurp to yourself those conveniences and gratifica- tions which are of common nig such as the best places, the best dish les, ¢ ; but on the con trary, alwa ays decline them your self, and offer th 2m to other ST who in their turns will offer them to you; so that upon the whole, you will, in your - enjoy your share of ae common rt ight. It would be endless for me to enumerate all the particul ar Greumstances in which a well-bred man shows his good breeding, in good company ; be injurious to you to suppose that yeur own not point them out to you; and then your own go recommend, and atk st elftintere 2st enforce the practice. here is a third sort of good breed| ng, in whicl most apt to l, from a very mista ken notio on, that they : fail at all. n with rd to one’s most fami liar friends and acquaintance se who really are our inferiors ; and there, ante ubtedly, a 3 iter degree of ease is not only allowa- ble, but proper, and contributes much to the comforts of a private social a But ease atl freedom have their bounds, which violated. A certain degree of negligence ry cna ssness becomes injurious and ins sulting, from the 1 real or supposed inferiority of the persons ; and that delightf ‘al beth of con versation, among a few friends, is soon destroye ed, as liberty often has been, by being carried to licentiousness. But example explains things best, an nd : will put a pretty strong case. Sup- pose you and me ¢ Bteoe tos Sethe I believe you will alloy w that f have as good a right to unlimited freedom, in your company, as either you or I can possib bly ie fe in any other; andI ama apt to believe,-too, that you would indulge me in that freedom as far as any body would. But notwithstanding this, do you imagine that I should think there were no bounds to that freedom? I assure you I should not think so: and I take myself to be as much tied down, by a certain degree of good manners to you, as by other degrees of them to other people. The most familiar and intimate habitudes, connexions and friendships, require a (> = a t OL oe oO S IO =< 9 iad pom N oO © =< ey » & ae =| —~ he > © a degree of good breeding, both to preserve and cement them, The best of us have our bac : side 2s; and it is as imprudent as it is ill bred, to exhibit them. shall not use ce remony with you $SECT, 23] READING. 53 ad it would be misplaced between us; but I shall certainly observe hat degree of good breeding with you, which is, in the first lace, decent, and which, I am sure, is absolutely necessary, to make us like one another’s company long. Pes hee XXII. — Address to a young Student. Your parents have watched over your helpless infancy, and conducted you, with many a pang, to an age at which your mind is capable of manly improvement. Their solicitude still con- tinues, and no trouble nor expense is spared in giving you all the instructions and accomplishments which may enable you to act your part in life asa man of polished sense and confirmed virtue. You have, then, already contracted a great debt of sratitude to them. You can pay it by no other method but by using pro- perly the advantages which their goodness has afforded you. If your own endeavours are deficient, it is in vain that you have tutors, books, and all the external apparatus of literary pur- suits. You must love learning, if you would possess it. In order to love it, you must feel its delights; in order to feel its delights, you must apply to it, however irksome at first, closely, constantly, and for a considerable time. If you have resolution enough to do this, you cannot but love learning; for the mind always loves that to which it has been so long, steadily, and voluntarily attached. Habits are formed which render what was at first disagreeable, not only pleasant, but necessary. Pleasant, indeed, are all the paths which lead to polite and elegant literature. Yours, then, is surely a lot particularly happy. Your education.i8 ofsuek a sort, that its principal scope is to prepare you to.recélye 4 hefirted pltaSure during your life. Elegance, or delicacy of taste, is due of the-first> objects of clas- sical discipline: avid’,1t is this iid quality which epens a new world to the schola’’s'view. ‘legdnce of iaste® has @ connexion with many virtues, and all of theni virtles’of the >most amiable kind. It tends to render you at once good and agreeable: you must therefore be an enemy to your own enjoyment, if you enter on the discipline which leads to the attainment of a classical and liberal education with reluctance. Value duly the opportunities you enjoy, and which are denied to thousands of your fellow- creatures. Without exemplary diligence, you will make but a con- temptible proficiency. You may, indeed, pass through ,the forms of schools and universities; but you will bring nothing away from them of real valve. ‘The proper sort and degree of diligence you cannot possess, but by the efforts of your own reso- lution. Your instructor may, indeed, confine you within the walls of a school a certain number of hours. He may place * ey nN oe RARE LT SA st, FN ae abo o4 LESSONS IN [PART f. books before you, and compel you to fix your eyes upon them; but no authority can chain down your mind. Your thoughts will escape from every external restraint, and, amidst the most serious lectures, may be ranging in the wild pursuits of trifles and vice. Rules, restraints, commands, and punishme nts, may, indeed, assist in strengthening your Sena but without your own voluntary choice, your c diligence will not often conduce to your pleasure or advantage. ape sc this truth is obvious, yet it seems to be a secret to those parents who expect to find their son’s improvement Increase in 1 proportion to the number of tutors and nd assistance which their opulence has ape thern to provide. = se assistances, indeed, are sometimes aflorded chiefly that t] e young iy to a title or estate may indulge him- pela in idleness and nominal pleasures. The lesson is construed and the ince: written for him by the private tutor, 1e hapless youth is engaged in some ruinous pleasure, ais , at the same time, prevents him from learning any thing Foil. and leads to the formation of destructive habits, Ww hich can seldom be removed. But Ws principal obstacle to your improvement at school, especially if you are too plentifully supplied with money, is a perverse ambition of being distinguished as a boy of spirit in mischievous pranks, in neglecting “the tasks and lessons, and for every vice and irregular ‘ity which the puerile age can admit. You will have sense enough, I hope, to discover, beneath the mask of gaiety and good nature, that malignant spirit of detrac- tion which endeavours to render the boy who applies to books, and to all the duties and proper bus siness of school, ric liculous. You will see,-by theclight °of, your reason, «that the ridicule is misapplied * Youcwall, djstowér that the boys who have recourse to ridicule, are, fo: host Part, stuj pid, tan eling, ign orant, and vicious. ‘Theig potsy « “Olly, : their beld confic lence, their contempt of learnins gpand tteir defianée of atithority, are, for the most part, the genuine effects of Rard fied insensibilit y. Let not their in- sults and ill treatment dispirit you; if you yield to them with a tame and abject submission, they will not fail to triumph over you with additional insolence. Display a fortitude in your pur- suits equal in degree to the obstinacy in which they persist in theirs. Your fortitude will soon overcome theirs, which is, indeed, seldom any thing more than the aud acity of a bully. Indeed, you cannot go through a school with ease to yourself and. an success, without a ‘consider ‘able share of courage, [ do not mean that sort et courage which leads to battles and con- tentions, but which enables you to have a will of your own, and to pursue what is rip age all the persecutions of surround- ing enviers, dunces, and detractors. Ridicule is the w eapon made use of at a school, as well as in the w orld, when the for i) ) a C,SECT. 4.] READING. 55 tresses of virtue are to be assailed. You will effectually repel the attack by a dauntless spirit and unyielding perseverance. ‘Though numbers are against you, yet, with truth and rectitude on your side, you may, though alone, be equal to an army. By laying in a store of useful knowledge, adorning your mind with elegant literature, improving and establishing your conduct by virtuous principles, you cannot fail of being a comfort to those friends who have supported you, of being happy within yourself, and of being well received by mankind. Honour and success in life will probably attend you. Under all circum- stances, you will have an eternal source of consolation and en- tertainment, of which no sublunary vicissitude can deprive you. ‘Time will show how much wiser has been your choice, than that of your idle companions, who would gladly have drawn you into their association, or rather into their conspiracy, as it has been called, against good manners, and against all that is honour- able and useful. While you appear in society as a respectable and valuable member of it, they will, perhaps, have sacrificed at the shrine of vanity, pride, and extravagance, and false pleasure, their health and their sense, their fortune and their characters. XXIU.— The Folly of Pride. AFTER all, take some quiet, sober moment of life, and add together the two ideas of pride, and of man; behold him, a crea- ture of a span high, stalking through infinite space, in all the grandeur of littleness. Perched on a little speck of the universe, every wind of heaven strikes into his blood the coldness of death ; his soul fleets from his body, like melody from the string ; day and night, as dust on the wheel, he is rolled along the heavens, through a labyrinth of worlds, and all the systems, and creations of God are flamimg above and beneath. Is this a creature to revel in his greatness? Is this a creature to make to himself a crown of glory; to deny his own flesh and blood; and to mock at his fellow, sprung from that dust to which they both will soon return? Does the proud man not err? Does he not suffer? Does he not die? When he reasons, is he never stopped by difficulties? When he acts, is he never tempted by pleasures? When he lives, is he free from pain? When he dies, can he escape from the common grave? Pride is not the heritage of man; humility should dwell with frailty, and atone for ignorance, error, and imperfection. Seine so ean A Sipe ee be Steg oe ne aos sbi a caCA DD LESSONS IN [PART I. XXIV. — Advantages of, and Motives to, Cheerfulness. CHEERFULNESS Is, in the first place, the best promoter of health. Repinings, and secret murmurs of the heart, give imperceptible strokes to those delicate fibres of which the vital parts are com- posed, and wear out the machine insensibly; not to mention those violent ferments which they stir up in the blood, and those irregular, disturbed motions which they raise in the animal spirits. I scarce remember, in my own observation, to have met with many old men, or with such who (to use our English phrase) wear well, that had not at least a certain indolence in their humour, if not more than ordinary gaiety and cheerfulness of heart. The truth of it is, health and cheerfulness mutually beget each other, with this difference, that we seldom meet with a great degree of health, which is not attended with a certain cheerfulness, but very often see cheerfulness where there is no great decree of health. Cheerfulness bears the same friendly regard to the mind as to the body; it banishes all anxious care and discontent, soothes and composes the passions, and keeps the soul in a perpetual calm. If we consider the world in its subserviency to man, one would think it was made for our use; but if we consider it in its natural beauty and harmony, one would be apt to conclude it was made for our pleasure. The sun, which is the great soul of the universe, and produces all the necessaries of life, has a particular influence in cheering the mind of man, and making the heart glad. ‘Those several living creatures which are made for our service or sustenance, at the same time either fill the woods with their music, furnish us with game, or raise pleasing ideas in us by the delightfulness of their appearance. Fountains, lakes, and rivers, are as refreshing to the imagination, as to the soul through which they pass. There are writers of great distinction who have made it an argument for Providence, that the whole earth is covered with green, rather than with any other colour, as being such a night mixture of licht and shade, that it comforts and strenothens the eye, instead of weakening or grieving it. For this reason, several painters have a green cloth hanging near them, to ease the eye upon, after too great an application to their colouring. A famous modern philosopher accounts for it in the following manner :— all colours that are most luminous, overpower and dissipate the animal spirits which are employed in sight; on the contrary, those that are more obscure, do not give the animal spirits a suf- ficient exercise ; whereas, the rays that produce in us the ideaSECT. I. | READING. 57 of green, fall upon the eye in such a due proportion, that they give the animal spirits their proper play, and by keeping up the struggle in a just balance, excite a very pleasing and agreeable sensation. Let the cause be what it will, the effect is certain ; for which reason, the poets ascribe to this particular colour the. epithet of cheerfulness. To consider further this double end in the works of nature, and how they are at the same time both useful and entertaining, we find that the most important parts in the vegetable world are those which are the most beautiful. These are the seeds by which the several races of plants are propagated and continued, and which are always lodged in flowers or blossoms. Nature seems to hide her principal design, and to be industrious in making the earth gay and delightful, while she is carrying on her great work, and intent upon her own preservation. The husbandman, after the same manner, Is employed in laying out the whole country into a kind of garden or landscape, and making every thing smile about him, whilst, in reality, he thinks of nothing but of the harvest, and increase which is to arise from it. We may further observe how Providence has taken care to keep up this cheerfulness in the mind of man, by having formed it after such a manner, as to make it capable of conceiving de- light from several objects which seem to have very little use in them; as from the wildness of rocks and deserts, and the like grotesque parts of nature. Those who are versed in philosophy, may still carry this consideration higher, by observing, that if matter had appeared to us endowed only with those real quali- ties which it actually possesses, it would have made but a very joyless and uncomfortable figure; and why has Providence given it a power of producing in us such imaginary qualities, as tastes and colours, sounds and smells, heat and cold, but that man, while he is conversant in the lower stations of nature, might have his mind cheered and delighted with agreeable sen- sations? In short, the whole universe is a kind of theatre, filled with objects that either raise in us pleasure, amusement, or admiration. The reader’s own thoughts will suggest to him the vicis- situdes of day and night, the change of seasons, with all that variety of scenes which diversify the face of nature, and fill the mind with a perpetual succession of beautiful and pleasing images. I shall not. here mention the several entertainments of art, with the pleasures of friendship, books, conversation, and other accidental diversions of life, because I would only take notice of such incitements to a cheerful temper as offer-themselves to per sons of all ranks and conditions, and which may sufficientlyoo LESSONS IN [PART I. show us that Providence did not design this world should be filled with murmurs and repinings, or that the heart of man should be involved in gloom and melancholy. I the more inculcate this cheerfulness of temper, as it is a vir- tue in which our countrymen are observed to be more deficient than any other nation. Melancholy is a kind of demon that haunts our island, and often conveys herself to us in an easterly wind. A celebrated French novelist, in opposition to those who begin their romances with the flowery seasons of the year, enters on his story thus :—“In the gloomy month of November, when the people of England hang and drown themselves, a disconso- late lover walked out into the fields,’ &c. Every one ought to fence against the temper of his climate or constitution, and frequently to indulge in himself those considera- tions which may give him a serenity of mind, and enable him to bear up cheerfully against those little evils and misfortunes which are common to human nature, and which, by right im- provement of them, will produce a satiety of joy, and uninter- rupted happiness. At the same time that I would engage my readers to consider the world in its most agreeable lights, I must own there are many evils which naturally spring up amidst the entertainments that are provided for us: but these, if rightly considered, should be far from overcasting the mind with sorrow, or destroying that cheerfulness of temper which I have been recommending. ‘This interspersion of evil with good, and pain with pleasure, in the works of nature, is very truly ascribed by Mr. Locke, in his Essay on Human Understanding, to a moral reason, in the fol- lowing words :— ‘Beyond all this, we may find another reason why God hath scattered up and down several degrees of pleasure and pain, in all the things that environ and affect us, and blended them to- gether in almost all that our thoughts and senses have to do with; that we, finding imperfection, dissatisfaction, and want of complete happiness in all the enjoyments which the creatures can afford us, might be led to seek it in the enjoyment of Him, with whom there is fulness of Joy, and at whose right hand are pleasures for evermore.” g SECTION Il. I.— The Bad Reader. Juxius had acquired great credit at Cambridge, by his compo- sitions. ‘l'hey were elegant, animated and judicious; andSECT. 1. | READING. 59 several prizes, at different times, had been adjudged to him. An oration which he delivered the week before he left the university had been honoured with particular applause ; and on his return home, he was impatient to gratify his vanity, and to extend his reputation, by having it read to a number of his father’s literary friends. A party was therefore collected ; and after dinner the manu- script was produced. Julius declined the office of reader, because he had contracted a hoarseness on his journey ; and a conceited young man, with great forwardness, offered his ser- vices. Whilst he was settling himself on his seat, licking his lips and adjusting his mouth, hawking, hemming, and making other ridiculous preparations for the performance which he had undertaken, a profound silence reigned through the company, the united effect of attention and expectation. ‘lhe reader at length began ; but his tone of voice was so shrill and dissonant, his utterance so vehement, his pronunciation so affected, his em- phasis so injudicious, and his accents were so improperly placed, that good manners alone restrained the laughter of the audience. Julius was all this while upon the rack, and his arm was more than once extended to snatch his composition from the coxcomb who delivered it. But he proceeded with full confidence in his own elocution; uniformly overstepping, as Shakspeare expresses it, the modesty of nature. When the oration was. concluded, the gentlemen returned their thanks to the author; but the compliments which they paid him were more expressive of politeness and civility, than the conviction of his merit. Indeed, the beauties of his composition had been converted, by bad reading, into blemishes; and the sense of it rendered obscure, and even unintelligible. Julius and his father could not conceal their vexation and disappoint- ment: and the guests, perceiving that they laid them under a painful restraint, withdrew, as soon as decency permitted, to their respective habitations. Lf, — Respect due to Old Age. Ir happened at Athens, during a public representation of some play exhibited in honour of the commonwealth, that an old gentleman came too late for a place suitable to his age and quality. Many of the young gentlemen, who observed the dif- ficulty and confusion he was in, made signs to him that they would accommodate him, if he came where they sat. The good man bustled through the crowd accordingly ; but when he came to the seat to which he was invited, the jest was to sit close and expose him, as he stood out of countenance, to the whole au- a nee60 LESSONS IN [PART I. dience. The frolic went round all the Athenian benches. But on those occasions, there were alse particular places assigned for foreigners. When the good man skulked- towards the boxes appointed for the Lacedemonians, that honest people, more vir- tuous than polite, rose up all to a man, and with the greatest respect, received him among them. ‘The Athenians, being sud- denly touched with a sense of the Spartan virtue and their own degeneracy, gave a thunder of applause; and the old man cried out, “The Athenians understand what is good, but the Lacede- monians practise it.”’ Hil. — Piety to God recommended to the Voune &°* Wuart I shall first recommend, is piety to God. With this I begin, both as the foundation of good morals, and as a disposition particularly graceful and becoming in youth. To be void of it, argues a cold heart, destitute of some of the best affections which belong to that age. Youth is the season of warm and senerous emotions. ‘I'he heart should then spontaneously rise into the admiration of what is great; glow with the love of what is fair and excellent; and melt at the discovery of tenderness and goodness. Where can any object be found so proper to kindle these affections, as the Father of the universe, and the Author of all felicity? Unmoved by veneration, can you contemplate that grandeur and majesty which his works every where dis- play? Untouched by gratitude, can you view that profusion of good, which, in this pleasing season of life, his beneficent hand pours around you? Happy in the love and affection of those with whom you are connected, look up to the Supreme Being, as the inspirer of all the friendship which has ever been shown you by others; himself your best and your first friend ; formerly the supporter of your infancy, and the guide of your childhood ; now the guardian of your youth, and the hope of your coming years. View religious homage as a natural expression of grati- tude to him for all his goodness. Consider it as the service of the God of your fathers; of him to whom your parents devoted you; of him whom, in former ages, your ancestors honoured ; and by whom they are now rewarded and blessed in heaven. Connected with so many tender sensibilities of soul, let religion be with you; not the cold and barren offspring of speculation, but the warm and vigorous dictate of the heart. IV. — Modesty and Docility. T’o piety, join modesty and docility, reverence to your parents, and submission to those who are your superiors in knowledge,SECT. I1. | READING. 61 in station, and in years. Dependence and obedience belong to youth. Modesty is one of its chief ornaments; and has ever been esteemed a presage of rising merit. When entering on the career of life, it is your part not to assume the reins as yet into your hands; but to commit yourselves to the guidance of the more experienced, and to become wise by the wisdom of those who have gone before you. Of all the follies incident to youth, there are none which either deform its present appearance, or blast the prospect of its future prosperity, more than self-conceit, presumption, and obstinacy. By checking its natural progress 10 improvement, they fix it in long immaturity ; and frequently produce mischiefs which can never be repaired. Yet these are vices too commonly found among the young. Big with enter- prise, and elated by hope, they resolve to trust for success to none but themselves. Full of their own abilities, they deride the admonitions which are given them by their friends, as the timorous suggestions of age. ‘T’oo wise to learn, too impatient to deliberate, too forward to be restrained, they plunge, with pre- cipitant indiscretion, into the midst of all the dangers with which life abounds. i — Sincerity. Ir is necessary to recommend to you sincerity and truth. These are the basis of every virtue. ‘That darkness of charac- ter, where we can see no heart; those foldings of art, through which no native affection is allowed to penetrate, present an object unamiable in every season of life, but particularly odious in youth. If, at an age when the heart is warm, when the emo- tions are strong, and when nature is expected to show herself free and open, you can already smile and deceive, what are we to look for when you shall be longer hackneyed in the ways of men; when interest shall have completed the obduration of your heart; and experience shall have improved you in all the arts of guile? Dissimulation in youth is the forerunner of perfidy in old age. Its first appearance is. the fated omen of growing depravity and future shame. It degrades parts and learning, obscures the lustre of every accomplishment, and sinks you into contempt with God and man. As you value, therefore, the approbation of heaven, or the esteem of the world, cultivate the love of truth. In all your proceedings, be direct and consistent. Ingenuity and candour possess the most powerful charm: they bespeak universal favour, and carry an apology for almost every failing. The path of truth is a plain and safe path; that of falsehood is a perplexing maze. After the first departure from sincerity, it is not in your power to stop. One artifice unavoid- ably leads on to another; till, as the intricacy of the labyrinth 6 - Tae _— ~~ a ——_ ~ a sienna seta eiaekd tlie st SSussiginy ees arts acreage” pe Sek ah e oe le cal an a NT HY He REO Re eD P= ye Re ie ee Sc62 increases, you are left entangled in your own snare. Deceit discovers a little mind, which stops at temporary expedients, without rising to comprehensive views of conduct. at the same time, a dastardly spint. who wants courage to avow his designs, LESSONS IN [PART 1. It betrays, It is the resource of one or to rest upon himself. Whereas, openness of character displays that generous boldness ' which ought to distinguish youth. To set out in the world with no other ‘principle than a crafty attention to interest, betokens one who is destined for creeping through the inferior walks of life: but to give an early preference to hotes ur above gain, when they stand in competition; to despise every cannot be attained without dishonest arts; to brook no meanness, and to stoop to no dissimulation, are mind, the presages of future cunning, not to true wisdom. none to hide him. advantage which the indications of a great eminence and distinction in life. At the same time, this virtuous sincerity is perfectly consistent with the most prudent vigilance and caution. It is opposed to It is not the simplicity of a weak and improvident, but the candour of an-enlarged and noble mind; of one who scorns deceit because he accounts it both base and unprofitable; and who seeks no disguise, because he needs VI. — Benevolence and Humanity. Youru is the proper season for cultivating the benevolent and humane aflections. As a great part of your happiness is to depend on the connexions which you form with others, it is of high importance that you acquire betimes the temper and the manners which will render such connexions comfortable. Let a sense of justice be the foundation of all your social qualities. In your most early intercourse with the world, and even in your youthful amusements, let no unfairness be found. Engrave on your mind that sacred rule- of « doing in all things to others according to your wish that they should do unto you,”’ . + dor this end, Impress yourselves with a dee ep sense of the original Whatever advantage of bi rth or fortune you possess, never display them with an ostentatious and natural ec juality of men. super lority. intercourse of more advanced years. to act among your companions as man with man. Leave the subordinations of rank to regulate the At present it becomes you: Re Ears how sulanorme n to you are the vicissitudes of the world; and how | often they, on whom ignorant and contemptuous young men once looked down with scorn, have risen to be their superiors in future years. Compassion is an emotion of which you ought never to be is naained Graceful in youth is the tear of sym- pathy, and the heart that melts at the tale of wo. Let not ease and indulgences contract your affections, and wrap you up mmSECT. 11. | READEN.G. 63 selfish enjoyment. Accustom yourselves to think of the dis- tresses of human life; of the solitary cottage, the dying parent, and the weeping orphan. Never sport with pain and distress in any of your amusements, nor treat even the meanest insect with wanton cruelty. VII. — Industry and Application. DiicENcE, industry, and proper application of time, are material duties of the young. To no purpose are they endowed with the best abilities, if they want activity for exerting them. Unavailing, in this case, will be every direction that can be given them, either for their temporal or spiritual welfare. In youth the habits of industry are most easily acquired; in youth the incentives to it are strongest, from ambition and from duty, from emulation and hope, from all the prospects which the beginuing of life affords. If, dead to these calls, you already languish in slothful inaction, what will be able to quicken the more sluggish current of advancing years? Industry is not only the instru- ment of improvement, but the foundation of pleasure. Nothing is so opposite to true enjoyment of life, as the relaxed and feeble state of an indolent mind. He who is a stranger to industry, may possess, but he cannot enjoy. For_it is labour only which gives the relish to pleasure. It is the appointed vehicle of every good man. It is the indispensable condition of our possessing a sound mind in a sound body. Sloth is so inconsistent with both, that it is hard to determine whether it be a greater foe to virtue, or to health and happiness. Inactive as it is in itself, its effects are fatally powerful. Though it appear a slowly flowing stream, yet it undermines all that is stable and flourishing. It not only saps the foundation of every virtue, but pours upon you a deluge of crimés and evils. It is like water, which first putrefies by stagnation, and then sends up noxious vapours, and fills the atmosphere with death. Fly, therefore, from idleness, as the certain parent both of guilt and ruin. And under idleness I include, not mere inaction only, but all that circle of trifling occupations in which too many saunter away their youth; per- petually engaged in frivolous society or public amusements ; in the labours of dress, or the ostentation of their persons. Is this the foundation which you lay for future usefulness and esteem? By such accomplishments do you hope to recommend yourselves to the thinking part of the world, and to answer the expectations of your friends and your country? Amusements youth require ; it were vain, it were cruel to prohibit them. But though allow- able as the relaxation, they are most culpable as the business of the young. For they then become the gulf of time, and the ae a one ea Rsetak EAS * pice Casas a phi Der aes Rae 1S Raha abe se ei aha gaan a pe ra eeprom Re, ater wing— eee 2 PORES... wane cere pet Meets Seti a ve v9 re 34 LESSONS IN [PART I. > thy the world, dropping balm into the wounds she made, and bind- ing up the hearts she had broken. She follows with her hair loose, her bosom bare and throbbing, her garments torn by the briers, and her feet bleeding with the roughness of the path. T’he nymph is mortal, for her mother is so; and when she has fulfilled her destined course upon the earth, they shall both expire together, and Love be again united to Joy, his immortal and long betrothed bride. IX.— Advantages of Commerce. THERE is no place in town which I so much love to frequent as the Royal Exchange. It gives me a secret satisfaction, and in some measure cratifies my vanity, as lam an Englishman, to see so rich an assembly of my countrymen and foreigners, consulting together upon the private business of mankind, and making this metropolis a kind of emporium for the whole earth. { must confess I look upon High Change to be a grand council, in which all considerable nations have their representatives. Factors, in the trading world, are what ambassadors are in the politic world. They negotiate affairs, conclude treaties, and maintain a good correspondence between those wealthy societies of men, that are divided from one another by seas and oceans, or live on the different extremities of a continent. I have often been pleased to hear disputes adjusted- between an inhabitant of Japan and an alderman of London; or to sce a subject of the Great Mogul entering into a league with one of the Czar of Muscovy. I am infinitely delighted in mixing with these several ministers of commerce, as they are distinguished by their differ- ent walks and different languages. Sometimes I am jostled among a body of Armenians; sometimes I am lost ii a crowd of Jews; and sometimes make one in a group of Dutchmen. I am a Dane, Swede, or Frenchman, at different times; or rather fancy myself like the old philosopher, who, upon being asked what countryman he was, replied, that he was a citizen of the world. Nature seems to have taken a particular care to disseminate her blessings among the different regions of the world, with an eye to this mutual intercourse and traffic among mankind, that the natives of the several parts of the globe might have a kind of dependance upon one another, and be united together by their common interests. Almost every degree produces something peculiar to it. The food often grows in one country, and the sauce in another. The fruits of Portugal are corrected by the products of Barbadoes; the infusion of a China plant sweetened with the pith of an Indian cane. The Philtppine Islands give a flavour to our European bowls. The single dress of a woman of quality is often the product of a hundred climates. TheSECT. Lil. | READING. G5 muff and the fan come together from the different ends of the earth. The scarf is sent from the torrid zone, and the tippet from beneath the pole. ‘The brocade petticoat rises out of the mines of Peru, and the diamond necklace out of the bowels of Indostan. If we consider our own country in its natural prospect, with- out any of the benefits and advantages of commerce, what a barren uncomfortable spot of the earth falls to our share! Natural historians tell us, that no fruit grows originally among us, besides hips and haws, acorns and pignuts, with other deli- cacies of the like nature; that our climate, of itself, and without the assistance of art, can make no further advances towards a plum than a sloe, and carries an apple to no greater perfection than a erab; that our melons, our peaches, our figs, our apricots, and our cherries, are strangers among us, imported in different ages, and naturalized in our English gardens; and that they would all degenerate and fal] away into the trash of our own country, if they were wholly neglected by the planter, and left to the mercy of our sun and soil. Nor has traffic more enriched our vegetable world than it has improved the whole face of nature among us. Our ships are laden with the harvest of every climate; our tables are stored with spices, and oils, and wines; our rooms are filled with pyra- mids of China, and adorned with the workmanship of Japan ; our morning draught comes to us from the remotest corners of the earth; we repair our bodies by the drugs of America, and repose ourselves under Indian canopies. My friend, Sir Andrew, calls the vineyards of France our gardens; the spice islands our hot-beds; the Persians our silk-weavers; and the Chinese our potters. Nature, indeed, furnishes us with the bare necessaries of life; but traffic gives us a great variety of what is useful, and, at the same time, supplies us with every thing that 1s con- venient and ornamental. Nor is it the least part of this our happiness, that, whilst we enjoy the remotest products of the north and south, we are free from those extremities of weather which give them birth; that our eyes are refreshed with the green fields of Britain, at the same time that our-palates are feasted with fruits that rise between the tropics. For these reasons, there are not more useful members in a commonwealth than merchants. ‘They knit mankind together in a mutual intercourse of good offices, distribute the gifts of nature, find work for the poor, add wealth to the rich, and mag- nificence to,the great. Our English merchant converts the tin of his own country into gold, and exchanges his wool for rubies. The Mahometans are clothed in our British manufacture, and the inhabitants of the frozen zone warmed with the fleeces of our sheep. ecient capeimntinaalbad ba a BT phy Up satlakceecubn dies ary i a agian celeas dee 2 As96 LESSONS IN [PART I. ae X.— The State to which Switzerland was reduced by the “a Invasion of the French. tne Tue vengeance which the French took of the Swiss, for their ain determined opposition to the invasion of their country, was deci- cee sive and terrible. ‘The history of Europe can afford no parallel re al of such cruelty. ‘To dark ages, and the most barbarous nations of the east, we must turn for similar scenes of horror,, and per- | haps must turn in vain. ‘he soldiers, dispersed over the coun- Hi try, carried fire, and sword, and robbery, into the most tranquil i and hidden valleys of Switzerland. From the depth of sweet i retreats echoed the shrieks of murdered men, stabbed in their ap humble dwellings, under the shadow of the high mountains, in the midst of those scenes of nature which make solemn and pure the secret thoughts of man, and appal him with the majesty of God. The flying peasants saw, in the midst of the night, their cottages, their implements of husbandry, and the hopes of the future year, expiring in one cruel conflagration. The men were shot upon the slightest provocation: innumerable women, after being exposed to the most atrocious indignities, were murdered, and their bodies thrown into the woods. In some instances this conduct was resented; and for symptoms of such an honourable spirit, the beautiful town of Altsdorf was burnt to the ground, and a single house left to show where it had stood. The town of Stantz, a town peculiarly dear to the Swiss, as it gave birth to one of the founders of their liberty, was reduced to a heap of cinders. In this town, in the fourteenth century, a Swiss general surprised, and took prisoner, the Austrian commander who had murdered his father; he forgave him, upon the simple condition of his not serving any more against the Swiss Cantons. When the French got possession of this place, they burnt it to ashes; not in a barbarous age, ‘but now, yesterday, in an age we call philosophical; they burnt it because the inhabitants endeavoured to preserve their liberty. The Swiss was a simple peasant; the French are a mighty people, combined for the regeneration of Europe. Oh, Europe, what dost thou owe to this mighty people? | Dead bodies, ruinous heaps, broken hearts, waste places, childless Pcie mothers, widows, orphans, tears, endless confusion, and unutter- ai able woe. For this mighty nation we have suffered seven years at of unexampled wretchedness, a long period of discord, jealousy, ve privation, and horror, which every reflecting man would almost Bea ‘wish blotted out from his existence. By this mighty people the Kt Swiss have lost their country ; that country which they loved so well, that if they heard but the simple song of their childhood, tears fell down every manly face, and the hearts of intrepid sol- diers sobbed with grief. What, then, is all this done with im- PRR RIN, os i ee LESSONS IN | PART I. Nor waited he reply... Won by the charm Of goodness irresistible, and:all In sweet disorder lost —she blush’d consent. The news immediate to her mother brought, While, pierced with anxious thought,.she pined away The lonely moments for Lavinia’s fate ; Amazed, and scarce believing what she heard, Joy seized her wither’d veins, and one bright gleam Of setting life shone on her evening hours: Not less enraptured than the. happy pair, Who flourish’d long in tender bliss, and-rear’d A numerous .offspring; lovely like themselves, And good, the grace of all the country. round. VI. — Celadon and Amelia. Youne Celadon And his Amelia were.a matchless. pair, With equal-virtue form’d, and-equal grace ; The same distinguish’d by their-sex alone : Hers, the mild lustre of the blooming morn ! And his, the radiance of the-rising- day. They loved. But such their owiltless passion was, As in the dawn of time, inform’d the heart Of innocence and undissembling truth. ’*Twas-friendship; heighten’*d by the mutual.wish ; Th’ enchanting hope, and sympathetic glow, Beam’d from the mutual eye. Devoting all To love, each was to each a dearer self; Supremely happy in th’ awaken’d power Of giving joy.-. Alone, amid the-shades, Still in harmonious intercourse, they lived The rural day, and talk’d the flowing heart ; Or sigh’d and look’d —.unutterable things. So pass’d: their life, a clear united stream, By care unruffled, till, in evil hour, The tempest caught them on the tender walk, Heedless how far and where its mazes stray’d ; While, with eachother bless’d, creative love Stull bade eternal Eden smile around. Presaging instant fate, her- bosom heaved Unwonted sighs; and stealing oft a look Towards the big gloom, on Celadon her eye Fell tearful, wetting her disorder’d cheek. In vain assuring love and confidence In heaven repress’d her fear; it grew, and shook Her frame near dissolution. He perceivedSECT. VII. | READING. 193 Th’ unequal conflict ; and, as angels look On dying saints, his eyes compassion shed, With love illumined high. 66 FE ear not,”’ He said, «“ Sweet innocence! thou stranger to offence And inward storm! He who yon skies involves In frowns of darkness, ever smiles on thee, With kind regard. O’er thee the secret shaft, | That wastes at midnight, or th’ eres ed hour f Of noon, flies harmless; and that ory nals Which thunders terror through i ulty heart, With tongues of seraphs whispers nee ce to thine. "Tis safe ty to be near thee, sure, and thus To clasp perfection’ From his void embrace, (Mysterious heaven !) that moment to the ground, A blacken’d corse was struck the beauteous maid. But who can paint the lover as he stood, Pierced by severe amazement, hating life, Speechless, and fix’d in all the death of wo \ VII. — Description of Mab, Queen of the Fairies. SHE is the fancy’s midwife; and she comes aa In shape no bigger than an agate stone, On the forefinger of an Alderman; 7 Drawn by a team of little atomies, a Athwart men’s noses as hey lie asleep ; | Her wagon-spokes, made of ng spinners’ legs , ‘The cover, of the wings of gras shoppers ; ; The traces, of the smallest spic ider’s web 5 The collars, of the moonshine’s wat Ty beams ; Her whip, of crickets’ bone; the lash of film; Her wagoner, a small gray-coated onat : i 7 Her chariot is an empty hazelnut, | iH Made by the joiner Squirrel, or old Grub, a ‘Time out of mind the fairies’ coachmakers. And in this state she gallo ops, night by night, Through lovers’ brains, and ther 1 they dream of love; O’er lawyers’ fingers, who strai vht dream of fees; O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream 5 : And sometimes comes she with the tithe pig’s tail, Tickling the parson as he lies asleep, Then dreams he of another ee Sometimes she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck ; And then he dreams of cutting foreign throats, al Of breaches, ambuscades, Spanish blades ; Hi Of healths five fathoms deep; and then, anon, ve 17 N Hl Somer, plein ee eat eee PE enn mesa pari ~via Al ei g n194 LESSONS IN [PART I. Drums in his ears: at which he starts and wakes ; And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two, And sleeps again. VIII.— On the Existence of a Deity. ReTIRE —the world shut out —thy thoughts call home — Imagination’s airy wing repress. Lock up thy senses. Let no passion stir. Wake all to reason. et her reign alone. Then, in thy soul’s de .: silence, and the depth Of nature’s sile oe midnight, thus inquire, What am [? anc 1 from whence? I nothing know But that I am; shal since I am, conclude Something eternal. Had there e” e’er been nought, Nought still had been. Eternal there must be. But, what eternal? Why not human race, And Adam’s ancestors, without an end ? That’s hard to be conceived, since every link Of that long chain’d succession is so frail ; Can every ‘part depend, and not the whole? Yet, grant it true, new difficulties rise: Vm still quite out at sea, nor see the shore. Whence earth and these bright ree 2? Eternal too! Grant matter was eternal: still these orbs Would want some other father.’ Much design Is seen in all their motions, all their makes. Design seas intelligence and art, aL hat can’t be from themselves — or man; that art Man scarce can comprehend, could man bestow : And nothing greater yet shea than man. Who, motion, foreion to the smallest grain, Shot through vast masses of enormous we sight ? Who bid brute matter’s restive lump assume Such various forms, and gave it wings to fly? Has matter innate motion? Then each atom, Asserting its indisputable right To dance, would form an universe of dust. Has matter none? Then whence these glorious forms, And boundless flights, from shapeless and reposed ? Has matter more than motion? Has it thought, Judgment and genius? Is it deeply Jearn’d In mathematics? Has it framed such laws, Which, but to guess, a Newton made immortal ? If art to form, and council to conduct, And that with oreater far than Haan skall, Resides not in each block —a Gopuerap reigns — And if a Gop there is — that Gop how great!7 Did nnn wie Dis nigh dee 7 °7 7 IX. — Evening in Paradise described. SECT. Vir. | READING. Conversation and F Evening Worshin Now came still evening on, and twilig Had in her sober livery all thir ngs clad. | Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, ‘They to their grassy couch, these to their nest wv ere sunk, all but “tl he wakeful nightingale ; She all night bie nae amorous descant sung : } nt gray Silence was please Now clow’d the firmament With living Satins : Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brie ntest; till the moon, Rising in clouded m lajesty, at length, Apparent queen, unveil’d her peerless licht, And o’er the dark her silver mantle threw. When Adam thus to Eve. Fair consort, th’ hour Of night, and all things now retired to rest, Mind us of like re pose ; since God hath set Labour and rest, as d: ay al nd night to men, Succe SSIVE ; ; and the time! y dew of sle ep Now falling, wit h soft slumb Se weight inclines Our ey elids. Other creatures s all day long Rove idle, w 1employ’d, and ee need rest: Man hath his Pu work of body or mind pie d, an declares his dio onity, And the reoard of Heaven on all his w ays: While othe ‘animals inactive range, And of their doings God takes no account. 'T'o- Morrow, ere fresh 1 mort ning streak the east Wit h fi rst appl roach of hicht 1, we must be risen, And at our pleasant labour, to reform Yon flow ery al ‘bours, yonder alleys green, Our walk at noon, with branches overgrown, ‘That aig our scant manuring, and require More hands than ours to lop their wanton eTowth T’hose blossoms also, and those dropping gums, That lie bestrown, unsicht y and unsmooth, Ask riddance, if we mean to tread with ease: Meanwhile, i is nature wills, night bids us rest. 'T'o whom thus Eve, w “ perfect beau ty ene My author and dis poser! what th 10u. bid’s Unaroued I obe God is thy jaw, thou mine; to know no more Is woman’s happiest knowledge, and her praise. With thee cor nvers sing, I forget all time, so God ordains; All seasons and their change: all please alike. 195 sidam and Eve's iy yh asada Baan mane AUR =psi ates = es Soa pela eeelenna Mama ON Te EE TTS LESSONS IN [PART I. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds: pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, pe flower, Glist’ ning with dew ; fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers ; - and sweet the coming on Of grateful evening mild; then silent night, With this her solemwm bird, and-this fair moon, And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train: But neither breatl h of morn, when she ascends With charms of earliest birds; nor rising sun, On this deligh a land; nor herb, fruit, flower, Glist’ning with dew; nor dag tae - after showers 3 Nor grateful event ng mild; nor silent night, W ith this her solemn bird; nor w alle by moon, Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet. Thus, at their shady lodge arrived, both stood, Both turn’d; and under ¢ ape sky a adored The God that made both sky, air, € earth, and heaven, Which they beheld; the moon’s resp lendent globe, And starry “pole : Thou als so mad’st the night Maker omnipotent, and thou the oy Which we, in our appou nied work employ’d, Have finish’ dian 1apPy in our mutual help And mutual love, the crown of all our bliss, Ordain’d by thee; and this delicious place, For us too large; where any abundance. wants Partakers, and uncropt, falls to the ground : But thou hast promi ised from us tw 0, 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. s Vv ny eu ° / fan afivo 7D) 24 Diem LLELY WYUtTEN 2 [ais > - ox ed © Country C hewn ‘chyard. Tue curfew tolls the knell o par ting day ; The lowing herds wind slowly o’er the lea ; The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and tome. Now fades the olimm’ring landscape And all the air a solemn Suilidiess holds Save where the beetle > wheels his droning flis cht, } And drows y tinklings lull the distant folds. jaa Save that from | i a ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complainSECT. VII. | READING. Of such, as wand’rine near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow, twitt’ring from the straw-built shed, The cock’s shrill clarion or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; No children run to lisp their sire’s return, Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure: Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile. The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pornp of power, And ail that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Await, alike, the inevitable hour; The paths of glory lead—but to the orave, Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If mem’ry o’er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour’s voice provoke the silent dust, Or flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps, in this neglected spot is laid Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire: Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll ; i * 197 Zwasiree: jpaimptipinaes om Senn op merase SO RL CTR AL TS AN a ‘ccc ie oa el oer os PN a tse e nae ee IE”. ars EE el ee ee ee ane Mer eee LESSONS IN [PART I. hairy } >| ] > TaACVP Chill penury en ‘ess’d their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathom’d caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blu sh unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fi sIds withstood ; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; Some Cromwell, ions of his country’s blood. Th’ applause of het aa senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, And read their history ina nation’s eyes, tos Their lot forbade: nor circu iscribed alone, Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to. wade through tau hter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind : The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame: Or heap the shrine of lu xury and pride, With incense kindled at the mu ses flame. Far from the madding -crowd’s ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray— Along the cool sequester’d vale of hfe, 'T hey kept the gone enor of their way. Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d, Implores the passing foie of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This piesa fi nxious being e’er Jesign is Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day ; Nor cast one onging, ling’ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies ; Some pious drops the closing eve requires ;SECT. vil. | READING. 199 E’en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Fen inour ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of. the unhonour’d dead, Dost-in eae lines their artless tale relate, If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, “Ott have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps, the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His lis a length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove ; Now droopin 1.9, woful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross’d in hopeless love. One morn I miss’d him on th’ accustom’d hill, Along the heath, and near his fav’rite tree, Another car its nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the c churchy ard path we saw him borne, cgidck and read (for thou canst read) the lay, ’Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark’d him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere : Heaven did a recompense as largely send. He gave to mis’ry all he 1 1ad —a tear; He gain’d from heaven (’twas all he wish’d) No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from.their aunt abode, (There they, alike, in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God,te t ue : & neg + é | 1% 28 @) ie ete ue Peedi Pa Bh . ai att Vals Wa in ie pas t Hs : i ry hi Mm } ah $ i {et i f | 1p (3 PED ud ¥ rane ' i | t th i ie if Ny i Hh: ‘| ee t > LESSONS IN [PART 1. XI. — Thanatopsis. To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language: for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile, And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,— Go forth under the open sky, and | To Nature’s teachings, while from all ar Earth, and her waters, and the depths of air— Comes a still voice— Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourish’d thee, shall clair T hy srowth to be resolved to earth again ; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go T'o mix for ever with the elements, To be a brother to the in: ae rock, And to the sluggish clod, w hich the-rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The o Shall send his roots abroad, and’pierce thy mou Yet not to thy eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone. Nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. ‘Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world— with kings, The powerful of the earth — the wise, a good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages pa All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, Rock- ribb'd, and ancient as the sun; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooksSECT. VII. | READING. That make the meadows gt en; and, pour’d round all, e Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn Aen gtiions all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe, are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. ‘Take the wings Of morning, and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous w aie Where rolls the Oregon,-and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there , And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep. — The dead reign there, alone. So shalt thou rest. —And w hat if thou shalt fall, Unnoticed by the living, and no friend Take note of thy depa rture All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay w ul laugh When thou art gone ; the solemn brood of eare Plod on; and each one, as before, will chase His favourite phantom ; — yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 1 J it And make their l ional bed with thee. As. the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men,— The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes In the full streng! th of years, — matron and maid, The bow’d with age, the infant in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut off,— Shall one by one be gather’d ‘by thy_side, By those w ho, in their turn, shall follow them. So live, that, when thy summon comes, to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry- -slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustain’d and soothe By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.202 [PART I, eal XII. — Scipio restoring the Captive. Lady to her Lover. a a Rae | it WueEn to his glorious first essay in war, New Carthage fell, there ‘all the flower of Spain | Were kept in hostage; a full field presenting — ie i For eos S s generosity to-shine. A noble virgin, ee | Conspicuous far o’er all the captive dames, Ee i Was mark’ d the ge neral s prize. She wept and blus h’d, ge Young, fresh, and blooming like the morn. An eye e. a As'when the blue sky tre — through a cloud | oe I. Of purest white. A secret charm combined a | Her features, and infused ada eae through them. i ‘i fer shape was harmony. But eloquence : He Beneath her beauty f fails ; which seem’d on purpose e i By nature lavish’d on-her, that mankind & ae; May see the virtue of a hero tried ae Almost beyond the stretch of human force. ve Soft as she pass’d along, with downcast eyes, ‘ Where ge nile sorrow swell’d, and now and then, Dropp’ d o’er her modest cheeks a trick ling tear, The Roman legions languish’ d, and hard war Felt more than. pity : e’en their chief himself, As on his high tri ibunal raised-he sat, Turn’d from the ¢ dang’ "rol is Sight; and, chiding, ask’d His officers, if by this gift they meant 2 mel To cloud his glory in its very dawn. Sen She, question’d of her birth, in trembling accents, a tears and blushes, broken, told | her tale, ' ee al But when he found her roy ally descended ; ( I Of her old captive parents th e sole joy ; t And that a hap less Ci 1) b eT] oh ame Her lover and -belove ed, forg t his chains, 0 His lost dominions, and for her alone Vept out his tender soul: vues the heart Of this young = comgui eri 10, loving, Felt all the oreat divini ity of virtue, ae Elis wishing youth stood check’d, his te: mpting power, Restrain’d by kind humanity... At once, He for her parents and es lover call’d. ar Ni ees naa eas re n* ic r >a The various scene imagine. How his t troops codlike Roman, Oe Lookd dubious on , and wonder’ d what he meant; lites | W hi ] e. aTreft rh? q } a th Lo pli i l¢ stretch’ d below, the tremblit ng suppuant lay ee a Rack’d by a thousan: | mingling St tore fear | Hope, je -alousy, disdain, submission, orief, Anxiety and love, in e very sha pe. Th ) these, as different sentiments succeeded,READING. As mix’d emotions, when the man divine Thus the dread silence to the lover broke: ‘We both are young — both charm’d. The right of war Hi: is put thy beauteous mistress in my power ; 7 With whom I could, in the most agi ties, Live out a happy life. But, know that Boman; Their hearts, as well as enemies, can conquer ; Then take her to thy soul! and with her, take Thy liberty and kingdom. In return, T ask but this—= When you behold these eyes, These charms, with transport, be a friend to Rome.”’ Ecstatic wonder held the loners mute; While the loud camp, and all the clust’ring crowd That hung around, rang with repeated shouts ; : Fame took th’ alarm, and throt ugh: resounding Spain Blew fast the fair report; w hich more than arms, Admiring nations to the- Romans gain’d. XIU.— Pope's humourous Complat nt to Dr. Arbuthnot, of the Impertinence of Scribblers. Suut, shut the door, good John !— — [ said: Tre up the knocker —s say [I’m sick, [’m “dead. The dog-star rages! Nay, ’tis pasta iets All Bedlam, or Parnassus is let out. Fire in each eye, and papers im each hand, z hey rave, recite, and mad den round the land. Vhat walls can cuard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets; through my grot they glide; By land, by water, they renew the cha Ire § They stop the hands. and they board the barge ; No place is sacred ; not the church is free ; E’en Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me. Then, from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme — “ Happy to.catch me a at dinner-time.’ Frie nd of my soul! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted m any. an idle song, ) What drop or nostrum can this pague ne Q Or which must end, me, a fool’s wrath or love A dire dilemma !— either way I’m sped; If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead. Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched L! Who can’t be silent, and who will not lie. To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace ; And to be grave, exceeds all power of face. I sit, with sad civility ; I read, With serious anguish and an aching head : {, 4 L idles NED. cay “tt204 i i ie ! at ; )) a: a ie a i Se : 7 ee ny ik fi ee eit } iy t . i 5 ‘¢ 1) j € i ‘ 2 f id LESSONS IN [PART I, Then drop at last, but in unwilling ears, This saving counse| — « K eep your piece nine years.’ “¢ Nine years !”’ (cries he, who, high i im Drury -lane, Lull’d by soft zephyrs through the broken pane Rhymes ere he Ww ce and prints before term ends, Obliged by hunger; and request of friends ;) ‘Lhe os you think is incorrect. Why, take it ; I’m all submission, what you’d have it, make it.” Three things another’s modest wishes bound — My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. Pitholeon sends to me —“ You know his Grace; I want a patron — ask him for a place.” “ Pitholeon libell’d me.” — «But here’s a letter Informs you, sir, twas, when he knew no better.” Bless me! a packet !— “Dis a stranger sues: “A virgin tragedy, a an orphan muse.’’ If I dislike it — “ Furies, de ath, and rage ; If I approve -+* Commend it to the sta ge.” There, thank my stars, my whole commission ends; The players and I are eal no friends. Fired that the house reject him —«’Sd leath, [’ll print it, And shame the fools. — Your interest, sir, with Lintot. ” “Tintot (dull rogue) will think your price too much.’ “Not if you, sir, revise it and retouch.” All my demurs but double his attacks ; At last he whispers —« Do, and we co_snacks ;” Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door — Sir, let me's see you: and. your works no more.” There are, who to my person pay their court: I cough like Horace, and though lean, am short: Ammon’s great son one shoulder had too high ; Such Ovid’s nose; and, “Sir, you have an eye.”’ Go on, obliging creatures ; make me see, All that disgra ced my betters met in me. Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed, Just so immortal Maro held his head ; And when I die, be sure you let me know, Great Homer died — three thousand years ago. pe XIV.—Hymn to Adversity. Daveurer of Jove, relentless oe os Thou tamer of the human breast W hose iron scourge and. tor turing hour, The. bad affricht, afflict the be ast! Bound in thy : adamantine chain, The proud are ta ught to taste of pain ;SECT. VII. | RE ADIN CG. And purple tyrants vainly groan, With pangs unfelt before, u npitied and alone. When first thy sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling child, design’d, ‘To thee he gave the heave nly birth, And bade thee form her infant mind. Stern, rugged nurse! thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore W hat sorrow was, thou bad’st her Ge And from her own ohe learn’d to melt at others’ wo. Scared at thy frown, terrific, fly Self-pleasing Folly’s idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, And leave us leisure to be good. Light they disperse, ae with them go The summer Friend, the flatt’rin x Foe, By vain Prosperity received, To her they vow their truth, and are again believed. Wisdom, in sable garb array’d, Immersed in rap ree thought profound, And Melancholy, silent maid, With leaden eye, that loves the eround, Still on thy so olemn steps attend: Warm C ‘harity, the general friend ; With Justice, to herself severe ; And Pity, dropping soft the sadly pleasing tear. Oh! gently on thy suppliant’s head, Dread God: dess, lay thy chast’ning ha ae { Not in thy Gorgon terrors. clad, Not ented with thy ve ngeful band, (As by the impious thou art seen) i ith thund’ ring voice an | threat’ning mien, Nith screaming Horror’s funeral cry, Bafa and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty. Thy form benign, Oh, Goddess! wear ; Thy milder influence i impa rt! Thy philosophic train be there. To sofien, not to wound my heart. Thy gen’rous spark, extinct, revive ; Teach me to love and to forgive Exact my own defects to scan ; What others are, to feel; and know myself a man. 18» ean : 2 Sepa nine emimpannapnnney = 2 ANN ES RR einen pamees ae ee rl LESSONS IN [PART I. XV.— The Passions. — An Ode. Wuen Music, heavenly maid! was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng’d around her magic cell ; Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possess’d beyond the Muse’s painting. By turns, they felt the glowing mind Disturb’d, delighted, raised, refined : Till once, ’tis said, when all were fired, Full’d with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round, They snatch’d her instruments of sound ; And, as they oft had heard apart, Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, (for madness ruled the hour,) Would prove his own expressive power. First, Fear, his hand its skill to try, Amid the chords bewilder’d laid ; And back recoil’d, he knew not why, E’en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush’d, his eyes on fire, In lightnings own’d his secret stings, In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woful measures, wan Despair Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled: A solemn, strange, and mingled air: "T'was sad by fits, by starts ’twas wild. But thou, Oh, Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure! Still it whisper’d promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail. Still would her touch the strain prolong ; And from the rocks; the woods, the vale, She call’d on Echo still through all her sone: And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair: And longer had she sung — but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose. He threw his blood-stain’d sword in thunder down ;SECT. VII. | READING. 207 And, with a withering look, The war- denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne’er prophetic sounds so full of wo And, ever and anon, he beat The doubling drum with furious heat : And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, un Dejected Pity at his side, Her soul-subduing voice a ipplied, Yet still he kept’ his wild, un: her? d mien, While each strain ‘4 ball of sight—seem’d bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix’d ; Sad proof of thy distressful- state : Of differing themes the veering song was mix’d: And, now it courted Love; now, raving, call’d on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired ; And, from her wild sequester’d seat, In notes, by distance made more sweet, Pour’d through the mellow horn her pensive soul, And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join’d the sound ; hab Through ol. \des and glooms, the mingled measure stole, | Or o’er some haunted streams with fond delay (Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing) 4 In hollow murmurs died away. ft But, Oh, how alter’d was its sprightlier tone ! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, ‘ter buskins gemm/’d with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter’s call, to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown’d Sisters, and their chaste- -eyed Queen, ; Satyrs and sylvan Boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green ; Brown Exercise rejol iced to hear; | And Sport leap’d up and seized his beechen spear. | Last came Joy’s ecstatic trial, He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address’d — But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol ; 0g Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. nd i They would have thought, who heard the strain,egress aimee pea ae = ar orm = Pal Rp aaron att Le | AT eS [PART I. They saw in Tempe’s vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal-sou aah ng shades, To some unwearied m! atone! dancing: While as his flying fingers kiss’d the strings, Love framed w ith Mirth a gay fantastic ‘ound, (Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound) And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. SECTION VIII. I. — Milton’s Lamentation for the Loss of his Sight. Han, holy light! offspring of heaven first-born ! Or of th’ Eternal, co-eternal beam ! May I express thee unbalm’d? since God is light, And never, but in unapproached leht Dwelt from eternity tay elt then in thee, Bright effluence of a ight essence increate. Or hear’st thou rather, pure ethereal stream, Whose fountain wh 10's shal | tell? Before the sun, Before the heavens thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a ave didst invest The rising world of waters dark and deep, W on from the oe and formless infinite. . Thee I révisit now with bolder wine, Escaped the St sir pool, though long detained In that obscure sojourn; Ww ie in my flight, Throuch utter, and through middle darkness borne, With other notes, than to the Orphean lyre, I sung of Chaos and eternal Night: Taught by the heavenly muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend, Though hard and rare. Thee I revisit safe, And feel thy sovereign vital lamyq ats ate thou Revisitest not these ¢ ves, that aj rain To find thy piercing ray, and find 1 no aoe So thick a drop serene hath quench’d their orbs, Or dim suffusion veil’d. . Yet not the more Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt, Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, Smit with love of sacred sono — but chief Thee, Zion, and the flowery brooks beneath, That wash thy hallow’d feet, and warbling flow,SECT, VIII. | READING. Nightly I visit — nor sometimes forget Those other two equall’d with me in fate, So were I equall’d with them in renown, Blind Thamyris, and blind Mzonides; And Tiresias,-and Phineus, prophets old: ‘Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move Harmonious numbers —as the wakefu] bird Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid, ‘Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus, with the year, Seasons return — but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer’s rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surround me, from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair, Presented with an universal blank Of nature’s works, to me expunged and razed, And wisdom, at one entrance, quite shut out. So much the rather, thou, celestial light, Shine inward, and the mind, through all her powers, Irradiate ; there plant eyes; all mist from thence, Purge and disperse; that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight. Il.— L’ Allegro, or the Merry Man. Hence, loathed Melancholy ! Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, ’Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy ; Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings ; There under ebon shades, and low-brow’d rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou goddess fair and free, In heaven yclep’d Euphrosyne ! And, by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth, With two sister-graces more, To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore. Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity. Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods and becks, and wreathed- smiles ; 18 * O 209aia a ee SL a IR a EIR OE I on = as sae arene ene: Raph rE LESSONS IN [PART I. Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek ; Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come! and trip it as you go, On the light fantastic toe ; And in thy right hand lead with thee, The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty — And if I give thee honour due, Mirth admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee; In unreproved pleasures free: To hear the lark begin his flight, And, singing, startle the dull Night From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good-morrow, Through the sweetbriar or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine ; While the cock, with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before ; Oft list’ning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumb’ring morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill : Sometime walking, not unseen, By hedge-row elms, or hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great sun begins his state, Robed in flames and amber light, ‘l’he clouds in thousand liveries dight, While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o’er the furrow’d land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, Whilst the landscape round it measures; Russet lawns and fallows eray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; Mountains on whose barren breast ‘’he lab’ring clouds do often rest ;SECT. VIII. | READING. ak Meadows trim, with daisies pied ; Shallow brooks, and rivers wide ‘Towers and battlements it sees, Bosom'd high in tufted trees, Where, per rhaps, some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. Hard by a cottage chimney smokes, From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and ‘Thyrsis met, Are-at their savoury dinner set, Of herbs and other country messes Which the neat-handed Phillis ages SES ; And then, in haste, her-bower she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves ; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tann’d haycock in the mead. Tower’d cities ‘please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights a lee bold, In weeds of peace high triumph hold ; With store of ladies, whose eh it eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace, whom all commend. There let Hy men oft appear, at In saffron robe, with taper clear, iy And pomp, and ‘feast, and revelry, a With mask, and antique pageantry ; ie Such sights as youthful poets dream, On summer eves, by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, e If Johnson’s learned sock be on, cy io Or sweetest Shakspeare, F'ancy’s child, oy) ae Warble his native wood-notes wild. ine And ever, against eating cares, | § Lap me in soft Lydian airs, \4 Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes, with many a winding bout f linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and giddy cunning, The melting voice th rough mazes running $ Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of Harmony : That Orpheus’ self may heave his head ai From golden slumber, on a bed nla ail 8A a en _ a = S Sails ure tn Fi wey «. “ RE Rn eA RES TNR * TEE See eB LESSONS IN [PART % Of heap’d Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regain’d Eurydice. These delights, if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live. Til. — On the Pursuits of Mankind. Honour and shame from no condition rise ; Act well your part —there all the honour lies. Fortune in men has some small difference made ; One flaunts in rags — one flutters in brocade ; The cobbler apron’d, and thé parson gown’d 3 The friar hooded, and the monarch crown’d. «What differ more,” you cry, “than crown and cowl?” I tell you friend —a wise man and a fool. Youll find, if once the monarch acts the monk, Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk; W orth makes the man, and want of it the fellow: The rest is all but leather or prunella. Boast the pure blood of an illustrious race, In quiet flow from Lucrece, to Lucrece: But by your father’s worth if yours you rate, Count me those only who were good and great. Go! if your ancient, but ignoble blood Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood: Go! and pretend your family is young, Nor own your fathers have been fools so long. W hat can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards ? Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards. Look-next on greatness —say where greatness lies. “Where, but among the heroes and the wise 2” Heroes are much the same, the point’s agreed, From Macedonia’s madman to the Swede: ‘he whole strange purpose of their lives to find, Or make an enemy of all mankind! Not one looks backward; onward still he goes ; Yet ne’er looks forward, farther than his nose. No less alike the politic and wise ; All sly slow things with circumspective eyes. Men in their loose, unguarded hours they take, Not that themselves aré wise, but others weak. But grant that those can conquer; these can cheat; Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great. Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave, Is but the more a fool, the more a knave.SECT. VIII. | READING. Who noble ends by noble means-obtains, Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains ; Like sood Aurelius let him reign, or bleed Like Socrates —that man is sreat indeed. W hat’s fame? a fancied life in others’ breath, A thing be weil us, e’en before our death. All fame is foreign, but of true desert, Plays round the ‘head, but comes not to the heart; One self- “approving hen ir whole years outweighs Of stupid starers, and of loud huzzas: And more true joy Marcellus, exiled, feels, Than Cesar, with a Senate at his heels. In parts superior what advantage hes? Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise ? ’Tis but to know how little can be known ; To see all others’ faults, and feel our own ; Condemn’d in business or in arts to ee Without a second, or without a judge Truths would you teach, to save a anke cing land ? All fear, none aid you, and few understand. Painful pre-eminence ! yourself to view Above life’s weakness, and its comforts too. Bring then these blessings to a strict account ; Make fair deductions, see to what they ’mount ; How much, of other, each is sure to cost: How each, ‘ other, oft is wholly lost ; How inconsistent greater goods with these ; How sometimes life is risk’d, and alw ays ease: Think. And, if still such things thy envy call, Say, would’st thou be the man to w hom they fall ? To sigh for vo if thou art so silly, Mark how they grace Lord t Umbra, or Sir Billy. Is yellow dirt the passion of thy life? Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus’ wife. If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined ; The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind. Or ravish’d with the whistling of a name, See Cromwell damn’d to eve qlasting fame. If all, united, thy ambition call, From ancient story, learn to scorn them all. IV.— Adam and Eve's Morning Hymn. Turse are thy glorious works! Parent of good ! Almighty ! t thine this universal frame, Thus wond’rous fair: Thyself how w ond? rous, then, Unspeakable ! who sitt’st above these heavens, 213ki 2 e a : i EC, SIE sere n ts ae = ss pana naneremnain 5 aan ph Sl ees Basalt oa ncaa i pe ecaelinas ppc ees rom yeaa . -¥ Mint a : ; Sein SA ee Seaaaieeears aaa phipesi fanantic LESSONS IN [PART I. To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, Angels! for ye behold them, and with songs And choral symphonies, day without night, Circle his throne, rejoicing. Ye in heaven! On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end. Fairest of stars! last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn. Sure pledge of day, that crown’st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere, While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. Thou Sun! of this great world both eye and soul, Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb’st, And when high noon hast gain’d, and when thou fall’st. Moon ! that now meet’st the orient-sun, now fly’st, With the fx’d stars, fix’d in their orb that flies; And ye five other wand’ring fires! that move In mystie dance, not. without song; resound Fiis praise, who out of darkness call’d up light. Air, and ye elements! the eldest birth Of nature’s womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix And nourish all things, let your ceaseless change Vary to our great Maker still new praise. Ye mists and exhalations!. that now rise From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray. Tul the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honour to the world’s oreat Author rise ; Whether to deck with clouds th’ uncolour’d sky, Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, Rising or falling, still advance his praise. His praise, ye winds! that from. four quarters blow, Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines, With every 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 Phat, singing, up to heaven’s gate ascend, Bear on your wings, and in your notes his praise. x e that i waters glide, and ye that walk Lhe earth, and Stately tread or lowly creep ! W Itness if I be silent, morn or even, To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,SECT. VIII. | READING, Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. — Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous stil ll, To give us only good ; — if the-night Have gather’d ‘aught of ievil I, dr conceal’d — Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. V.— farting of Hector and Andromache. Hector now pass’d, with sad presaging heart, To seek his spouse, his soul’s far dearer part. At home he sought her; but he sought in vain ; She, with one maid, of all her menial train, Had thence retired ; The young Astyanax, the hope of Troy. Pensive she stood on I[lion’s Beheld the war, and sicken’d at the si There her sad eyes in vain her lord explore, towery height, ioht : and with her.second joy, Or weep the wounds her bleeding country bore. Hector, this heard, return’d without delay ; Swift through the town he took h Through streets or palaces, and wall And met the mourner at the Sczan gate. With His blameless wife, Aetion’s The nurse stood near; in whose embraces press‘d, smiling at her breast ; His only hope hung, s haste to meet him sprung oS W realthy | Hel. is former way, cs of state, the joyful fair, Whom ‘each soft charm and ear y grace adorn, Fair as the new-born star that gil Silent, the warrior smiled ; T'o tender passions all | His beauteous princess cast a mourn ful look, ‘es qd q al nd j les Ye} Us aight ml ae s the morn. 19 a d Hung’on his hand, and then, dejected, spoke. Her bosom labour’d wi ith a boding s ich, And the big tear stood trem bli ing in her eye. ¢'Too daring prince ! ah! whither wilt thou run? | vee too forgetful of thy wife and son! And think’st thou not how wretched we shall be ? A widow I, -a helpless For sure, such courage le noth of life orphan he! denies.; And thou must fall, thy virtue’s sacrifice. Greece in her single heroes SHOE in vain ; Now hosts oppose He —and Oh, grant me, sods! e€ All L can ask of ies 1 thou must be slain. e Hector meets his. doom, en—dan early tomb! So shall my days in one sad tenor run, And end with sorrows, as they first begun. 215 Aah Let tap2 Sea 2 TRN opmaenne oe a re ee neni atnee o Secon ailineemamabenehabow ishaomoaeliee cae sant teaiadiae pe omen ahh nema Ca ROR a CR AA I bo o> LESSONS IN | PART I. Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share ; Oh! prove a husband’s, and a parent’s care. That quarter most the skilful Greeks annoy, Where yon wild fig-tree joins the wall of ‘Troy: Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given ; Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven. Let others in the field their arms employ ; But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy.” The chief replied —“ That post shall be my care ; Nor that alone, but all the works of war. How would the sons of Troy, in arms renown’d, And Troy’s proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, Attaint the lustre of my former name, Should Hector basely quit the field of fame! My early youth was bred to warlike pains ; My soul impels me to the martial plains. Still foremost let me stand to guard the throne, To save my father’s honours and my own. Yet, come it will! the day decreed by fates ! (How my heart trembles while my tongue relates !) The day when thou, imperial-Troy, must bend, Must see thy warriors fall, thy glories end, And yet, no dire presage so wounds my mind, My mother’s death, the ruin of my kind, Not Priam’s hoary hairs, defiled with gore, Not all my brothers gasping on the shore, As thine, Andromache! ‘Thy griefs I dread! I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led, In Argive looms our battles to design, And woes, of which so large a part was thine. There, while you groan beneath the load of life, They cry —“ Behold the mighty Hector’s wife !” Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, Embitters all thy woes by naming me. The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, A thousand griefs shall walken at the name! May I le cold before that dreadful day, Press’d with a load of monumental clay ! Thy Hector, wrapp’d in everlasting sleep, Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep.”’ Thus having spoke, th’ illustrious chief of ‘Troy Stretch’d his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. ‘The babe clung, crying, to the nurse’s breast, Scared with the dazzling helm, and nodding crest. With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, And Hector hasted to relieve his child: The glit’ring terrors from his brows unbound, And placed the beaming helmet on the ground.SECT. VIII. | READING. Then kiss’d the child; and, lifting high in air, Thus to the gods preferr’d a parent’s prayer. ‘*Oh thou, whose glory fills the ethereal throne! And all ye deathless powers ! protect my son! Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown; Against his country’s foes the war to wage, And rise the Hector of the future age. So when triumphant from successful toils, Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, And say, ‘ This chief transcends his father’s fame ;? While, pleased amidst the general shouts of Troy, Fis mother’s conscious heart 0’erflows with joy.” He spoke: and, fondly gazing on her charms, Restored the pleasing burden to her arms. Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, Hush’d to repose, and with a smile survey’d: The troubled pleasure, socn chastised with fear, She mingled with the smile a tender tear. The soften’d chief with kind compassion view’d, And dried the falling drops; and.thus pursued— “Andromache! my soul’s far better part ! Why with untimely sorrow heaves thy heart? No hostile hand can antedate my doom, Tull fate condemn me to the silent tomb: Fix’d is the term of all the race of earth; And such the hard condition of our birth. No force can then resist, no flight can save; All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. No more —but hasten to thy tasks at home; There guide the spindle, and direct the loom. Me, glory summons to the martial scene; The field of combat is the sphere for men: Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, The first in danger, as the first in fame.” Thus having said, th’ undaunted chief resumes His towery helmet, black with shading plumes. His princess parts with a prophetic sigh, Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, That stream’d at every look; then moving slow, Sought her own palace, and indulged her wo. There, while her tears deplored the god-like man, Through all her train the soft infection ran: The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, And mourn’d the living Hector as the dead. 19 217 _ ash eto petted es pith tia SEEM R T aeon e entrees tenes "prt ste 2neem ge” et p.m bie by a o ras = ee a eet ¥ Sie aa aaa oR aS I EE CPE TOD ee A SS RR TE A eM MS FR SRE Et cae — ee Se : = : " cnaaincenasmincminnaero coe Le a iam 2 = Mey RTs 7 ee Ss 5 oat caecegcietnaee rapes hig es NET MARIE cr: PAST BA PE A at ates | REO ee, LESSONS IN [PART I. VI. — Facetious History of John Gilpin. Joun GILPIN was a: citizen Of credit and renown ; A train-band captain eke was he, Of famous London town. John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear— “Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have. seen. To-morrow is our wedding-day, And we shall then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton, All in a chaise and pair. My sister and my sister’s child, Myself and children three, Will fill the chaise, so you must ride On horseback after we.” He soon replied —“I do admire Of woman-kind but one; And you are she, my dearest dear, Therefore it shall be done. I am a linen-draper bold, , As all the world doth know; And my good friend, Tom Callender, Will lend his horse to go.” Quoth Mrs. Gilpin —*“'That’s well said ; And, for that wine is dear, We will be furnish’d with our own, Which is both bright and clear.” John Gilpin kiss’d his loving wife ; O’erjoy’d was he to find, That though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind. The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allow’d To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud. So three doors off the chaise was stay’d, Where they did all get in; Six precious souls; and all agog, To dash through thick and thin!SECT. VIII. | READING. 219 Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folks so glad; The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad. John Gilpin at his horse’s side, Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got in haste to ride, But soon came down again. For saddletree scarce reach’d had he, His journey to begin, When turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in. So down he came, for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more. "T'was long before the customers Were suited to their mind; When Betty scream’d into his ears— ‘The wine is left behind.” “Good lack !’? quoth he, “yet bring it me, ia My leathern belt likewise, a In which I wear my trusty sword 5 When I do. exercise.”’ a Now Mrs. Gilpin, careful soul, A Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, (i ae And keep it safe and sound. Each bottle had a curling ear, ea Through which the belt he drew; i He hung a bottle on each side ae To make his balance. true. | Then over all, that he might be Equipp’d from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brush’d and neat, i He manfully -did throw. r Now. see him-mounted once again, Upon his nimble steed ; Full slowly pacing o’er the stones, With caution and good heed. But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet,ae nee ee tee aie Re aries} id ip i i H it ea ey (a i i ier | Be i lik I . ie ' * e ¥ é {! ¢ 7 j Lm 4 a ea abd ae, ie ey oe ae i eT a Bee he, ‘ a SET ER LESSONS IN [PART I. The snorting beast began to trot, Which gall’d him in his seat. “So, fair and softly,’’ John he cried ; But John he cried in vain; The trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein. So stooping down, as needs he must, Who cannot: sit upright ; He grasp’d the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might. Away went Gilpin, neck or nought ; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig. His horse, who never had before Been handled in this kind, Affrighted fled; and as he flew, Left allthe world behind. The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay ; Till loop and button failing both, At last it flew away. Then might all people well discern r I'he bottles he had slung: A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children scream’d Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, “ Well done!’ As loud as they could bawl. ? Away went Gilpin — who but he! His fame soon spread around — “Fle carries weight! he rides a race ! "Tis for a thousand pound.” And still, as fast as he drew near, are - a = d * = was wonderful to view, How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw. And now as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back, Were shatter’d at a blow.19* SECT. VIII. | READING. Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse’s flanks to smoke As they had basted been. But still he seem’d to carry weight, With leather girdle. braced ; For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist. Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play, And till he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay. And there he threw the Wash about, On both sides of the way ; Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play. At Edmonton, his loving wife, From the balcony, spied Her tender husband, wond’ring much To see how he did ride. “Stop, stop, John Gilpin! here’s the house !’ They all at once did cry ; ‘‘ The dinner waits, and we are tired Said Gilpin —* So am | ee \”? But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there ; For why ?— His owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong ; So did he fly — which brings me to The middle of my song. Away went Gilpin, out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend’s, Tom Callender’s, His horse at last stood still. Tom Callender, surprised to see His friend in such a trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him : — Selah acest ted ata So a seLESSONS IN [PART I. «“ What news? what news? “Your tidings tell; Make haste and tell me all! Say, why bare-headed are you come? Or why you come at all!” Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke ; And thus unto Tom Callender, In merry strains he spoke : — ‘‘T came because your horse would come ; And if I well forbode, My hat and wig will soon be here ; They are upon the road.” Tom Callender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Return’d him not a single word, But to the house went in: Whence straight he came with hat and wis A wig that flow’d behind, A hat not much the worse for wear ; Each comely i its kind. He held them up; and, in his turn, Thus show’d his ready wit — «“ My head is twice as big as yours, ‘hey therefore needs must fit. But Jet me scrape the dirt away ‘hat hangs upon your face ; And stop and eat —for well you may Be in a hungry case !” Said John — “It is my wedding day ; And folks would gape and stare, If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware !” So turning to his horse, he said, “Tam in haste to dine! "T'was for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine.” Ah ! luckless speech, and bootless boast, For which he paid full dear; For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear:SECT. VIII. | READING. 223 Whereat his horse did snort, as if He heard a lion roar; And gallop’d off with all his might, As he had done before. Away went Gilpin, and away pas Went Gilpin’s hat and wig ; ab He lost them sooner than at first ; For why ?— They were too big. Now Gilpin’s wife, when she had seen Her husband posting down Into the country, far away, She pull’d-out half a crown: * And thus unto the youth she said That drove them to the Bell, «This shall be yours, when you bring back My husband safe and well.” The youth did ride, and soon they met; He tried to stop John’s horse By seizing fast the flowing rein ; But only made things worse : For not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, ‘ He thereby frighted Gilpin’s horse, ca And made him faster run. 6 ie Away went Gilpin —and away Went postboy at his heels; The postboy’s horse right glad to miss The lumb’ring of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly ) With postboy scamp’ring in the rear, They raised the hue and cry. “Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman !’ Not one of them was mute ; So they, and all that pass’d-that way, Soon join’d in the pursuit. And now the turnpike-gates_ again Flew open in short space 5 The tollmen thinking, as before, That Gilpin rode a race ; ve[eA BE MIRE ee! TES med ii : 1 Hi a ; i S ie ) . i = ii He ‘F i av & {i Ee : daa ij i t a if : if Is 5 x % 3 : ‘ + ie 5 € ay . ii .§€ 4 eit he ai i " ‘ i 4 ge } re i : q , ata 5 peu ma Bal ed) ; 4 } ee EB | gee eh Rael Ut eee y re ‘| red ; rs { ~os9 Re EE 224 LESSONS. IN And so he did, and won it, too ; For he got first to town: Nor stopp’d till where be had got up, He did again get down. Now let us sing — “ Long live the king; And Gilpin long live he: And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see!” VIL. — Procrastination. Br wise to-day; ’tis madness to defer: Next day the fatal precedent will plead; Thus on, till wisdom is push’d out of life! Procrastination is the thief of time; Year after year it steals, till all-are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene. If not so frequent, would not this be strange? That ’tis so frequent, this is stranger still. Of man’s miraculous mistakes this bears The palm, “That all men are about to live,” For ever on the brink of being born: All pay themselves the compliment to think They one day shall not drivel,and their pride On this reversion takes up ready praise 5 At least their own; their future selves applaud : How excellent that life they ne’er will lead! Time lodged in their own hands is Folly’s vails That lodged in Fate’s, to Wisdom they consign ; The thing they can’t but purpose, they postpone. Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool; And scarce in human wisdom to do more. All promise is poor dilatory man, And that through every stage. When young, indeed, In full content we sometimes nobly rest, Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish, As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. At thirty man suspects himself a fool ; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; At fifty chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; In all the magnanimity of thought Resolves, and re-resolves ;- then dies the same. And why? because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal but themselves ; [PART ISECT. VIII. | READING. 225 Themselves, when some alarming shock of Fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread : it 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, Boe So dies in human hearts the thought of cules Be Even with the tender tear which ‘hature sheds a O’er those we love, we drop it in their grave. au VIL. — The Creation of the World. * * *: % .™® iMeanwune the Son On his great expedition now appear’d, Girt with omnipotence, with radiance crown’d, Of majesty divine; sapience and love Immense, and all his Father in him shone. About his chariot numberless were pour’d | Cherub and seraph, potentates, and thrones, And virtues; wing’d spirits, and chariots wing’d From the armory of God; where stand of old Myriads, between two brazen mountains lode’d Against a solemn day, harness’d at hand. Celestial equipage! and now came forth Spontaneous, for within them spirit lived, Attendant on their Lord; heaven open’d wide ih Her ever-during gates, harmonious sound ! | On golden hinges moving, to let forth G The King of Gl ory, in his powerful Word And Spirit coming to create new worlds. Ci On bemvenlt sround they stood, and from the shore They view d the vast immeasurable abyss, ce) Outrageous as a‘sea; dark, wasteful, wild; q Up from the bottom turn’d by furious wie, me surging waves, as mountains to assault } _ Heaven’s height, and with the centre mix the pole. 4 Silence, ye troubled waves! and thou deep, peace ! Said then the omnific Word, your discord end: Nor stay’d; but on the wings of Cherubim Uplifted, in paternal glory rode Far into Chaos, and fhe world unborn ; For Chaos heard his voice; him all his train Follow’d in bright procession to behold Creation, and the wonders of his might. Then stay’d the fervid wheels, and in his han¢e i el He took the golden compasses, prepared at In God’s eternal store, to circumscribe Mal P=e = Sean NS RL EN CTR ROI as ae LESSONS IN [PART I. This universe, and all created things. One foot he center’d, and the other turn’d Round through the vast profundity obscure, And said, Thus far extend, thus far thy bounds, This be thy just circumference, O world ! Thus God the heaven created, thus the earth, Matter unform’d and void! Darkness profound Cover'’d the abyss; but on the watery calm His brooding wings the spirit of God outspread, And vital virtue infused, and vital warmth Throughout the fluid mass; but downward purged The black, tartareous, cold, infernal dregs, Adverse to life; then founded, then conglobed Like things to light, the rest to several place Disparted ; and between, spun out the air; And earth, self-balanced, on her centre hung. IX.— Overthrow of the Rebel Angels. So spake the Son, and into terror changed His countenance, too severe to be beheld, And full of wrath bent on his enemies. At once the four spread out their starry wings, With dreadful shape contiguous, and the orbs Of his fierce chariot roll’d, as with the sound Of torrent floods, or of a numerous host. He on his impious foes right onward drove, Gloomy as might. Under-his burning wheels ‘The steadfast empirean shook- throughout, All but the throne itself of God. Full soon Among them he arrived; in his right hand Grasping ten thousand thunders, which he sent Before him, such as in their souls infix’d Placues. They, astonish’d, all resistance Jost, All courage; down their idle weapons dropp’d: O’er shields, and helms, and helm’d heads he rode, Of thrones and mighty seraphim prostrate, ‘That wish’d the mountains, now, might be again ‘Thrown on them as a shelter from his ire. Nor less on either side, tempestuous fell His arrows, from the fourfold visaged four Distinct with eyes, and from the living wheels Distinct alike with multitude of eyes: One spirit in them ruled; and every eye Glared lightning, and shot forth pernicious fire Among th’ accursed, that wither’d all their strength, And, of their wonted vigour, left them drain’d,SECT. VIII. | READING. 227 Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fallen. Yet half his strength he put not forth; but check’d His thunder in mid-volley ; for he meant Not to destroy, but to root them out of heaven. The overthrown he raised; and as a herd Of goats or timorous flock together throng’d, Drove them before him thunderstruck, pursued With terrors and with furies, to the bounds And crystal wall of heaven; which, opening wide, Roll’d inward, and a spacious gap disclosed Into the wasteful deep. The monstrous sight Struck them with horror backward ;but far worse Urged them behind. Headlong themselves they threw Down from the verge of heaven; eternal wrath Burnt after them to the bottomless pit. ey X.— Alexander’s Feast; or, the Power of Music.—/n Ode for St. Ceciha’s Day. "T'was at the royal feast, for Persia won By Philip’s warlike son — Aloft in awful state, The godlike hero sat On his imperial! throne. His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound ; So should desert in arms be crown’d. The lovely Thais by his side, Sat like a blooming eastern bride, In flower of youth and beauty’s pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave, deserve the fair. Timotheus placed on high, Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touch’d the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire. The song began frorn Jove, Who left his blissful seats above ; (Such is the power of mighty love !) A dragon’s fiery form belied the god ; Sublime on radiant spheres he rode. When he to fair Olympia press’d, And stamp’d an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.Peer. Sere e a _ ean as, = tacit sialic, tenn ee LESSONS IN [PART I. The list’ning crowd admire the lofty sound ; A present deity, they shout around, A present deity ; the vaulted roofs rebound. With ravish’d ears the monarch hears, Assumes the god, affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus, then, the sweet musician sung: Of Bacchus, ever fair and ever young. The jolly god in triumph comes ! Sound the trumpet; beat the drums; Flush’d with a purple grace, He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath —He comes! he comes! Bacchus, ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain: Bacchus’ blessings are a_treasure ; Drinking is the soldier’s*fleasure : Rich the treasure ; Sweet the pleasure ; Sweet is pleasure, after pain. Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain ; Fought all his battles o’er again ; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise ; His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; And while he heaven and earth defied, Changed his hand and check’d his pride. He chose a mournful muse, Soft pity to infuse : He sung Darius, great and good, By too severe a fate, Fall’n, fall’n, fall’n, fall’n, Fall’n, from his high estate, And welt’ring in his blood: Deserted at his utmost need By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth exposed he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast look the joyless victor sat, Revolving, in his alter’d soul, The various turns of fate below; And now and then, a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow. The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree: "T'was but a kindred sound to move For pity melts the mind to love.SECT. VIII. | READING. 229 Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures ; War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying. If the world be worth thy winning, ay Think, oh, think it worth enjoying! Lovely Thais sits beside thee : Take the good the gods provide thee ; ‘The many rend the skies with loud applause ; So love was crown’d; but music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair, Who caused his care ; And sigh’d and look’d, sigh’d and look’d; Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again: At length, with love and wine at once oppress’d, The vanquish’d victor sunk upon her breast. Now, strike the golden lyre again ; A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ; Break his.bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark! hark !—the horrid sound Has raised up his head, As awaked from the dead; And, amazed, he stares around. Revenge, revenge! Timotheus cries — See the furies arise ! See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand! These are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And unburied; remain Inglorious on the plain. Give the vengeance due T’o the valiant crew. ¥ Behold! how they toss their torches on high, | How they point to the Persian abodes, And glitt’ring temples of their hostile gods! The princes applaud, with a furious joy ; And the king seized a flambeau, with zeal to destroy : Thais led the way, To light him to his prey ; | And, like another Helen — fired another Troy. 20‘ie te me 230 LESSONS IN READING. [PART I. Bid Thus, long ago, al Ere heaving bellows learn’d to blow, ea While organs yet were mute ; | | Timotheus, to his breathing flute | And sounding lyre, i | Could swell the soul to rage — or kindle soft desire. 2 re At last, divine Cecilia came, . Inventress of the vocal frame. The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds, | And added length to solemn sounds, | With Nature’s mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown: i He raised a mortal to the skies; i She drew an angel down.PATE Et. LESSONS IN SPEAKING. ~ SECTION I. ELOGUENCE OF THE PULPIT. I.—On Truth and Integrity. TruTH and integrity have all the advantages of appearance, and many more. If the show of anything be good for anything, I am sure the reality is better; for why does any man dissemble, or seem to be that which he is not, but because he thinks it good to have the qualities he pretends to? for, to counterfeit and dis- semble, is to put on the appearance of some real excellency. Now, the best way for a man to seem to be anything, is really to be what he would seem to be. Besides, it is often as trouble- some to support the pretence of a good quality, as to have it; and if a man have it not, it is most likely he will be discovered to want it; and then all his labour to seem to have it is lost. There is something unnatural in painting, which a skilful eye will easily discern from native beauty and complexion. It is hard to-personate and act a part long; for, where truth is not at the bottom, nature will always be endeavouring to re- turn, and will betray herself at one time or other. Therefore, if ‘any man think it convenient to seem good, let him be so indeed ; and then his goodness will appear to every one’s satisfaction: for truth is convincing, and carries its own light and evidence along with it; and will not only commend us to every man’s conscience, but which is much more, to God, who searcheth our hearts. So that, upon all accounts, sincerity is true wisdom. Particularly as to the affairs of this world, integrity hath many advantages over all the artificial modes of dissimulation and deceit. It is much the plainer and easier, much the safer and more se- cure way of dealing in the world; it hath less of trouble and difficulty, of entanglement and perplexity, of danger and hazard in it; itis the shortest and nearest way to our end, carrying us thither in a straight line; and will hold out, and last longest. (231)232 LESSONS IN [PART II. The arts of deceit and cunning continually grow weaker and less effectual and serviceable to those that practise them: whereas integrity gains strength by use; and the more and longer any man practiseth it, the greater service it does him, by confirming his reputation, and encouraging those with whom he hath to do, to repose the greatest confidence in him; which is an unspeak- able advantage in business and the affairs of life. A dissembler must be always upon his guard, and watch him- self carefully that he do not contradict his own pretensions; for he acts an unnatural part, and therefore must put a continual force and restraint upon himself; whereas, he that acts sincerely, hath the easiest task in the world; because he follows nature, and so is put to no trouble and care about his words and actions; he needs not invent any pretence beforehand, nor make excuses afterwards for anything he hath said or done. But insincerity is very troublesome to manage. A hypocrite hath so many things to attend to, as make his life a very per- plexed and intricate thing. A liar hath need of a good memory, lest he contradict at one time what he said at another. But truth: is always consistent with itself, and needs nothing to help it out; it is always near at hand, and sits upon our lip, and is ready to drop out before we are aware; whereas a lie is troublesome, and one trick needs a great many more to make it good. Add to all this, that sincerity is the most compendious wisdom, and an excellent instrument for the speedy despatch of business. It creates confidence in those we have to deal with, saves the labour of many inquiries, and brings things to an issue in a few words. Itis like travelling im a plain beaten road, which com- monly brings a man sooner to his journey’s end than by-ways, in which men often lose themselves. In a word, whatever con- venience may be thought to be in falsehood and dissimulation, it is soon over; but the inconvenience of it is perpetual, because it brings a man under an everlasting jealousy and suspicion, so that he is not believed when he speaks the truth, nor trusted when perhaps he means honestly. When a man hath once for- feited the reputation of his integrity, nothing will then serve his turn, neither truth nor falsehood. Indeed, if a man were only to deal in the world for a day, and should never have occasion to converse more with mankind, never more need their good opinion or good word, it were then no great matter (as far as respects the affairs of this world) if he spent his reputation all at once, and ventured it at one throw. But, if he be to continue in the world, and would have the ad- vantage of reputation whilst he is in it, let him make use of sin- cerity in all his words and actions; for nothing but this will hold out to the end. All other arts will fail; but truth and integrity will carry a man through, and bear him out to the last.SECT. 1. | SPEAKING. gaa I].— On Doing as we would be Done unto. Human laws are often so numerous as to escape our memo- ries; so darkly sometimes, and inconsistently worded, as to puzzle our understandings; and they are not unfrequently ren- dered still more obscure by the nice distinctions and subtile rea- sonings of those who profess to clear them: so that, under these several disadvantages, they lose much of their force and influ- ence; and, in some Cases, raise more disputes, than, perhaps, they determine. But here isa law, attended with none of these inconveniences; the grossest minds can scarce misapprehend it ; the weakest memories are capable of retaining it; no perplexing comment can easily cloud it; the authority of no man’s gloss upon earth can (if we are but sincere) sway us to make a wrong construction of it. What is said of all the gospel precepts by the evangelical prophet, is more eminently true of this: “Itisa high- way; and the wayfaring man, though a foo], shall not err therein.” It is not enough that a rule, which is to be of general use, is suited to all capacities, so that, wherever it is represented to the mind, it is presently agreed to: it must also be apt to offer itself to our thoughts, and lie ready for present use, upon all exigen- cies and occasions. And such, remarkably such, is that which our Lord here recommends to us. We can scarce be so far sur- prised by any immediate necessity of acting, as not to have time for a short recourse to it, room for a sudden glance as it were upon it, in our minds; where it rests and sparkles always, like the Urim and Thummim on the breast of Aaron. ‘There is no occasion for us to go in search of it to the oracles of law, dead or living; to the code or pandects; to the volumes of divines or moralists: we need look no. further than ourselves for it: for, (to use the opposite expression of Moses,) “This commandment which I command thee this day, is not hidden from thee, neither is it far off. It is not in heaven, that thou shouldest say, Who shall go up for us to heaven, and bring it unto us, that we may hear it, and doit? Neither is it beyond the sea, that thou should say, Who shall go over the sea for us, and bring it unto us, that we may hear it, and do it? But the word is very nigh unto thee, in thy mouth, and in thy heart, that thou mayest do it.” ; It is, moreover, a precept particularly fitted for practice; as it involves in the very notion of it a motive stirring us up to do what it enjoins. Other moral maxims propose naked truths to the understanding, which operate often but faintly and slowly on the will and passions, the two active principles of the mind of man: but it is the peculiar character of this that it addresseth itself equally to all these powers ; imparts both light and heat to us; and at the same time that it informs us certainly and clearly 20 * oe Soe 5 i bo a vir nea nent nines ite~ peepee iPaaaiStaet sig ea enema eomanmereemeren ee AR TR TRE a ne 234 LESSONS IN [PART I. what we are to do, excites us also in the most tender and moving manner to the performance of it. We can often see our neigh- bour’s misfortune, without a sensible degree of concern; which yet we cannot forbear expressing, when we have once made his condition our own, and determined the measure of our obligation towards him, by what we ourselves should, in such a Case, ex- pect from him; our duty grows immediately our interest and pleasure, by means of this powerful principle: the seat of which is, in truth, not more in the brain, than in the heart of man: it appeals to our very senses; and exerts its secret force in so pre- vailing a way, that it is even felt, as well as understood by us. The last recommendation of this rule I shall mention, is its vast and comprehensive influence; for it extends to all ranks and conditions of men, and to all kinds of action and intercourse be- tween them; to matters of charity, generosity, and civility, as well as justice; to negative no less than positive duties. The ruler and the ruled are alike subject to it; public communities can no more exempt themselves from its obligation than private persons: “ All persons must fall down before it, all nations must do it service.” And with respect to this extent of it, it is that our blessed Lord pronounces it in the text to be “the law and the prophets.’”? His meaning is, that whatever rules of the second table are delivered in the law of Moses, or in the larger comments and explanations of that law made by the other writers of the Old Testament (here and elsewhere styled the prophets,) they are all virtually comprised in this one short significant say- ing, “ Whatsoever ye would that men should-do unto you, do ye even so unto them.” Iil.— On Benevolence and Charity. Form as amiable sentiments as you can of nations, communi- ties of men, and individuals. If they are true, you do them only justice; if false, though your opinion: does not alter their nature and make them lovely, you yourself are more lovely for entertaining such sentiments. When you feel the bright warmth of a temper thoroughly good in your own breast, you will see something good in every one about you. It is a mark of little- ness of spirit to confine yourself to some minute part of a man’s character: a man of generous, open, extendéd views, will grasp the whole of it; without which he cannot pass a right judgment on any part. He will not arraign a man’s general conduct for two or three particular actions; as knowing that man is a changeable creature, and will not cease to be so, til] he is united to that Being who is “the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.” He strives to outdo his friends in good offices, and overcomes his enemies by them. He thinks he then receives the greatestSECT, 1. | SPEAKING. 230 injury, when he returns and revenges one: for then he is “ over- come of evil.” Is the person young who has injured him? he will reflect that inexperience of the world, and a warmth of con- stitution, may betray his unpractised years into several inadvei tencies, which a more advanced age, his own good sense, an the advice of a judicious friend, will correct and rectify. Is hi old? the infirmities of age and want of health may have set at edge upon his spirits, and made him “speak unadvisedly wit his lips.” Is he weak and ignorant? he considers that it is a duty incumbent upon the wise to bear with those that are not so: “ Ye suffer fools gladly,” says St. Paul, “seeing ye yourselves are wise.” In short, he judges of himself, as far as he can, with the strict rigour of justice; but of others, with the softenings of humanity. From charitable and benevolent thoughts, the transition is un- avoidable to charitable actions. For wherever there is an inex- haustible fund of goodness at the heart, it will, under all the dis- advantages of ‘circumstances, exert itself in acts of substantial kindness. He that is substantially good, will be doing good. The man that has a hearty determinate will to be charitable, will seldom put men off with the mere will for the deed. Fora sin- cere desire to do good, implies some uneasiness till the thing be done: and uneasiness sets the mind at work, and puts it upon the stretch to find out a thousand ways.and means of obliging, which will ever escape the unconcerned, the indifferent, and the unfeeling. The most proper objects of your bounty are the necessitous. Give the same sum of money, which you bestow on a person in tolerable circumstances, to one in extreme poverty ; and observe what a wide disproportion of happiness is produced. In the latter case, it is like giving a cordial to a fainting person; in the former, it is like giving wine to him who has already quenched his thirst.—‘¢ Mercy is seasonable in time of affliction, like clouds of rain in time of drought.” And among the variety of necessitous objects, none have a better title to our compassion, than those who, after having tasted the sweets of plenty, are, by some undeserved calamity, obliged, without some charitable relief, to drag out the remainder of life in misery and wo: who little thought they should ask their daily bread of any but of God; who, after a life led in affluence, “cannot dig, and are ashamed to beg.’”” And they are to be relieved in such an endearing manner, with such a beauty of holiness, that, at the same time that their wants are supplied, their confusion of face may be prevented. There is not an instance of this kind in history so affecting, as that beautiful one of Boaz to Ruth. He knew her family, and how she was reduced to the lowest ebb: when, therefore, shesions. dniatnatiiaes: a ala taeaieeiearemcanres eS Ra RR a TTI eee es 236 LESSONS IN [PART II. begged leave to giean in his fields, he ordered his reapers to let fall several handfuls, with a seeming carelessness, but really with a set design, that she might gather them up without being ashamed. Thus did he form an artful scheme, that he might give, without the vanity and ostentation of giving ; and she receive, without- the shame and confusion of making acknow- ledgments.—Take the history in the words of scripture, as it is recorded in the book of Ruth. “And when she was risen up to glean, Boaz commanded his young men, saying, Let her glean even among the sheaves, and rebuke her not; and let fall also some of the handfuls on purpose, and leave them that she may glean them, and reproach her not.” ‘This was not only doing a good action; it was doing it likewise with a good grace. It is not enough we do no harm, that we be negatively good ; we must do good, positive good, if we would “enter into life.” When it would have been as good for the world, if such a man had never lived; it would perhaps have been better for him, “if he had never been born.”’ A scanty fortune may limit your beneficence, and confine it chiefly to the circle of your domestics, relations, and neighbours ; but let your benevolence extend as far as thought can travel, to the utmost bounds of the world : just as it may be only in your power to beautify the spot of ground that lies near and close to you; but you could wish, that, as far as your eye can reach, the whole prospect before you were cheerful, every thing disagreeable were removed, and every thing beautiful made more so. IV.— On Happiness. THE great pursuit of man is after happiness: it is the first and strongest desire of his nature ;—in every stage of his life he searches for it as for hid treasure ;—courts it under a thousand different shapes ;—and, though perpetually disappointed—still persists—runs after and inguires for it afresh—asks every pas- senger who comes in his way, “ Who will show him any good 2” —Who will assist him in the attainment of it, or direct him to the discovery of this great end of all his wishes ? He is told by one, to search for it among the more gay and youthful pleasures of life; in scenes of mirth and sprightliness, where happiness ever presides, and is ever to be known by the joy and laughter which he will see at once painted in her looks. A second, with a graver aspect, points out to him the costly dwellings which pride and extravagance have erected ;—tells the inquirer that the object he is in search of inhabits there ;—that happiness lives only in company with the great, in the midst of much pomp and outward state. That he will easily find her outSEeT, T. | SPEAKING. 237 by the coat of many colours she has on, and the great luxury and expense of equipage and furniture with which she always sits surrounded. The miser wonders how any one would mislead and wilfully put him upon so wrong a scent—convinces him that happiness and extravagance never inhabited under the same roof: that, if he would not be disappointed in his search, he must look into the plain and thrifty dwelling of the prudent man, who knows and understands the worth of money, and cautiously lays it up against an evil hour: that it is not the prostitution of wealth upon the passions, or the parting with it all, that constitutes happiness —but that it is the keeping it together, and the having and holding it fast to him and his heirs for ever, which are the chief attributes that form this great idol of human worship, to which so much incense is offered up every day. The epicure, though he easily rectifies so gross a mistake, yet, at the same time, he plunges him, if possible, into a greater : for, hearing the object of his pursuit to be happiness, and knowing of no other happiness than what is seated immediately in his senses—he sends the inquirer there ;—tells him it is in vain to search elsewhere for it, than where nature herself has placed it —in the indulgence and gratification of the appetites, which are given us for that end: and in a word—if he will not take his opinion in the matter—he may trust the word of a much wiser man, who has assured us—that there is nothing better in this world, than that a man should eat and drink, and rejoice in his works, and make his soul enjoy good in his labour—for that is his portion. To rescue him from this brutal experiment—ambition takes him by the hand and carries him into the world—shows him all the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them—points out the many ways of advancing his fortune and raising himself to honour,—lays before his eyes all the charms and bewitching temptations of power, and asks if there be any happiness in this world like that of being caressed, courted, flattered, and fol- lowed? To close all, the philosopher meets him bustling in the full career of his pursuit—stops him—tells him, if he is in search of happiness, he is gone far out of his way :—that this deity has long been banished from noise and tumults, where there was no rest found for her, and was fled into solitude far from all com- merce of the world; and, in a word, if he would find her, he must leave this busy and intriguing scene, and go back to that peaceful scene of retirement and books from which he first set out. In this circle, too often does a man run, tries all experiments, and generally sits down wearied and dissatisfied with them allsree LI A LED, AIEEE STREET OI ih rR 238 LESSONS IN [PART II. at last—in utter despair of ever accomplishing what he wants— not knowing what to trust to, after so many disappointments— or where to I@y the fault, whether in the incapacity of his own nature, or the insufficiency of the enjoyments themselves. In this uncertain and perplexed state—without knowing which way to turn or where to betake ourselves for refuge—so often abused and deceived by the many who pretend thus to show us any good—Lord! says the psalmist, lift up the light of thy countenance upon us.—Send us some rays of thy grace and heavenly wisdom, in this benighted search after happiness, to direct us safely to it. O God! let us not wander forever with- out a guide, in this dark region, in endless pursuit of our mis- taken good; but enlighten our eyes that we sleep not in death— open to them the comforts of thy holy word and religion—lift up the light of thy countenance upon us,—and make us know the joy and satisfaction of living in the true faith and fear of Thee, which only can carry us to this haven of rest where we would be-—that sure haven, where true joys are to be found, which will at length not only answer all our expectations—but satisfy the most unbounded of our wishes for ever and ever. There is hardly any subject more exhausted, or which at one time or other has afforded more matter for argument and decla- mation, than this one, of the insufficiency of our enjoyments. Scarce a reformed sensualist, from Solomon down to our own days, who has not, in some fits of repentance or disappointment, uttered some sharp reflection upon the emptiness of human plea- sure, and of the vanity of vanities which discovers itself in all the pursuits of mortal man. But the mischief has been, that, though so many good things have been said, they have generally had the fate to be considered, either as the overflowings of dis- cust from sated appetites which could no longer relish the plea- sures of life, or as the declamatory opinions of recluse and sple- netic men, who had never tasted them at all, and, consequently, were thought no judges of the matter. So that it is no great wonder, if the greatest part of such reflections, however just im themselves, and founded on truth and a knowledge of the world, are found to have little impression where the imagination was already heated with great expectations of future happiness; and that the best lectures that have been read upon the vanity of the world, so seldom stop a man in the pursuit of the object of his desire, or give him half the conviction that the possession of it will, and what the experience of his own life, or a careful ob- servation upon the life of others, does at length generally con- firm to us all. I would not be understood as if I were denying the reality of pleasures; or disputing the being of them, any more than any one would the reality of pain — yet I must observe, that there isSECT. I. | SPEAKING. 239 a plain distinction to be made betwixt pleasure and happiness. For though there can be no happiness without pleasure—yet the reverse of the proposition will not hold true. We are so made, that, from the common gratifications of our appetites, and the im- pressions of a thousand objects, we snatch the one like a tran- sient gleam, without being suffered to taste the other, and enjoy the perpetual sunshine and fair weather which constantly attend it. This, I contend, is only to be found in religion—in the con- sciousness of virtue—and the sure and certain hopes of a better life, which brightens all our prospects, and leaves no room to dread disappointments — because the expectation of it is built upon a rock whose foundations are as deep as those of heaven or hell. And though, in our pilgrimage through this world — some of us may be so fortunate as to meet with some clear fountains by the way, that may cool, for a few moments, the heat of this great thirst of happiness —yet our Saviour, who knew the world, though he enjoyed but little of it, tells us, that whosoever drink- eth of this water will thirst again: —and we all find by experi- ence it is so, and by reason that it always must be so. I conclude with a short observation upon Solomon’s evidence in this case. Never did the busy brain of a lean and hectic chymist search for the philosopher’s stone with more pains and ardour than this ereat man did after happiness. He was one of the wisest in- quirers into nature —had tried all her powers and capacities ; and, after a thousand vain speculations and idle experiments, he affirmed at length, it lay hid in no one thing he had tried: like the chymist’s projections, all had ended in smoke, or, what was worse, in vanity and vexation of spirit. The conclusion of the whole matter was this—that he advises every man who would be happy, to fear God and keep his commandments. V.— On the Death of Christ. Tur redemption of man is one of the most glorious works of the Almighty. Ifthe hour of the creation of the world was great and illustrious; that hour, when, from the dark and formless mass, this fair system of nature arose at the Divine command ; when “the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy ;’? —no less illustrious is the hour of the restora- tion of the world; the hour, when, from condemnation and misery, it emerged into happiness and peace. With less exter- nal majesty it was attended, but is, on that account, the more wonderful, that, under appearance so simple, such great events were covered. In the hour of Christ’s death, the long series of prophecies,aaa rinse